Monty's Pink Slip Parade

Wed, 25 Feb 2004 15:50:07 GMT

Nooks and Crannies, Crooks and Nannies

Note: The above title has nothing to do with the below content.

So, it's Wednesday. Dig, man. We all know what Wednesday means:

The laundromat downstairs is closed.
is on tonight. In its final season (*symbol of a sad face*)
"Law & Order" is on. This doesn't mean as much as it used to, now that we have cable and "Law & Order" is on constantly.
Some time around noon, my cellphone will ring. Vibrate, actually. I will look at the number, recognize it, and, as I have been doing every Wednesday for over a year now, not pick it up. The caller will leave a message, which I will delete. Before deleting it I may or may not hear the first few words, which are always the same:

"Ray, this is Rabbi Stone, calling from the Mitzvah Tank...."

To anyone to whom this sounds a bit outlandish, I swear I am not making this up. The Mitzvah Tank is a bunch of Hasiddic Jews (I'm sure I misspelled Hassiddicc but I don't really care) who roam around NYC in an RV and try to recruit non-orthodox Jews, like myself, into a more rigorous form of Judaism. Around the holidays they are especially active:

On Chanuka they hand out free crappy menorahs and ask you if you know the prayers.
Around Passover they pass out crappy matzoh and ask if you know the prayers and the dietary rules.
Around Sukkot they try to get you to say a couple prayers while you hold two produce items, one of which looks like a leek and another that's some kind of big lumpy lemon. I have no recollection as to what these things are called or what they mean, except that Sukkhot is somehow all about produce. We've also got a holiday about trees.

Up until the time I had the misfortune to run into Rabbi Stone, my experiences with the Mitzvah Tank had been mercifully brief. For one thing, I have no interest in beefing up my Judaism to appeal to ultra-conservative Jews, whose wives have to dress badly and wear bad wigs and do whatever their husbands tell them to. I see the young Hasiddick guys on the train sometimes, and they walk with a swagger and have their stupid stove-ipe hats cocked like a bunch of gangsters. And a bunch of gangsters a lot of them are. Furthermore - and maybe it's just me - but in a world full of religion-based violence and aggression and conflict, is it not a bit offputting to call your vehicle of religious deliverance a Tank? For those unfamiliar to Judaism, a mitzvah is a good deed; so presumably these guys see themselves as blasting good deeds all over the fucking city. I'm sure Bush would love an actual mitzvah tank to go along with all of his liberating forces and peacemaking bombs. He and PM Sharon could drive a mitzvah tank into the West Bank and spray teenagers with explosive good deeds. In an inspiring "Pay It Forward" kind of cycle, I'm sure some Palestinians would be inspired to return the favor by stupidly exploding themselves on an Israeli bus full of citizens.

Anyhoo, 'twas a fine autumn evening in Williamsburg, Brooklyn when I met Rabbi Stone, a man who I now know to be persistent to the point of stupidity and/or lunacy. In other words, a zealot. I was out with Rosie and couple of friends - I'll call them Doug and Allen - and we'd had a couple drinks, I think, and were probably on the way to have a couple more. The Mitzvah Tank, which I had previously only seen in Manhattan, was parked on Bedford Avenue, the main commercial stretch of the neighborhood. We were half a block away, soon to pass them, and I was preparing myself. As we approached, one of the 3 hassidz standing in front of the open RV - pardon me, tank - gave out his standard pickup line:

"Excuse me, are you Jewish?"

I don't know if they ask people who look vaguely Jewish, if they ask all white people, or what. But they always ask me. The first couple times I said "yes," and was subsequently forced to shake a lumpy lemon with a leek, and another time I took home a shitty menorah. But then I started saying "no." Which is not accurate. But if I say yes.... The right thing to say, I suppose, would be "Yes I am Jewish, and quite satisfied with my own Judaism, thank you very much." But that would take longer to say than "no" and would probably be less effective.

Back to Williamsburg: I said yes, even though I had geared myself up to say no. Next thing I knew, Rosie and I were inside the RV talking to Rabbi Stone. He asked if we lived together, whether we ate kosher, all sorts of annoying questions. Then he gave us some shitty matzoh to eat for passover. I noticed they had a cardboard box with big jugs of liquor; I asked if they were having a party later.

"We're having a party right now!," he said.

He poured me a shot of scotch, then had me say a liquor-drinking prayer before I knocked it back. Then, just before we got the hell out of there he asked for my number, and, like an idiot, I gave him my cellphone number. I figured if he called a couple times and I didn't call back, he would stop calling.

Clearly that is not the case.

Over a year later, at around noon today, I got the call. I didn't pick up.

One of these days I wanna pick up, and say, Look, Rabbi Stone, I am perfectly happy with my Judaism and why don't you just keep yours to yourself. I like living in sin with my perfectly Jewish girlfriend, and I'm very fond of her hair and her taste in clothes, and besides, I don't really feel like dressing like a jackass, or acting like one, either. In other words FUCK YOU Rabbi Stone, Fuck you and the tank you rode in on. I'm as Jewish as I wanna be beeeeeeeeeYOTCH!

Love

Monty

Thu, 19 Feb 2004 15:34:41 GMT

Dreams and Garbage, Garbage and Dreams

Supreme Court Salad

I'll be calling myself Raymond today, which is my name, because I'm not feeling very Monty.

One function of the dreams we dream at night is for our brains to take out the trash, as twer. All the excess bits of dismantled ideas, emotional shrapnel, unread flyers advertising anxieties we've already seen. That's one reason why when we don't sleep enough, we get stupid. It's no surprise that speed freaks ramble on about bullshit all day; aside from the fact that they are on speed, their sleep-deprived brains are full of garbage.

Do you ever have a thought or an idea as you are just on the brink of falling asleep, or you've just woken up, that seems so brilliant and useful and interesting that you force yourself to remember it, only to find, upon fully waking, that it makes no sense, or just isn't very interesting? It happens to me all the time. I lay in bed and as I'm drifting off I have some idea for a story or script and it sounds perfect - because all dreams are perfect - and with that last bit of waking energy before I'm out I force the idea into some memory file to look at in the morning. Ideas like:

A story about a guy who falls in love with a spider.

A play in which all of the characters are named "Pants."

A guy makes millions of dollars by selling the same brick over and over again.

Okay, those are bad examples because now they sound like really good and sellable ideas. But you know what I mean.

In certain periods of my life - specifically, right now, this kind of vague in-between stage of my life - I feel like I'm half asleep, half-dreaming a lot of the time. As I sit around, drowsy, my brain very tender, vague ideas take hold and stick around longer than they usually would. Maybe I'm not sleeping enough, or dreaming enough. Today I will share some of these thoughts with you; you might call it trash-talking.

1) I woke up one Saturday morningish, hungover, not depressed as I often am when hungover, but feeling a little crazy and stupid. As Rosie and I lounged around in bed for a while I turned to her and said "Supreme Court Salad." She said, "What?" I said, "Supreme Court Salad."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know! Supreme Court Salad!"

"I don't get it."

"I don't get it either. What does it mean? Supreme Court Salad!"

All day I had the phrase in my head, but not just in my head, it was something I didn't understand but desperately wanted to express. Every time I got close to forgetting about it, it jumped right back up in my face and I screamed at it through gritted teeth, "Supreme Court Salad!"

I wanted to call every single person I know. They would pick up the phone and say hello, I would say "Supreme Court Salad" and hang up. Maybe someone would understand.

2) Last night as I was falling asleep I thought of a really great game.

It's called "Name that Seaport." Two or more people can play it.

Here's how you play: When it's your turn, you think of a seaport. Then you name it after yourself. Once you've named it, say it aloud. Say me and Rosie are playing. When it's my turn, I come up with a seaport, then name it after myself, and when I'm ready I say "Raymond's Seaport."

Next it's Rosie's turn. She thinks of a seaport. She names it after herself. She says "Rosie's Seaport."

I come up with another seaport. I name it after myself. "Raymond's Seaport."

When you think you know what seaport your opponent(s) have just named after themselves, you shout out the answer. If you're right, you get an extra turn; if you're wrong, you lose a turn.

Whoever gets the most turns first wins.

Anyone care to play?

Love,
Raymond

Tue, 17 Feb 2004 21:49:34 GMT

The Complete Stigmata of Gayness

"Part of it is the label...being successful, being single, being the quarterback of the San Francisco 49ers, speaking properly, having a sense of style. A combination of those things gets you categorized as being gay."

That's what 49ers QB Jeff Garcia had to say regarding rumors of his gayness. I had to copy it because it really sums up a lot of the basic criteria upon which people might guess whether or not someone is gay (there's always asking, or not asking, but people like to guess.)

Here's how this works: Fran and Jan, two single metropolitan broads, are chatting it up over cocktails one fine evening. Fran has a major crush on her coworker, Y. But she thinks he might be gay. Let's listen in:

FRAN: You should've seen him today, he looked soooo handsome in his suit.

JAN: Well, he certainly has a sense of style...

FRAN: Yeah, that's the thing that worries me...

JAN: Why? What- Omigosh, do you think he's gay???

FRAN: Maybe.

JAN: So he's got a sense of style...how about speaking? Does he speak properly?

FRAN: Well... mostly, yeah, I mean, he makes the odd grammatical error here or there but I think, yeah, he speaks properly.

JAN: Uh-oh. Plus he's successful. So we've got style, proper speech, success... is he single?

FRAN: No, come to think of it, he's married. To a woman.

JAN: That's wonderful! Then he must not be gay. Go for it!

FRAN: What a relief...except...

JAN: What? Is there something else?

FRAN: There's one more thing. He used to play quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers.

JAN: Oh shit.

END

Of course, if you haven't guessed already, Fran's crush is Y.A. Tittle, 49ers QB from 1951-1960.

In reality, though, I think Jeff has it kind of mixed up. I don't think his success, single status, or position have much to do with the speculation; it's more that he acts really, really gay. Perhaps by "speaking properly" he means "speaking really gay-like." Of course it's his own business, but I wish he would come out, and the rest of the 9ers too, because

I am proud of my gay hometown football team

It's true. It's not a San Francisco thing, they weren't always gay. Joe Montana? No way. Jerry Rice? Naaah. But now? They are all gay. Just look at their latest uniforms (which Jeff was REALLY excited about). And please, Terrell Owens, with those flamboyant antics?

Of course, they can't all really be gay. I mean they can if they want, but they probably aren't. It's just kind of fun to pretend that they are. Otherwise, they're a pretty boring team to watch.

Hot Issue Solved

When I first heard about gay marriage, I was very much against it. I was like, "Why should I have to marry a guy? I like girls." Then someone told me it's not mandatory. And I was like, "Oh." I think there wouldn't be so much fuss about all this if it was made clear to the American public that gay marriage, when made fully legal, will be performed on a strictly voluntary basis. All of the people worried about gay marriage ruining their straight marriages can sit back and relax.

Another thing that's got me confused: People say that the purpose of marriage is to procreate... but that simply isn't true. That's what fucking does, not marrying. Think about it: Animals don't get married, and they procreate.

Okay, the last thing any Group needs is me getting on the soapbox on their behalf. It's probably just that I watched "The L Word" again last night.... which means that I jerked off like 7 times and my hormonal balance is all off. Anyway, the gay cause is none of my business and I simply don't have the energy to fight for their cause, especially since I've recently decided I'm black, which I will discuss in more detail tomorrow.

Meanwhile I would like to make one important point: Though the actual 49ers are all gay, my 49ers I play with on my Playstation are totally straight. The only gay thing about them is that they score a lot more than all the straight teams ; )

~Monty

PS - I just thought of the perfect way for Jeff to quell those rumors: He should marry a dude. Because remember, they only think you're gay if you're single. Plus he could fuck the dude a lot, which I'm sure he likes to do.

Fri, 13 Feb 2004 22:18:44 GMT

Hey!

I have not been blogging, it's true, Radio Userland continues to deny my existence when I attempt to log on from home. I am actually impressed by their outright refusal to even respond to my queries; if they were to read my blog, though, they would see that I am not afraid to play hardball.

The exciting update to last week's shenanigans is this:

It is possible to get a raise after you've been laid off.

The email I sent to our COO has proven to be the most valuable piece of writing I have done to date (although I fully expect to receive $7K from NYFA in April since I applied with an excerpt from a play which is, after all, the best play written in many, many years in any language) I cannot give you the exact figures because I don't want you all at my door begging for handouts (keep in mind, my debt still will outweigh my assets four-fold after I have rec'd my entire severence package), but I will say that my insolent demand/plea for more money convinced the powers that be to increase my overall payout by approximately 33%. Not bad for a 10-minute, partially drug-induced ranting email, eh? Should I ask for another or would that be pushing it?

Meanwhile our external auditors have been in the office all week, and between them running me around willy nilly searching up invoices and explaining figures I don't understand, and Trudiss calling me several times a day from the other side of the Atlantic to ask excruciatingly misguided questions about certain aspects of certain thingamajigs, plus what with me coming into work late and hungover every day, I simply haven't had any time to write from work.

My good friend Heathcliff had some sports-names he would like to have but I have forgotten them; and now I ask the general public: What names of sports figures or celebrities would you like to have for you? And you would still be exactly who you are, and look the same, and all that. So share, please.

Love

Monty

Fri, 06 Feb 2004 16:35:08 GMT

Smashing Morning!

To you! Sirs! And Madameses! I realized it had been a mighty long time since I had blogged in the morning time, and now, mere moments after the crack o' dawn as 'twere - specifically it is 10:49 AM - I thought I would write to share with all four of you MILLIONS of Montinoes and Montettes what a positively smashing morning it has been so far! Rather than simply proclaiming all day (which I've been know to do) I shall instead make a list (yet another of my speshy-alley-teas). So here is a list of the factors that have contributed to my sunshiney and positive mood, which almost, but quite, burns through this ugly, wet, cold disgusting weather. There's all this brown slushy rainy snow all over, like God dropped a giant Doo-Doo flavored Icee on Manhattan, and it gets all up yer shoes and bites at one's trouserends.... But no matter! Here are the happy things:

HT#1: I actually got up sort of after the alarm went off, and was completely showered by the time Rosie got up!

HT#2: I drank a whole mug of very tasty coffee at home!

HT#3: I checked my work email from home and there was no message from...what did I call him?...no message from Len Sphincter, a second-tier big boss in London, one of the chaps - the only chap in fact, the other was a right dodgy old bird we'll call "Trudiss" - who came over the Atlantic to hand me my jewel-encrusted pink slip on a silver platter. Anyhoo I'd sent Len Sphincter an email yesterday afternoon - would've been well into evening in London, so I knew Len wouldn't viddy it till tomorrow, being today - anywow in this email I asked him for a raise. I don't know if it is considered unusual in British culture to ask for a raise after one has already been laid off, particularly after one has already signed his agreement for the quite nifty actually, all things considered, severence package handed to one by Len and Trudiss... a bit jumbled in my phrasing I am...perhaps I should give up writing so blasted early in the morning... anyhow I wrote to Len asking him for a raise, and figured his answer, if any, would be in my inbox next morning (being this one). So when I checked there was no answer, which I think is his answer. I was a little worried there might be a message saying "We've just shredded your severence papers and beaten the silver platter upon which it was delivered into a silver ploughshare upon which you will be ...ploughed out of the office, sans funds, in due haste" (I would like Len better if he actually did talk that way). I had no real illusions there would be a message saying anything good. According to his style, a non-response means "I will pretend I never read this." Which is fine by me.

So why is this listed as a Happy Thing? Sounds kinda neutral, right? Well, it's a Happy Thing because I learned a couple of things:

1) You CAN ask for a raise after you've already been laid off.

2) You probably won't get one. Or at least I won't.

HT#4: Come on, guys! How much happiness can you take??? I don't want your smiles to actually spread so far that they sprain or even tear a ligament or tendon attached to your facebone. So I'll write more later. For now, Happy Thing #4 can be YOU READ THIS WHOLE BLOG ENTRY! Good for you! Talk to you this afternoon? And happy morning!

Love,

Monty

Tue, 03 Feb 2004 21:24:09 GMT

Oh my God! I just realized I made out with Britney Spears! And Madonna! And Cristina!

See, I was thinking about an old friend of mine, a girl, a painter, now a professor, who I used to work with at this shitty restaurant a few years ago (same place I met Rosie). We'll call this girl "Lulu." Now, at this very same shithole restaurant, employed as a lowly food runner while he studied at the Actors Palyhouse, was KIWI-TURNED-HOLLYWOOD HUNK SUPERSTAR MARTIN HENDERSON!!! (Sorry, Marty, I usually give people aliases but you know, the price of fame and all....) You know who I'm talking about... he was in "The Ring," and now stars in "Torque" where he gets to talk shit to Ice Cube. Marty was a really cool guy. I have no reason to believe he isn't still a really cool guy. It was cool to see him on posters and shit, and in "The Ring" (I confess I've yet to see "Torque"), but what REALLY blew my mind was.... I was watching MTV and the new Britney Spears video came on and THERE WAS MARTY MAKING OUT WITH BRITNEY SPEARS! Rosie will attest that I fell out of the bed howling with joy and amazement.

Anyhoo, today I was thinking of my old paintress friend Lulu, and wondering if she was aware of Marty's successes and all and then I remembered when Marty and Lulu hooked up once. And you know how they say you've slept with everyone who's slept with the people you've slept with... Well if the same thing goes for kissing (why not?), I thought, Neat! Lulu made out with Britney! I imagined this scenario for a little while, then zipped back up (just kidding Rosie), and realized - HOLY SHIT! - I MADE OUT WITH BRITNEY TOO! No, I did not hook up with Marty, so don't start one of them Hollywood rumors... Nor did I hook up with Lulu (though she wanted it bad no doubt, as did every waitress there... I picked Rosie in the long run because she was the best waitress in high pressure situations)... no, there was another party involved, who I will call Candy DeLay, who made out with both me and Marty, and who, incidentally, was a shallow, narcissistic antisemitic c*nt. Really, she was horrible. But who cares about all that! To recap, let's follow the makeout chain:

Me -> C*ntface -> Marty -> Britney -> Madonna -> Cristina -> lotsa people probably

And of course there are other branches off that tree.... HOLY SHIT, I MADE OUT WITH SEAN PENN!...who made out with Naomi Watts in "21 Grams"... who made out with Marty (did she?) in "The Ring"... or anyway she definitely used to make out with Heath Ledger, who is Marty's best bud. Man oh man, it sure is a small world amongst us superstar types.

~Monty

Tue, 03 Feb 2004 20:16:46 GMT

The End is Here

Thank goodness. The wait is over. So is the job. One month's notice, a decent severance package.... Mind you I am still in extraordinary debt so I can't exactly take this package and fly around the world with it. Also, I have no fucking idea how I'm going to make money. But at least the wait is over. So when the overweight waiter refills your water, say Hurrah!, the wait is over! And the waiter is overweight! And that waiter is me, since I could not possibly get another office job - not for professional reasons, but for medical reasons, allergy kind of stuff. I mean granted, there are offices where people do neat things like come up with ideas for new kinds of frankfurters, but I don't know where those are or how to get inside them. Part of my severance package involves the company offering to foot the bill for some outplacement service that specializes in placing executives.... but I'm not an executive, am I? I mean I'll do anything free, so I'll stop by just in case these guys have an opening for an executive position that involves freestyling and playing Madden 2004... but somehow I don't think pothead rap crews recruit through corporate headhunters.

For sooth though, I shan't wait tables. I've considered going back to bartending, but I would probably find it difficult to serve all the customers while constantly serving myself.

Now would be a good time for me to make an all-out go-for-it run at establishing my creative career. Yeah. That would be cool.

Blooperbowl!

Jiminy Christmas, what's all the fuss about this last Sunday? First, there's the game, which apparently was one of the most exciting Superbowls ever. I watched it, and while I was well aware of lead changes and super this-and-that, I sure didn't feel excited. I thought my own Madden 2004 Jets-Lions game was much more exciting and competitive (look, I know the Lions suck but I am a beginner, okay?). But the real Newsbuster is:

FCC to investigate Janet Jackson's flash

Wow. Yeah, that's really what we fuckin need. We need a thorough investigation of how and why this happened, how it might have been prevented, if there was any network intelligence beforehand that might have indicated millions of Americans would be tragically forced to view most of a breast. I mean, she had some kind of fuckin pasty on; isn't that level of exposure something you can see weekly on CSI Miami or something similar? And while you know I'm no lover of those nitwit limey bastards in the UK, when I was holed up in London I saw an episode of "Rhona's Rude Videos" on BBC 3 with all sorts of wacky bloopers of people accidentally revealing tits, dicks, and everything, and it was considered FUNNY! (Actually I found those clips boring, but there was some really WONDERFUL footage of animals trying to fuck the wrong creatures and things.... turns out, rabbits really are horny! They had clips of rabbit trying to fuck cats, dogs, balloons, chickens....)

Anyhow, back to the point, we now have a full-on FCC investigation into the matter. Silly, right? But you know what the "F" stands for, don't you? F stands for Federal.... Or in other words, F stands for Fuckin' A, you're paying for it. Aren't you glad your tax dollars are going towards figuring out how and why this mediocre and manicured breastpiece was somewhat exposed for a fraction of a second?

So kids, remember what "F" stands for... so the next time the FBI detains your uncle Abdullah, or the FDA approves Pfizer's new Mad-Cow flavored Ephedra Crisps, pat yourself on the back for the good you've done for your country.

New Yorkers please note: F.I.T. is NOT a federal institution... it stands for the Fashion Institute of Technology, so don't worry, you're not paying for all those cheesy hoes on 7th Ave dressed for suckcess in the fashion industry, the ones who always, without fail, ruin your favorite bar by playing "Pour Some Sugar on Me" on the jukebox and gyrating their navels in between Jaeger shots. Their parents are paying for all that, not you.

Love,

Monty

Mon, 26 Jan 2004 16:25:21 GMT

This Space for Rant

Yeah, so I haven't been blogging much. Fact is, things here at the office have evolved into larger, hairier scary things with sharp nails, and they look hungry. In a nutshell, the end is near. How near, not so clear, but clearly near. It has been difficult for me to blog for a few related reasons:

1) I am in a constant state of mild panic related to my not knowing what's going on.

2) I have huge amounts of work to do and it's going slow slow slower than usual because I can't concentrate.

3) I no longer feel quite safe doing this from work.

Re: This last reason, I have tried several times to set up shit with Userland so that I could blog from home, but to no avail. Since I will soon have no choice but to blog from home (I bought this space for a year, I ain't just gonna give it up) I will obviously have to pursue this further and harass Userland (if in fact anyone actually works there) to get set up from home..... And then you will be hearing from me ALL the fucking time!

Meanwhile, I was sure I would have millions of fun things to say after such a long hiatus, but I am so fuckin distracted I can't remember any of them. So I will just say a few random things.

The video for Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt" is the saddest thing in the world.

A former favorite restaurant which had temporarily fallen out of favor has recovered beautifully from an awkward transition period and is once again a big-time favorite for me and Rosie. I'm talking about "DuMont" in the guts of Williamsburg, where we had the loveliest dinner in a long time. Mmm. Wow. Yay. What a place.

If I had to name myself after a living athlete (active or retired), for the aesthetic value of the name alone, I would pick one of the following:

Vladimir Guerrero (cool combo)

Sam Cassell (sounds like a 60s actor)

Peja Stojakovic (cute and punchy sounding)

Pete Rose (tough, pretty and porn-o)

Dusty Baker (cute)

Steve Smith (I don't know why I like that name!)

Frank Bruno (I could get extra roles on The Sopranos)

Joe Namath (Nameth me Joe!)

Ugueth Urbina (pretty)

Here are some athletes' names I would hate to have (I like some of these atheletes, mind you!):

Mike Bibby (bibby baby bibby baby!)

Mookie Blaylock (sounds like a bad wrestling move)

Ken Griffey, Jr. (blecch)

Keyshawn Johnson (owww)

Rob Johnson (boo)

Drew Bledsoe (Drew bled so much)

Lennox Lewis (Lexus Lose us)

Alonzo Mourning (Remember, we're just talking names here! No disrespect to the ill)

Darryl Strawberry (If you were not big and an athlete and hopped up on coke you would get beat up with this name)

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Okay, that was fun.

At an AA meeting you can find pamphlets meant to inform "beginners".... One such pamphlet lists behaviors or signs which might indicate that you are an alcoholic, or at least a candidate who has a shot at alcoholism. One such sign is:

When you drink, you end up drinking a lot more than you had intended to drink when you started.

It's true that this can be a sign that you're an alcoholic.... BUT it could also be a sign....

...That you're drinking at the TURKEY'S NEST, the world's bestest bar in the world! Where they keep replacing your drink before you ask! Halfway through filling it they say "'Nother one?" as a sort of formality... but if you want to stop you had best pocket or hide your cup and run or else make a break for it when the bartender goes to play pool.

I think the T-Nest should adopt that as their slogan:

"If you find yourself drinking far more than you had intended to drink, you may be an alcoholic... AND/OR you may be drinking at the World Famous Turkey's Nest!"

There is often a bit of an overlap, I'd say, in terms of the T-Nest's clientele, as far as.... yeah.

xoxo

~Monty

Thu, 15 Jan 2004 16:49:20 GMT

It's my party, I can blog if I want to

Hey, I just thought of a title someone can use if they want to. If someone wants to write another book about how crooked the Bush administration is and how they've lied it, they could call it "It's my party, I can lie if I want to." I mean it's kind of stupid, but you are welcome to use it.

So it's my birthday. I'm 30. Wheeeee! Don't worry, I am not going to go all grim and morose and all, I've already been through all that. I am cheerful because my Rosie gave me a wonderful birthday morning with warm cereal (my choice) and totally HOTTT presents! I will have to describe my gift later - don't worry, it's not perverted, unless you have a nasty fetish for Love, Devotion, Thoughtfulness and Creativity.

Anyhoo, I am also cheerful right now because I see this day as a perfect excuse to catch up on some important blogging. My workdays have been rather dreadful lately, in part because of situations I have related in recent posts, and in part because, well, because my job has always sucked big fat monkey dong. My job-dread makes me less inclined to do my work... and so I spend much of the workday sitting at my desk staring at the screen thinking, "I should so some work." And then I think about blogging, but I think about how that can take up a lot of time, and then I think "I should get some work out of the way first, then blog." And then I think, "I should check out yesterday's NBA scores first, that'll just take a few minutes." Then I check out Craig's List to see if there are any posts for decent writing gigs (there never are). Then I look to see if there are any interesting acting gigs (there never are). Then I check out the "Barter" section to see if there is something I really want to trade for (there never is, and I have nothing to trade). Then I check out the "Missed Connections" section just to see if I have any stalkers (I don't) and to see who's stalking who (everyone in williamsburg is stalking each other). Then I check out the "Casual Encounters" section just to see what all the perverts are doing. I'm not passing judgement, mind you - Go Perverts! I find it rather fascinating, but also depressing, and I'm surprised they still persist, because it seems to be 99.99% all guys desperate for girls to have sex with them. And gay guys offering blowjobs to the straight guys for when they finally give up on girls. There are girls offering to have sex with men on Craig's List... and it's called "Erotic Services"! Not very interesting to look at, and the combination of hardcore capitalism and potential STD's is pretty gross to read about. While the Casual Encounters section can be depressing, at least it's desperate people's emotional cries for attention, rather than carnival hucksters' cries for money. (As a birthday present to myself I am not going to bother correcting things that don't make sense)

After I've thoroughly grossed myself out, and confirmed my suspicion that verybody else in the world is having sex with everybody else (which I find very comforting), I move on to a few other random sections, like Musical Instruments, Vacation Rentals, Housing Swaps, Automobiles, Accounting/Finance Jobs and other things that I have no actual interest in pursuing. By then it's probably about time to see if there's any breaking sports news on espn.com, any decent articles on salon, any interesting freakshow stories on thesmokinggun, links on memepool, shitty poems on Slate, news on nytimes, weather on weather....

and then it's 5:30 and time to go home.

But today, folkers, I am blogging before lunch even! Look at me go!

So I should probably talk about something else. I know I had a few things. Oh yeah,

Hey Proprietors of the Pencil Factory bar:

STOP! You're ruining my favorite bar!!!

It was in one of my very first posts I think, when I sang the praises of my local tavern, the Pencil Factory. I probably talked about things like warm old wood; a cozy, homey feel; Johnny Cash on the stereo; sitting at a comfortable table on a lazy Sunday afternoon, scribbling in my notebook, sipping a beer, with the sun pouring in through the nice big windows; a slightly older, calmer crowd; folks with dogs and babies; nice bartenders.

Such a great place. And as such, has become popular. It's not too crowded though... The problem is that, perhaps in response to its increasing popularity, or for whatever reason, the owners have let the place get a lot more lounge-y.

I spoke of sunlight on summer days... But in the days of old, even if I stopped by the PF at night I could cosily sit and do some writing and/or reading, and saw others doing the same. By which I mean the light was kept at a decent level. Recently, however, I go in there and I can't see a goddamn thing. The bartenders are turning the lights down way lower than they used to. Okay, if it's Saturday night at 11PM and it's packed and everyone's partying, give them that fucking half-blind dark lounge environment everyone but me seems to like. But on a Monday evening? There are four people in the bar, and you want to make sure they can't see each other, or a newspaper or a notebook?

I don't know if the proprietors have in fact had a hand in this, or whether they leave it up to the bartenders. There are a few new bartenders, and at least a couple of them really suck. The situation reached its nadir one evening last week, when I would've been content to sit in my favorite haunt for a couple pints-worth of writing (do you know of any magazines that pay by the pint?). I walked in and could not see. I made it to the bar my memory, where I met the vacant stare of this dimwit chick who had as much charisma as... well, she had none. I ordered my beer. I sat down at the bar. I took out my paper. I couldn't see a fucking thing. I loved to a table near the window where I could at least pick up a little light from a distant lamppost. Then I noticed something which, perhaps, I had blocked out up to that point for sheer disbelief: Techno was playing. Or house, or something, I don't know all the fucking categories of electronic bullshit music, suffice it to say that I heard several tracks I recognized from car commercials. Halfway through my drink I realized that I really, really did not want to be there.

Proprietors of the Pencil Factory: Yours is not a bar for techno. If you agree, tell your bartenders that they are not at "Splendid" and they should turn the lights up to an adult level and play some grown-up music. Or if the Pencil Factory is a bar for techno, it is no bar for me.

Okay, I will do some work now. But later I will talk about what I have come to realize is not just a pleasant dive, but in fact, the best bar in the world: The Turkey's Nest.

~Monty