SO I HAVE A QUESTION…

…that has been on my mind for several months. Please bear with me. And remember:  this question is HYPOTHETICAL.

IF you were participating in a Commencement ceremony and you had graduated months before, and IF you were wearing your cap and gown sitting in a row full of graduates, and IF you were called up on stage and you shook the hand of the president of the school and several other notable figures, and IF you then received a diploma book with a shiny purple cover that said Emerson College on the front, should that book be EMPTY?

EXHIBIT A

EXHIBIT B!

Some would say yes, that the emptiness would be resolved when you went offstage and some bespectacled school employee handed you a diploma which you, after years of college tuition, would have to insert into this diploma book BY YOURSELF.

BUT here’s another riddle for you…

What IF you walked offstage and some woman was like, “Oh, when did you graduate?” and you were like “December” and they were like “Go sit down,” and you NEVER RECEIVED AN OFFICIAL DIPLOMA??? What IF you were mailed a giant, cardboard diploma to frame and put in your office next to family photos and many leather-bound books, but the shiny diploma holder you received on that momentous occasion still to this day sits EMPTY? What IF, to this day, the emptiness was never resolved? Should you contact your school and mention to them that you have an empty diploma holder laying around, possibly informing them that you never received a diploma they may have sent? WHAT DO YOU DO? IS THIS NORMAL?

AMERICA DECORATIONS!!!

Also:  HAPPY 4TH OF JULY. I have chosen to blend in with my fellow Americans by sleeping ‘til noon, eating ice cream for breakfast, and WEARING SWEATPANTS. You may not understand this in Boston but trust me – I am currently feeling a DEEP CONNECTION to the Midwest.

Words of Wisdom: From The Old, The Comically Gifted, and The Badass

It has, with great fanfare, been announced:  yes, that’s correct, the 2010 Emerson College Undergraduate Commencement Speaker is…

NOT Blair Underwood
NOT Martin Scorsese
NOT even “The Fonz” (Emerson alum and inventor of the thumbs-up)

BUT Bernard Cornwell.
Yes, I said Bernard Cornwell.

At this point, you may be thinking, “Who is Bernard Cornwell?”

SO AM I.
Because, as far as I’m concerned, nobody has ever heard of this prestigious gentleman.

via Emerson College

According to the extensive biography provided on the Emerson website, Mr. Cornwell is a seasoned author of historical novels and former employee of the BBC. He was born in 1944 and has had numerous works of his adapted to the prominent Masterpiece Theatre. Kudos, Mr. Cornwell.

But he was born in 1944. Do you know how old that is? Neither do I. But according to my calculator, 66. If you round up, that’s 70, a.k.a. three times as old as me and then some. That means that “in his day,” I was not alive. Nor were my parents; at least for the first decade of his life.

A point:  When a speaker requires extensive biographical information as introduction, he is not as big as you say he is.

Another point:  Guess who is speaking at NYU’s Undergraduate Commencement this year?

ALEC BALDWIN.

Insert necessary biographical information here:

THAT GUY FROM 30 ROCK (via NBC)

Knowing that my New York friends will be listening to Jack Donaghey explain the finer points of synergy only makes me wish for a world in which Masterpiece Theatre and historical novels didn’t exist. Or at least one where they didn’t carry so much street cred.

I suppose the grass is always greener on the other side of the college, but really, with all the thousands of tuition dollars Emerson has sucked up from bank accounts across the world, you would think they might be able to find someone remotely notable to welcome us into the post-graduate world. We even have a number of high-profile alums they could have guilted into giving back:  Denis Leary, Henry Winkler, Big Chin Leno, the inventor of the Furby, Bobbi Brown (the white, female one), even Stifler’s Mom. But no; we get the guy who writes book series for Napoleonic War enthusiasts.

And if I weren’t already lamenting this fact, I recently discovered who this year’s commencement speaker was at the University of Michigan, where a number of my former high school classmates attend:

via The White House

THIS GUY.

I feel slightly cheated.

New Year’s Resolution #12:  Be happy with what you have, even if it is a sexagenarian medieval times author with a book series entitled The Starbuck Chronicles (NOT about coffee).

(P.S. Check Mr. Obama’s pose in that photo:  that’s the stance of a man who means BUSINESS.)

The Glory Days

For those NOT privy to the updates of my professional freeloading profile on LinkedIn OR the brief Newsfeed item declaring my employment change on Facebook, I began a new drifting, non-career job about two months ago. And being that everyone wants to hire someone with experience, it is yet another dining and drinking establishment, this time featuring Prohibition-era beverages, reminiscent of a time when citizens broke the law in support of alcoholics, and carb-heavy, stroke-inducing comfort food. Delicious.

But while I am in favour of fried anything and beverages including at least two kinds of hard alcohol, this job is not without its stresses. The place is small, the building is old and, when the owner gets bored he makes decisions, most of which tend to affect somebody’s job performance. Not to mention that the Accounts Payable department, a 26-year-old with Quickbooks and an office chair, has a hard time writing cheques that equal more than pieces of paper. At least twice, I have been paid in cash after making two to three trips to the bank, where a heavyset, badly-suited woman tells me that she cannot cash my cheque and NO, she can not tell me why, because that’s privileged information. I usually guess out loud that it’s insufficient funds and, judging by the look of irritation on her face, I know that I’m right. After this happens, I return to the office and inform Accounts Payable, who cannot write me a real cheque but can ask me to dinner after informing another employee that he prefers to date 18-year-olds, that the bank has refused to pay me.

To which he replies:  “Oh, yeah. I know.” When can I really cash my cheque? “Tomorrow.” I have resorted to spending in imaginary dollars. And possibly purchasing the Fisher Price plastic fruit of my youth and living on pretend groceries to save money.

Bank of America balance:    $ Enough to pay rent
Imaginary Bank balance:    $ Eleventy-thousand dollars (plus interest)
Credit Score:                      Negative zero

Other riveting tales from Flapper Land include petty fights over where to put the alcohol, how much cash to put in the cash register, where to store jugs of water, and how many lanterns we should put in the pee-scented alley out back to add to our “ambience.” In my opinion:  in my belly, as much as we have, in the fridge, and zero. Also, as a note, these alley lanterns have kerosene in them to contribute to that old-timey feel, but they are often left in boxes on their side, where all the kerosene leaks out and the boxes are doused in flammable liquids. If you ever go out to eat here, DO. NOT. LIGHT. UP. For days. Maybe weeks. You WILL catch fire.

But perhaps the greatest dilemma of recent weeks has been the legendary Menu-gate of 2010, an ongoing battle about whose responsibility it is to print real menus for a restaurant that’s already open (up until now, we’ve been using laminated pieces of paper and killing thousands of trees in cover stock to print our ever-changing drink lists). The end result of said dilemma is that I am now responsible for printing our menus, contacting a printing company to whom we owe a large sum of money (Accounts Payable only writes cheques if you ask him to), and orchestrating the entire process exactly to Mr. Owner’s liking. Mr. Owner, by the way, communicates only through telepathy. And I suck at telepathy. Menus are still unaccounted for. Menu-gate continues.

In the meantime, I try to stay positive. However, I will admit the obstacles before me make this optimism challenging. On the upside, everyone who comes into the bar loves it, from the food to the drinks and beyond. It’s amazing, they say. What a great place. So much history. But the thing is, this is 2010. And while we are celebrating a bygone era, the fact of the matter is that it’s bygone. This is not the Roaring Twenties; this is after the Roaring Twenties. And you know what happened after Prohibition? Everyone got really poor and started eating DUST. Thanks to Mr. Owner and Accounts Payable, that’s exactly the situation I’m in. None of us are living in the glory days anymore; when you get down to it, this is nothing more than the aftermath.

(Don’t worry; I love dust.)

FUN FACT: According to the Internet, I get more website traffic when I put pictures of famous people on this blog. Surprisingly enough, the biggest numbers seem to be coming from John Glenn and Rick James. Thanks, guys.

LADY GAGA MICHAEL JACKSON OPRAH TIGER WOODS

New Year’s Resolution #10:  Try to live in the present and not several decades before.

Why Work Has Made Me a Borderline Alcoholic

So I’ve got this fabulous job at a restaurant that isn’t yet open with a handsome hourly wage that I do not get paid (except once, in cash, with whispers). The pros:  I can wear jeans and t-shirts to work everyday, my hours never begin until after noon, and there is alcohol everywhere all the time. The cons:  I have no money, I am sick of Ramen, and there is alcohol. EVERYWHERE. ALL. THE. TIME.

A little like this. Minus the angry Santa.

At the end of each full half-day at work, we all gather ‘round the bar, a beautiful oak-and-mahogany number, and wait for the manager to offer some words of encouragement:  “Well, we have no money to pay you…Dana, do you want something? How about a beer?” God love him, it’s the only thing he can offer me, so I say yes. Then, we drink until someone gets bored or we have to go home. The best shifts at this budding establishment combine two major passions of mine:  alcohol consumption and sitting on benches for two to four hours. According to the Big Man, all of this training is paid. However, according to the Bigger Man above him, we should order red coffee mugs and the plumber will get here when he gets here. There’s a lot to be done in this new place.

That being said, I do want to work here. As I mentioned before, there are attractive hourly wages and a good group of people, from wait staff to kitchen guys, owners and managers (by which I mean manager; singular). Perhaps the fact that I value these things above financial stability indicates the same mindset as the Bigger Man and his coffee mugs. Perhaps this is why I still work here.

In any case, the point is they feed me beer. By the pint glass, by the tall boy, sometimes by the 20-ounce bottle. I’m thinking about getting my own growler to take home at night. And this is not (always) PBR; this is the good stuff. Primo booze. I’ve also received free plates for my kitchen and several glasses of wine for my efforts. The perks are amazing.

Keep in mind the shoulder strap is CRUCIAL.

But here comes Part Two:  I also write articles about bars. This started not too long ago, and it’s certainly been worth the time. In the past month and a half, I have come to hone my knowledge of both local watering holes and the beers inside them. But now, in combining my ample consumption of free company beer with my investigative, hands-on research of local dives and Irish pubs, I am fast becoming something in life that I never imagined I’d be:  a borderline alcoholic.

I know, it surprised me, too. In most respects, I am a fifty-year-old man trapped in a 21-year-old’s body:  I fall asleep before midnight, wear the same pair of pants everyday, and consider Don Cherry, the Leafs, and fucking Satellite Hotstove to be a Saturday night with just the right balance of greatness, disappointment, and frivolity. But, as it turns out, this fifty-year-old man is a drinker. A beer-a-day man who doesn’t mind being a three-beer-a-day man every once in a while. Or a beer-and-cocktail man. Or a beer-and-whiskey man. Whatever.

So how do I cope with my increasing consumption of alcohol? The same way fat people cope with gaining  weight:  change the tag on those jeans from a 10 to an 8 and you’re two sizes skinnier. I am not a borderline alcoholic, I am simply business drunk (NOTE:  Starting now, I will be bolding all new vocabulary that applies to my life, kind of like high school textbooks). And, in my line of work, it’s just common practice; I can’t help that I have to meet certain standards. After all, in the business of not getting paid, alcohol is a requirement.

Na zdrowie. Drink up.

New Year’s Resolution #7:  If you can’t solve the problem, then maybe it’s not a problem.

OLYMPIC BREAK: Somebody’s Ruining the Magic

In the spirit of the NHL, I would like to take a brief respite from the regular season to make mention of this rare moment in our mutual histories. Here goes:

I love the Olympics. Some may call it naïve, hopelessly idealistic, unsettlingly un-cynical, even just plain stupid, but I have a deep admiration of the spirit embodied by the Games. For sixteen days, the world is united. People travel across continents, coasts, and cultures to engage in the universal language of sport. Prejudice and politics are set aside and, from anywhere on Earth, for sixteen days, we are equals.

But not only are boundaries pushed, abilities exerted, and the physical limitations of the human body put to the test, the commercials on the CBC are fabulous. No shit; they bring tears to my eyes. Even on a regular day, a Timbits hockey spot will have me reaching for the Kleenex or wanting to go pro in a sport I‘ve never played, but these? Effective marketing at its finest.

So tell me why, while watching the opening ceremony, I witnessed a commercial dedicated “to moms”? Really? Moms? Nothing about that makes me want to cry OR do sports. What do moms have to do with the Olympics? NOTHING. Beyond the montage of under-12s in Team USA gear, I don’t see the connection between the pinnacle of athleticism and a ‘tween in a luge helmet.

It’s because I’m watching NBC. For the entirety of my young life, I have had the privilege of viewing the Winter Games on Canadian television. Let’s face it:  there are some things that the CBC does not do well – hour-long dramas, reality shows, rural ethnic sitcoms – but when it comes to the news, live events, and hockey coverage, they know what’s up. Three names:  Don Cherry, Peter Mansbridge, Ron McLean. In that order. Okay, maybe McLean’s ahead of Mansbridge, but you get the idea. All I need is Hockey Night in Canada and the first ten minutes of The National. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so. What is wrong with NBC? 30 Rock? Great. Late-night television? Alright. The Today Show? Not so much, but I won’t fault you for that. What I will fault you for is making this about yourself. It is the Olympics; it is about unity, and not between the states of America but of the entire world. For sixteen days, you have to at least pretend that other nations exist. And fun facts don’t count. Case in point:

“Here comes the athlete from Nepal. Interestingly enough, Steve, their flag is shaped weird.”
“Really, Bill?”
“Indeed. Kind of like…two triangles.”

Perhaps it’s a cultural divide, but I do NOT understand the American art of commentating. Who came up with explaining what is going on while we watch what is going on? I can’t bring myself to take it seriously. It’s not that I want the TV on mute; that would deprive me of the sounds of the actual Olympic ceremonies. But do I really have to hear you narrate for me the Parade of Nations? That’s why they have those girls in dangerously high-rise parkas carrying the name of each country on a giant stick. Also, that’s why someone from your network repeats the information at the bottom of my TV screen. There it is, two times. No need to say it aloud.

FYI, another cultural divide comes from the small Asian nation of Azerbaijan, who believed this to be a parade not of nations but of Hammer pants.

Made in a geometric print from this very pattern.

But seriously, I see no need for fun facts. You know those people who are uncomfortable with silence, and so feel the need to talk at all times? NBC is one of those people. When the lights dimmed down and the 45-minute First Nation Dance Marathon subsided, a large crowd of winded Aboriginals shuffled off the floor, and  THAT was a sign that something magical was about to begin. We were about to celebrate Canada. And then, like nails on a chalkboard:

“Well, you know, Steve, David Atkins, the producer of the opening ceremonies, wanted this performance to feel more intimate than previous ceremonies.”

“Really? Did you know, Bill, that ice dancers often go to icepartnersearch.com to find their dancing partners? Think about that next time you’re at Rockefeller Center. Ha ha ha.”

Dancin' up a storm

And worse, in the face of international unity, the one time we’re all supposed to put aside our differences, Bill & Steve (who I’m pretty sure are actually Matt Lauer and Some Short Guy) blatantly flaunt the world peace rule and say something stupid like, “And now, we’re welcoming the nation of Ireland and its athletes. Here’s something to think about:  Ireland is the only nation in the lineup between Israel and Iran.” OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…DID IT JUST GET COLD IN HERE??? NBC commentating is kind of like that bitch in high school who doesn’t know when to SHUT. UP.

Also, when people don’t know anything about a country, they say the one usually-stereotypical thing they do know about a country. Example:  “Here comes Jamaica, now, Bill. Unfortunately, no bobsled team this year.”

Somewhere in between this and the 12-minute math lesson about how if you divide the 9 medals that the country of Lichtenstein has won at the Winter Olympics by its population of 33,000, you will find that that makes one medal per 3,700 Lichtenstein citizens, NBC showed me the mercy of cutting to a commercial break. But alas, where I pulled out the Kleenex and prayed for something uplifting I instead received a repeat of the weird, disturbing promo for Baby Olympics featuring Jergens, formula, and some kind of nutritional drink. Wtf, America? Are people really moved by this?

As for the actual ceremony, there was a strange, interpretive Cirque du Soleil-esque musical featuring the likes of successful Canadians such as Sarah McLachlan, Joni Mitchell, and the voice of Donald Sutherland. Top this off with Bobby Orr carrying the Olympic flag, Haley Wickenheiser swearing not to take steroids, and Mr. 99 lighting the torch, and I found the ceremony to be quite complete. I was also impressed by the spoken word poet who stood on top of a giant birthday cake-shaped pedestal and recited his take on Canadian identity. I was also NOT impressed when K. D. Lang later appeared on said birthday cake. Make a note in your life that K. D. Lang should NEVER appear on a birthday cake anywhere. EVER.

And finally, I say kudos to the portly inline skaters who had the courage to wear light bulb-clad Spandex jumpsuits in front of the world and, of course, the Newfie portion of the cultural celebration, a segment in which the principal star was FLANNEL.

And as for NBC? I will find a way to watch Canadian men’s hockey if I have to walk across the Quebec border and steal it from Bell Canada myself.

New Year’s Resolution #4: Understand other cultures, even when their television broadcasts of major international sporting events are fucking stupid.

TO THE BROS WHO JUST MOVED IN DOWNSTAIRS

FEAR ME.

I have not yet seen you – face-wise, that is – but I would recognize your plywood coffee table and that beer bottle collection anywhere. Not to mention your big, dumb feet. But I guess that’s not your fault:  all feet are ugly; it’s a scientific fact. Still, you look like Sasquatch. And I doubt you recycle. I would say kudos on the plasma TV, sirs, but when the rest of your lodgings look like Charles Manson’s basement, I feel it’s irresponsible to leave such a shiny piece of technology in such an unstable enivronment. I guess that was your parents’ call.

Look, SASK, I’m not here to talk ugly feet or home décor, but I do feel as though we need to go over a few rules. Not the ones you pretended to read in our lease or its multi-page addendum (whatever you do, do NOT leave your strollers in the hallway). I’m talking about the rules I have devised for my fellow tenants so that I may live in relative comfort – the Kanye-style regulations that are all about me, even when they are not/should not be about me. Let’s review:

THESE kind of Kanye-esque rules.

First and foremost, it is not necessary to leave your front door open. Much to your weed-induced surprise, this building is not, in fact, a college dormitory. You may not know this, but besides the young folks living in our building we’ve also got The Baby and Apt. 11*, neither of whom fall into our demographic, and neither of whom, I’m sure, are fans of the bro-tacular ESPN coverage blasting out your front door at 250 dB all day, every day. Moreover, this primitive pseudo-language you have developed – a series of grunts and belches in response to the coveted TV – is not only unintelligible but slightly nauseating; I often wonder what kind of diet you must have in order to speak fluently. It’s probably disgusting.

*For the sake of accuracy, I would interview these two outliers on the subject of your presence, but I doubt The Baby speaks English yet and I’ll be damned if I knock on 11′s door without a police escort and a taser. LOVE tasers.

Thinking about one of these for my keychain.

Second, I would ask that you take care to loan the Community Neuron to whomever chooses to leave the apartment that day, as it is awfully difficult, painful even, to watch one of you wait inside the front door of the building, hoping to exit, while I – groceries in hand, juggling several things at one time – search for my keys to unlock the door from the outside and let you pass. Perhaps you should write this down, but they make that hand “Push” handle for people just like you.

Guess what this means. I dare you.

Third, DON’T invite your friends over. They’re retarded.

And lastly, if you must take advantage of young college girls, could you please keep that department – along with the rest of your life – behind a closed door? Because if that bitch sticks her face in a Solo cup and sings “I Want It That Way” outside your four walls one more time, I might have to get loud with you. Just saying.

In writing this, I myself am surprised at how easy it will be for us to coexist within this five-story apartment building. Of course, I am physically able to occupy the building with others, but my needs cannot handle both your presence within these four walls and mine. And if I had to choose, you know my needs would win. Or at least I hope you know my needs would win. One of you does. Whoever’s got that Neuron, pass the message along.

And if you don’t, I’ll be sure to stop by around 6 a.m. – the time that I wake up – and remind you that my needs were feeling a little encumbered by your presence around 3 a.m. last night. And if she’s still there, tell the Young College Girl, too. Fuck the BSB.**

(**Just kidding, BSB. You can sing your late-’90s hits anytime you want. I can, too. Just not this girl. Not at 3 a.m. You understand.)

Filek Musings: A Guide to Grown-Up Summer Vacations

I have gone on my first real adult vacation.

I am wise.

I am mature.

I am in debt.

Over the past four years I have been a summer camp counsellor. The June through August months have entailed a sleep-deprived inebriation, force feeding eight-year-olds and clothing myself in an eclectic collection of dance costumes and ’70s menswear. But now I am an adult. And now, while I am still waiting for this thing called summer, a precious respite from the fucking shitstorm Zeus has created (yes, I still believe this theory), I am spending my summer months as a grown woman: working, hating the weather and taking just 5 out of 92 days from June 1 to August 31 to enjoy an actual holiday.

I first realized the necessity of this miniature vacation while standing in line at the slowest Starbucks in the universe. During the fifteen minutes I waited for a poorly-made, half-full $3 tall coffee, the woman in front of me tried to strike up a conversation. And I, like most city folk, am wary of nice people.

HER: Do you go to school here?

ME: Yeah, I go to Emerson.

HER: Oh, really? That’s nice. What are you studying?

ME: Writing.

HER: Wow, that’s great. I’m actually a bit of a writer myself…

– 5 minutes and lots of talking later –

HER: You know, I’m actually going to school, too. In New Jersey.

ME: Oh, that’s good.

HER: Yeah. Bible school. Pause, bated breath, concern, oh shit what have I gotten myself into who is this woman what’s happening what’s she going to say next. Are you familiar with the Mother God?

ME: I have to go.*

*time for a vacation

Following this harrowing encounter I was forced to spend the most wasted hour of my life at The Establishment, where I tried to determine what was more valuable: the $10 I made bitching to the other hostesses when I was meant to be flyering, or the two and a half hours I spent getting ready, riding the train, working and going home. By the time it was over I had settled on the fact that both of these things were worthless, but I knew I needed a vacation.

My New York friends are a certain, strange breed of people. They are the kind of people who live in the City, with its fast-paced, hectic convenience, but also the kind of people who spent four months in Africa, which is precisely where we met, sleeping on floors and fashioning bathrooms out of holes in the ground. Each of them could probably merit an entire post on their own:

First, there’s Vivian, history buff and kitchen appliance enthusiast. She works at a history museum and loves her magnetic company name tag almost as much as she loves making puns.

Next is Amanda, a.k.a. Bunny, who should have been born in the ’60s and loves music and big jewelry, of which she has a full display on her dresser. We want to go to India next summer as a group, my New York friends and I, and Bunny is probably the most likely to get left behind and live on an ashram and take an Earth name, like Lakshmi.

Last but not least is Laura Gage, my roommate from Africa: fun, eccentric, sweaty. She currently works for American Express, loves Shanghai and sweats profusely. Also, Vivian believes that she’s dirty, but I suppose that’s open to interpretation. I find her hilarious and wonderful, and I certainly appreciated the midday text at some random time in June inviting all of us to her family’s summer house in Maryland.

So there I was on a bus to New York, knowing full well that I could not entirely afford this adventure, excited and worried about grown-up things like whether or not something was terrible was going to happen at work and I was going to be fired and then, because of that one stain on my resume, my life would be hell and I would never get a job and no one would ever hire such a fuck-up who had the nerve to go on vacation in July what a bitch can you believe it. But approximately fifteen minutes into the bus ride my worries were alleviated when I remembered that I hate my job and that that probably wouldn’t happen. I got to NY safe, though contemplating how to escape if the exploding Chinatown bus fell off some obscure Brooklyn-Manhattan bridge with no guard rail, and the next day we went to Maryland, all of us together.

At the Gage’s summer house, a beautiful place on the ocean complete with swimming pool, canoe and a collection of terra cotta warrior statues, we met TOM GAGE, Laura’s father, whose name I can only think about in all caps because that is how Laura says it, with a deep movie-announcer voice. We also met Peter, Laura’s brother with a wonky foot, who hobbled around in a boot all weekend. They’re lovely people who fed and, on some occasions, clothed us (see Fig. A).

When in Rome, dress like the Gages do.

And thus the weekend was upon us. We laid out in the sun (and I got sufficiently sunburned, but we’ll not discuss that), attempted to fit five people in a canoe, which promptly tipped, sank and caught a weird-looking dirtfish, and did front-flips into the pool. Later, as a remedy to my sunburn, we also got drunk. Laura taught Vivian and Bunny how to play Flip Cup by pouring a small amount of Coors into a Solo cup, placing it on the edge of the table and flipping the cup around to stand on its rim. She later added that she might have forgotten to drink the beer first. A handful of Peter’s friends came to the summer house as well and, in several riveting rounds of Flip Cup and a game or two of Kings, we proceeded to change the décor of the Gage family summer house with our own personal touch.

Note: It is acceptable to festoon your host's property with blankets, paddles, hats, etc. It is also acceptable to attempt – while drunk – a faux-karate chop to its head. Other Note: When equipped with sunglasses and some gangster rap, this terra cotta warrior is a fucking badass. Head or not.

All in all, Maryland was good to us. We did eventually take out the canoe (successfully), drank boatloads of sangria and had nothing but thanks for TOM GAGE and his hospitality. We headed back to NY with Laura at the wheel, jumping radio stations every ten to fifteen seconds. We drove mostly on the shoulder, and when Laura hit a speed bump a little too fast on the streets of Bethesda, MD, there were tears in Vivian’s eyes, at least for a second.*

*I should note that it is impolite to criticize your host’s driving skills, but it is never impolite to pray for God’s mercy from the backseat, albeit silently.

I then proceeded to spend the rest of my money in NY, eating Afghani food and having tricksy cocktail waitresses lure my friends and I into getting drunk on expensive beverages. By the time I got back on the bus bound for Boston, I was tired, in debt, but overall quite satisfied with my grown-up holiday. Now if I could only figure out a way to do this all the time, I would appreciate the responsibilities of being an adult.

Though that’s not likely.

I am a motherfucking CATCH

My friend Christina and I have been looking for the straight boys at Emerson College.

(Hint: There aren’t any.)

Or at least we’ve been trying. And brainstorming. And looking for ways to meet members of the opposite sex who don’t wear skinny jeans or talk about feelings. Unfortunately, everyone at Emerson is one big, ugly, walking American Apparel advert who is not interested in my gender. Or is my gender.

Christina made this point when aptly commenting on an Emerson co-worker’s wardrobe:  “You look like an eighth grade photo” (see Fig. A).

Fig. A

I do not want to date an eighth grade photo.

Thus, with few options left, we have expanded our search to the Greater Boston Area in hopes of finding worthy candidates. However it is my hypothesis that someone dropped an Ugly Bomb on the entirety of the metropolitan area. One that aggressively targets the male species.

In the absence of boys, we have begun to create our own list of reasons why Christina and I – both wonderful human beings – are nothing short of fascinating, incredible and utterly confused why nobody else has yet realized our greatness.

Reasons why Christina and I are a CATCH:

-       We are fucking HILARIOUS. I laugh at us all the time.

Case in Point: Christina openly admitted to a group of her peers that she peed at a friend’s house and, in the absence of toilet paper, made use of an Ikea catalogue.

Other Case in Point: I am currently brushing my teeth with a 99-cent toothpaste called GLEEM. Two Es.

-       We’re cute. According to some girl Christina knows (and probably Cosmo), when guys think you’re cute, it means they like you. When guys think you’re hot, all you’re getting is laid. Though not a bad option, this is not all we’re going for. The point is we’re cute.

-       We have personality. I realize that, in a boy’s vocabulary, this is what ugly girls say. But if you’ll refer to my “About” picture I am a fucking FOX (who has a passport taped to her midsection). Christina is also a good-looking lady herself and, on top of this, we really DO have personality.

Case in Point: Christina is a cinematography major. She makes films. She can cut the little pieces of filmstrip and put them together and make movies. REAL movies. I find that shit fascinating.

Other Case in Point: I am a writer. Maybe not so exciting. Shit.

But I run marathons (once). And I’m foreign (Canadian). And I’m so fucking endearing sometimes it hurts. People love me.

In summary, Christina and I are a little too in love with ourselves, but that’s because no one else is stepping up to the plate. And if one of us were the opposite sex, this would probably work. But we’re not. So back to the Ugly Bomb drawing board.

Fuck you, skinny jeans.

HomeSearch Tulsa is ruining my life.

This state is home to dust, a musical I've never seen and one bombing.

The computer is broke. My bank account is broke. And in the Internet world I am living on borrowed time, which will eventually run out and this virus will take over and there will be nothing left but pictures of farmhouses in America’s breadbasket and I’ll have to gouge my eyes out with a thrice-used plastic spork.

SHIT.

I applied to new jobs this week, hoping to get out of the trap that is my current employment. But when I went to interview at this perfect restaurant within 10 minutes of my apartment, I discovered that the Other Establishment to which I was applying is actually owned by The Company, who also owns The Establishment for which I currently work.

My explanation was that I “hadn’t been receiving enough hours on the job.” The subtext of that answer was “And the manager is a raging bitch.”

Here’s hoping the Other Establishment can’t read between the lines.

Also, in an act prompted by whoever controls climate in the Greater Boston Area – either Zeus or the Weather Girls – temperatures have plummeted to the low-50, high-40 range (a.k.a. too cold for summer months). Now all those crazy bitches who were rolling in dog shit and smelling trees as soon as the mercury hit 45 are walking around in Snuggies and long pants howling about the foul weather. It kind of makes me hate them. And Zeus.

Only responsible for weather that rains men.

The only thing that sustains me is the thought of the upcoming family gathering:  my little brother’s alcohol-induced graduation brunch in Bay City, Michigan. I am already fasting to better enjoy the onslaught of omelets and mimosas.

But for the meantime I am stuck in the mild weather of Boston, interrupted by pop-ups about how Kevin made thousands of dollars on Google and real estate in places no one will ever live. Example:  On Facebook. WAIT:  who is pregnant!? Who broke up? Who is gay!? Click:  HomeSearch Tulsa. [Back button] Click:  Estate World. [Back button] Click:  Server has refused proxy settings. Please restart your computer/waste your time/never get anything done in your life.

I really need a vacation.

i want a service animal. or three.

I want a service pet. When my roommate Lisa came home from work the other day and mentioned that she waited on someone with a cat in a stroller, I immediately began an extensive, six-page Google search on service animals. From my findings, I have learned that it is possible to own a cat, dog, monkey or horse under the guise of “service,” so long as you slap a vest on it and make sure it’s always on a leash. For the most part, cats work as friends of humans, which I find surprising, as no cat I have ever met has seemed predisposed to companionship. Dogs are usually used as seeing-eye companions, but miniature horses are also used as “mobility alternatives” for the visually impaired.

If I had my way, I would own a monkey assistant to organize my life and he would wear not a vest but a tuxedo. I would also keep a vacuum dog in the kitchen and a space heater cat during the winter (in the summer he would work full-time as my friend). However, considering the fact that approximately 98% of the animal world, save for service creatures and the circus – are unemployed, I highly doubt I will find a dog, cat or monkey willing to work for me, and I still haven’t figured out how anyone else convinced any of these animals to work for humans. I suspect coercion. Or enslavement.

Also, I want a mobility alternative named Seabiscuit.