Monday, June 28, 2004
Karma Bites Me in the Ass.
Not having experienced the other forms of volunteering at Comfest, I would venture to say that doing security for the main stage is the most mentally taxing. It may not necessarily be the most difficult position; standing around saying "hello" to every person who tries to go backstage beats assembling a stage or driving around in a garbage-filled golf cart any day. Nonetheless, with backstage security at a place like Comfest, there's a fine line between being useful and pissing people off. No matter what, you'll look like an idiot.
Last year, Sarah and I made a list of the people that we'd let through, without any questions asked. The list included "people who walk fast" and "people with long gray hair." It was a stressful evening, but we agreed to do it again. This year, we were veterans, ready and willing to be hit with "Don't you know who I am", "I'm with the band" and "I'm Paul's Cousin."
(It's hard to tell if our bosses want Paul's Cousin backstage. If it turns out that Paul's Cousin also happens to be a high school buddy of the guy who designed the logo, then, well, we look like assholes for even questioning Paul's Cousin.)
At any rate, this year we blatantly drank beer while manning our shift. I felt kind of bad about it, but I also figured that if we could get our job done, without pissing off the wrong people, then why shouldn't we be able to have a Rolling Rock or three?
I had a moment of pride when I dissuaded a gentleman from going on stage to sing with the band, even though he promised me that "the crowd would love [him]." I even kept him happy by giving him a cigarette in place of admission.
So. We happily drank beer, chatted with our Comfest friends and tried to keep the backstage area free of people, despite the hip hop band that had roughly 26 people on stage and another 14 who were "here with the band." For awhile, it seemed that the only people we could keep out were our friends.
It was near the end of our shift when Sarah realized her purse was missing. We organized a small search team who scoured the backstage area and checked the lost and found. Nothing. It was stolen.
We weren't doing a good enough job to keep even our own things secure, let alone those of the bands and other volunteers. An unfortunate piece of irony. I can't help but think that if we hadn't been drinking, that somehow Sarah would have a cell phone, wallet, and even a set of keys.
And thus, the title.
Not having experienced the other forms of volunteering at Comfest, I would venture to say that doing security for the main stage is the most mentally taxing. It may not necessarily be the most difficult position; standing around saying "hello" to every person who tries to go backstage beats assembling a stage or driving around in a garbage-filled golf cart any day. Nonetheless, with backstage security at a place like Comfest, there's a fine line between being useful and pissing people off. No matter what, you'll look like an idiot.
Last year, Sarah and I made a list of the people that we'd let through, without any questions asked. The list included "people who walk fast" and "people with long gray hair." It was a stressful evening, but we agreed to do it again. This year, we were veterans, ready and willing to be hit with "Don't you know who I am", "I'm with the band" and "I'm Paul's Cousin."
(It's hard to tell if our bosses want Paul's Cousin backstage. If it turns out that Paul's Cousin also happens to be a high school buddy of the guy who designed the logo, then, well, we look like assholes for even questioning Paul's Cousin.)
At any rate, this year we blatantly drank beer while manning our shift. I felt kind of bad about it, but I also figured that if we could get our job done, without pissing off the wrong people, then why shouldn't we be able to have a Rolling Rock or three?
I had a moment of pride when I dissuaded a gentleman from going on stage to sing with the band, even though he promised me that "the crowd would love [him]." I even kept him happy by giving him a cigarette in place of admission.
So. We happily drank beer, chatted with our Comfest friends and tried to keep the backstage area free of people, despite the hip hop band that had roughly 26 people on stage and another 14 who were "here with the band." For awhile, it seemed that the only people we could keep out were our friends.
It was near the end of our shift when Sarah realized her purse was missing. We organized a small search team who scoured the backstage area and checked the lost and found. Nothing. It was stolen.
We weren't doing a good enough job to keep even our own things secure, let alone those of the bands and other volunteers. An unfortunate piece of irony. I can't help but think that if we hadn't been drinking, that somehow Sarah would have a cell phone, wallet, and even a set of keys.
And thus, the title.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
To Be A Bridesmaid.
I've been invited to attend an engagement party this Saturday evening in Grove City, Ohio. The party is celebrating the engagement of Amy and Eric. I introduced Amy and Eric. I'm in the bridal party for their wedding. Instead of attending Amy's bridal shower a few weekends ago, I chose to drink warm beer at Bonnaroo. And instead of attending the engagement party (that I learned about yesterday) I want to drink slightly colder beer at Comfest.
I'm the only bridesmaid who a) lives in town and b) isn't pregnant.
Be my conscious, my dear Blog Readers. What do I do?
(For more information on Comfest, visit www.comfest.com.)
P.S. Comfest is fun. And it's not in a reception hall in Grove City.
I've been invited to attend an engagement party this Saturday evening in Grove City, Ohio. The party is celebrating the engagement of Amy and Eric. I introduced Amy and Eric. I'm in the bridal party for their wedding. Instead of attending Amy's bridal shower a few weekends ago, I chose to drink warm beer at Bonnaroo. And instead of attending the engagement party (that I learned about yesterday) I want to drink slightly colder beer at Comfest.
I'm the only bridesmaid who a) lives in town and b) isn't pregnant.
Be my conscious, my dear Blog Readers. What do I do?
(For more information on Comfest, visit www.comfest.com.)
P.S. Comfest is fun. And it's not in a reception hall in Grove City.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
I Specialize in Lipstick and Coffee Stains.
This has been the week from Hell. Any week that starts off with a motivational seminar is guaranteed to be a week from Hell. At any rate, I apologize for the lack of updates. To make up for it, I'm going to transcribe a conversation that I had this afternoon with the Asian dry-cleaner lady and her son, who is no more than nineteen years old.
I stop by the cleaners in our shopping center to discuss payment for the sign that we're erecting. Having worked on this project for nine months, now, I'm finally to the point where we pay the sign company and they start to build the structure that will replace the 70's piece that advertises the name of the center and nothing else.
The dry cleaners have a problem with their panel on the sign, which will undoubtedly slippery slope into "The dry cleaners have a problem with paying."
Chinese Lady: This sign not right. Where our logo?
Me: (exasperated) You designed a square sign to fit into a rectangle. If you put your logo in, then the letters will be three inches tall and no one will be able to read your sign.
(Their "logo", by the way, is a clip-art crest that has nothing to do with dry cleaning.)
Chinese Lady: (To son) You talk to her.
Son: Yeah. So I talked to the lady, and you're right. She explained that the letters would be too small. But we don't want these colors anymore. We want red in the background with white lettering.
Me: (Cringing, internally, as the structure of the sign is hunter green and having a red panel will not only cause headaches, but it will make the sign very tacky) Um. Right. I don't know how to say this, but, well, that will look tacky. (Best not to hold back.) I mean, red and green? That will be an eyesore.
Son: Red and green are complimentary colors. I thought that you studied design.
I'm stunned. I don't know what to say to him. So I start to shake my head, slowly.
Me: No…
Chinese Lady: (Cutting in and looking pointedly at her son) I told you so.
Me: I didn't study design. I actually majored in grocery store bagging.
Silence. Sarcasm is probably not a very good negotiating strategy. They didn't tell me that in the motivational seminar on Monday.
Me: (Sighing) Okay then. How about burgundy? That will work well with hunter green.
Son: Oh. Right. That's what I meant all along.
I told the story to my bosses after I had similar encounters with the rest of the tenants, concerning price, use of the reader board and timing of payments. Their answer to my business faux pas?
"You should have said you majored in dry cleaning, Jill."
This has been the week from Hell. Any week that starts off with a motivational seminar is guaranteed to be a week from Hell. At any rate, I apologize for the lack of updates. To make up for it, I'm going to transcribe a conversation that I had this afternoon with the Asian dry-cleaner lady and her son, who is no more than nineteen years old.
I stop by the cleaners in our shopping center to discuss payment for the sign that we're erecting. Having worked on this project for nine months, now, I'm finally to the point where we pay the sign company and they start to build the structure that will replace the 70's piece that advertises the name of the center and nothing else.
The dry cleaners have a problem with their panel on the sign, which will undoubtedly slippery slope into "The dry cleaners have a problem with paying."
Chinese Lady: This sign not right. Where our logo?
Me: (exasperated) You designed a square sign to fit into a rectangle. If you put your logo in, then the letters will be three inches tall and no one will be able to read your sign.
(Their "logo", by the way, is a clip-art crest that has nothing to do with dry cleaning.)
Chinese Lady: (To son) You talk to her.
Son: Yeah. So I talked to the lady, and you're right. She explained that the letters would be too small. But we don't want these colors anymore. We want red in the background with white lettering.
Me: (Cringing, internally, as the structure of the sign is hunter green and having a red panel will not only cause headaches, but it will make the sign very tacky) Um. Right. I don't know how to say this, but, well, that will look tacky. (Best not to hold back.) I mean, red and green? That will be an eyesore.
Son: Red and green are complimentary colors. I thought that you studied design.
I'm stunned. I don't know what to say to him. So I start to shake my head, slowly.
Me: No…
Chinese Lady: (Cutting in and looking pointedly at her son) I told you so.
Me: I didn't study design. I actually majored in grocery store bagging.
Silence. Sarcasm is probably not a very good negotiating strategy. They didn't tell me that in the motivational seminar on Monday.
Me: (Sighing) Okay then. How about burgundy? That will work well with hunter green.
Son: Oh. Right. That's what I meant all along.
I told the story to my bosses after I had similar encounters with the rest of the tenants, concerning price, use of the reader board and timing of payments. Their answer to my business faux pas?
"You should have said you majored in dry cleaning, Jill."
Thursday, June 17, 2004
The Road to France.
We were sprawled out on a hill outside the former insane asylum when he said something that left me quiet for what seemed like hours.
"When I was in prison…" It doesn't matter what he followed it with. At that point, I ceased to be embarrassed by my seasonal allergies. I didn't care that I had spilled ice cream on my shirt. I lost all feeling. I was holding hands with someone who was able to start sentences with 'when I was in prison.'
C didn't look like the 'prison type'. He was my age, or a year older, with long pale arms and legs, and hands that felt like they'd never seen a day of work. Our early summer tryst was short, and a long time ago, but his overall softness resonates with me. We would spend our evenings in his studio apartment, listening to Debussy, discussing Proust and pouring over recordings by T.S. Eliot. C and I shared many sexless, sleepless nights discussing ideas, theories, writings. These nights gave way to sunrises and coffee, after which we'd part ways and take afternoon naps.
He wasn't violent, hard, or even bitter. C was intriguing and curious. And he was a felon.
His crime was one of ignorance, of experimentation, of youth. A car accident, some drugs and a dead girlfriend left him unable to vote or even leave the country. A tragic conflict for someone who studies French.
We sat on that hill as he told me the story. It was a quiet night and we were near the cemetery. To fulfill his dream to go to France, he had to write a daily angst-filled journal for a judge back home. The book would span three years of his life post-prison.
That summer, I lived in London. When I said goodbye to him, we hugged and it felt awkward. We both knew our time together was done. I haven't seen him since, and e-mailing was for naught. The last time I heard about him, he was in France.
Some people collect frequent flier miles. He had to collect thoughts on paper. Both can get you to Paris, but the latter, I presume, makes it more fulfilling.
We were sprawled out on a hill outside the former insane asylum when he said something that left me quiet for what seemed like hours.
"When I was in prison…" It doesn't matter what he followed it with. At that point, I ceased to be embarrassed by my seasonal allergies. I didn't care that I had spilled ice cream on my shirt. I lost all feeling. I was holding hands with someone who was able to start sentences with 'when I was in prison.'
C didn't look like the 'prison type'. He was my age, or a year older, with long pale arms and legs, and hands that felt like they'd never seen a day of work. Our early summer tryst was short, and a long time ago, but his overall softness resonates with me. We would spend our evenings in his studio apartment, listening to Debussy, discussing Proust and pouring over recordings by T.S. Eliot. C and I shared many sexless, sleepless nights discussing ideas, theories, writings. These nights gave way to sunrises and coffee, after which we'd part ways and take afternoon naps.
He wasn't violent, hard, or even bitter. C was intriguing and curious. And he was a felon.
His crime was one of ignorance, of experimentation, of youth. A car accident, some drugs and a dead girlfriend left him unable to vote or even leave the country. A tragic conflict for someone who studies French.
We sat on that hill as he told me the story. It was a quiet night and we were near the cemetery. To fulfill his dream to go to France, he had to write a daily angst-filled journal for a judge back home. The book would span three years of his life post-prison.
That summer, I lived in London. When I said goodbye to him, we hugged and it felt awkward. We both knew our time together was done. I haven't seen him since, and e-mailing was for naught. The last time I heard about him, he was in France.
Some people collect frequent flier miles. He had to collect thoughts on paper. Both can get you to Paris, but the latter, I presume, makes it more fulfilling.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
If You Can't See a Scrotum at Bonnaroo, Then The Terrorists Have Won
The following is a list of things that I learned at Bonnaroo, the musical festival that I attended this past weekend with 90,000 of my closest friends.
1. It's okay to drink Jack Daniels at 6.00 a.m. It's even better to stagger around and offer it to your neighbors.
2. Urine stops bacteria from growing on your feet. (If this is not true, please do not let me know.)
3. The best place to stand during a thunderstorm is next to a metal pole in a five inch puddle of muddy water. Barefoot.
4. Drinking warm Bud Light out of cans isn't so bad, if your other option is drinking slightly colder Bud Light from a cup at $5 each.
5. If you try hard enough, you can trick your brain into not utilizing your olfactory senses.
6. If you've smoked just the right amount of weed, a) it will appear that Damien Rice is singing only to you, and b) the music of Phish is slightly more tolerable.
7. Target Brand zip lock bags are crap.
8. There are a lot of people out there that pronounce Ani Difranco's first name as "Annie."
9. If you put up a sign that says "Sauna: $5 per Half Hour" on your tent because you think it's funny, you will be disappointed when you find out that they're laughing because they think the word "Tuesday" is funny.
10. If you look hard enough, or at all, you will see plenty of body parts not typically available for public view. You might be disgusted a little, but mainly you're just jealous that you're not ballsy (ha ha!) to do the same.
The following is a list of things that I learned at Bonnaroo, the musical festival that I attended this past weekend with 90,000 of my closest friends.
1. It's okay to drink Jack Daniels at 6.00 a.m. It's even better to stagger around and offer it to your neighbors.
2. Urine stops bacteria from growing on your feet. (If this is not true, please do not let me know.)
3. The best place to stand during a thunderstorm is next to a metal pole in a five inch puddle of muddy water. Barefoot.
4. Drinking warm Bud Light out of cans isn't so bad, if your other option is drinking slightly colder Bud Light from a cup at $5 each.
5. If you try hard enough, you can trick your brain into not utilizing your olfactory senses.
6. If you've smoked just the right amount of weed, a) it will appear that Damien Rice is singing only to you, and b) the music of Phish is slightly more tolerable.
7. Target Brand zip lock bags are crap.
8. There are a lot of people out there that pronounce Ani Difranco's first name as "Annie."
9. If you put up a sign that says "Sauna: $5 per Half Hour" on your tent because you think it's funny, you will be disappointed when you find out that they're laughing because they think the word "Tuesday" is funny.
10. If you look hard enough, or at all, you will see plenty of body parts not typically available for public view. You might be disgusted a little, but mainly you're just jealous that you're not ballsy (ha ha!) to do the same.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Migrant Partiers.
It's full-fledged mid-west summer here in Ohio. Sticky, loud, wet and heavy. Combine that with a partial hangover and an overall sluggish mindset, and it makes for a very productive employee.
It's a chore just to step outside to share a cigarette with the cicadas, who are humping like it's 1999.
Tomorrow evening a team of us are packing the car and driving to Tennessee to take part in Bonnaroo, a hippie music festival. We all have our reasons for going. Some covet the drugs. Others are drawn by the jam band music. I'm going to have one last memorable experience with friends before we have to grow up.
The list of things to bring is four pages long, and includes everything from duct tape to cigarettes. We're loading four people and camping necessities into a four-door compact car, tying what we can to the roof. It seems that the number one ingredient to survive the weekend is water. It's recommended that we bring a gallon of water per person per day.
The whole ordeal reminds me of the tent cities in *The Grapes of Wrath*. Except that we're going willingly, and paying $180 for tickets, to boot. I can only hope that the trip is successful, that the drugs are available, the jam bands are long-winded and fuzzy and that we'll enjoy our time together without getting dehydrated.
Though, if there's room, I might pack a few beers. That's not very Steinbeck, but then again, neither is Yo La Tengo.
It's full-fledged mid-west summer here in Ohio. Sticky, loud, wet and heavy. Combine that with a partial hangover and an overall sluggish mindset, and it makes for a very productive employee.
It's a chore just to step outside to share a cigarette with the cicadas, who are humping like it's 1999.
Tomorrow evening a team of us are packing the car and driving to Tennessee to take part in Bonnaroo, a hippie music festival. We all have our reasons for going. Some covet the drugs. Others are drawn by the jam band music. I'm going to have one last memorable experience with friends before we have to grow up.
The list of things to bring is four pages long, and includes everything from duct tape to cigarettes. We're loading four people and camping necessities into a four-door compact car, tying what we can to the roof. It seems that the number one ingredient to survive the weekend is water. It's recommended that we bring a gallon of water per person per day.
The whole ordeal reminds me of the tent cities in *The Grapes of Wrath*. Except that we're going willingly, and paying $180 for tickets, to boot. I can only hope that the trip is successful, that the drugs are available, the jam bands are long-winded and fuzzy and that we'll enjoy our time together without getting dehydrated.
Though, if there's room, I might pack a few beers. That's not very Steinbeck, but then again, neither is Yo La Tengo.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Please Be Nice, Dry Cleaner Lady.
I spent a large proportion of the weekend in a $250 Jill Michelle strapless dress (that makes me feel like I'm Charlotte from Sex & The City), methodically throwing sticks for two large-ish dogs to retrieve from a lake (which made me feel like a factory worker, facing a daunting task that would never present a sense of accomplishment, as dogs never tire of the "throw the stick into the water" game).
Surprisingly, it was fun, although it was difficult not to blatantly run away from the dogs when I sensed the oncoming "shake the probably-not-very-clean water onto the nearest person with a white dress" maneuver.
"I'm not running away because I'm afraid of getting this horribly expensive dress dirty and I'm somewhat terrified of the dry cleaner lady who constantly yells at me when I bring in my soiled clothing," I tried to say to the dog owners by way of a smile plastered to my face. "I'm running away because I think I see a much better stick over there. Really. Look at it. The Golden Retriever is going to love that stick. I'll go get it right now. And look, I'm laughing."
I'm almost certain that Charlotte would have done the same thing, except that the dogs would be matching pure-bred Dalmatians and she would have been wearing heels instead of flip flops.
AND... In honor of the fact that I'm getting paid to peruse Maud Newton's blog for ideas for the library, I thought that I'd go ahead and add a link to the side. Enjoy.
I spent a large proportion of the weekend in a $250 Jill Michelle strapless dress (that makes me feel like I'm Charlotte from Sex & The City), methodically throwing sticks for two large-ish dogs to retrieve from a lake (which made me feel like a factory worker, facing a daunting task that would never present a sense of accomplishment, as dogs never tire of the "throw the stick into the water" game).
Surprisingly, it was fun, although it was difficult not to blatantly run away from the dogs when I sensed the oncoming "shake the probably-not-very-clean water onto the nearest person with a white dress" maneuver.
"I'm not running away because I'm afraid of getting this horribly expensive dress dirty and I'm somewhat terrified of the dry cleaner lady who constantly yells at me when I bring in my soiled clothing," I tried to say to the dog owners by way of a smile plastered to my face. "I'm running away because I think I see a much better stick over there. Really. Look at it. The Golden Retriever is going to love that stick. I'll go get it right now. And look, I'm laughing."
I'm almost certain that Charlotte would have done the same thing, except that the dogs would be matching pure-bred Dalmatians and she would have been wearing heels instead of flip flops.
AND... In honor of the fact that I'm getting paid to peruse Maud Newton's blog for ideas for the library, I thought that I'd go ahead and add a link to the side. Enjoy.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Things Of Very Little Consequence.
I moved into my apartment in July of 2003. I haven't been able to find my iron since then. I have had wrinkled clothing for eleven months.
I'm using a full box of Trefoils (the shortbread Girl Scout Cookie) to hold up a corner of my filing cabinet at work. And instead of files, the large drawer holds a kelly green ski sweater from the 1970's, a never-worn-before black formal gown and a bottle of nail polish remover. Where are my files? In a box underneath my desk.
Sarah and I have successfully avoided buying groceries for two weeks now, because we just don't have time and it's an inconvenience. Even though she's not working now and I work inside a grocery store.
I moved into my apartment in July of 2003. I haven't been able to find my iron since then. I have had wrinkled clothing for eleven months.
I'm using a full box of Trefoils (the shortbread Girl Scout Cookie) to hold up a corner of my filing cabinet at work. And instead of files, the large drawer holds a kelly green ski sweater from the 1970's, a never-worn-before black formal gown and a bottle of nail polish remover. Where are my files? In a box underneath my desk.
Sarah and I have successfully avoided buying groceries for two weeks now, because we just don't have time and it's an inconvenience. Even though she's not working now and I work inside a grocery store.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Every Rose Has Its Thorn.
I'm leaving work early today to scour the thrift stores for a perfect 80's Prom dress. Yes, it's that time of year again. The Second Annual 80's Prom at the Treebar. I actually forgot that it was coming up. Didn't get the posters up until last week. We've got some rockin' bands practicing their Debbie Gibson covers, and Lainie's spending her lunch hours this week searching for decorations from Odd Lots. Looking for rose-related crap, for the aformentioned theme.
It's a sad prom for me, as this year I will have to pass on my crown to the lucky lady voted Prom Queen by the attendees.
So. Y'all should come out. Should be another fun evening. Heavy eye shadow. Hair spray. Big earrings. Fuchsia heels. And terrible music. All. Night. Long.
I'm leaving work early today to scour the thrift stores for a perfect 80's Prom dress. Yes, it's that time of year again. The Second Annual 80's Prom at the Treebar. I actually forgot that it was coming up. Didn't get the posters up until last week. We've got some rockin' bands practicing their Debbie Gibson covers, and Lainie's spending her lunch hours this week searching for decorations from Odd Lots. Looking for rose-related crap, for the aformentioned theme.
It's a sad prom for me, as this year I will have to pass on my crown to the lucky lady voted Prom Queen by the attendees.
So. Y'all should come out. Should be another fun evening. Heavy eye shadow. Hair spray. Big earrings. Fuchsia heels. And terrible music. All. Night. Long.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
The Beans are Sixty-Nine Cents, Lady.
I celebrated Memorial Day by watching an entire episode of The Price Is Right yesterday.
I wonder if they train people to wave their arms around and high-five one another specifically for that show, or if there's some sort of screening process for audience members.
I celebrated Memorial Day by watching an entire episode of The Price Is Right yesterday.
I wonder if they train people to wave their arms around and high-five one another specifically for that show, or if there's some sort of screening process for audience members.
