My first story is due tomorrow...

and I have nothing.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/21RobertHinderliter.html

Sylvia's Girl

I can take or leave a lot of people, but boy did I love this dog. A week to make myself conscious of her absence, its permanence, I note the now deadened impulse to consider her in the ordinary context of my days.

Hi, my name is Alfredo.

Patrick called me last night in the middle of the night where he was. He sounded pretty sober, even as he told me otherwise. I asked if he was about to tell me he loved me because it would be a pretty funny joke. Just then we both went silent. Moments later I realized the awkward silence was the direct result of my dead cell phone battery. The next day I thought it would be funny to send him an email that read, “You are dead to me. Ha! Ha! Also, I don’t like your cigarette habit and you drink too much. Ha! Ha!” I can’t wait to see his response.

This Blog (and its Author) Talks

Really, no need to thank me for the amusement you get out of this blog. You'll notice I can go a long time without writing anything amusing. When you're amused, I'm probably unhappy, in between jobs, misguided in life (again). When you're not amused, I'm still unhappy, between jobs, and misguided, but I keep posting so as to declare, "I'm enjoying life, I am! I'm enjoying life just enough to keep up with a blog!" When I stop posting altogether, you can be assured I'm busy getting fitted for new pants to wear at my ultra-conservative new job which will boost blog amusement as my own soul deflates, so stay tuned! Same time, same place! Just like work.

I'm 'cared.

Watch this.

Celebrate with Administrators!

There was, at one of the largest research institutions in North America, an academic library that dangled decrepit elevators in rotting shafts. The top floor housed me and a bunch of old books and maps and a coffee maker whose on/off switch a co-worker of mine claimed she was too weak to traverse a reading room to turn on, therefore causing both of us to settle bitterly for bitter Folgers crystals at our desks most of our embittered days at work. A year after I decided I'd had my last drop of Folgers and quit my job to move back to this shithole Los Angeles, I learned from another library denizen that he was hastened out of his real estate on the basement level to make way for a new barista-equipped coffee house. Hardly expressing much sympathy for him, I was eager to brainstorm with the best and offered these potential names for the new addition: Coffee Rings, Ye Olde Wilson Coffee Shoppe, Basement Beverages, Sober N' Safe Buzz, Hangover Headquarters (or just HQ to save money on signage), Dregs Not Unlike Yourselves, Don't Spill or We'll Charge You Processing Fees to Replace those Periodicals, and Magazines Ain't Coasters. My bitter former co-worker on the top floor came up with the brilliant Undergrounds. Even my basement buddy, who had every reason to resent this coffee house, offered The Incunabula ("The Ink" for short, he adds) to the administrative minds who would ultimately dub the long-awaited coffee palace: Academic Blend. At last! Pour me a sloshing cup of that Academic Blend and let its utterly inspired genius flow over my blunted nerves!

Oh My Kosh!

When the waitress told me I could sit at any table I wanted, I chose the one farthest away from the one with the most children. As I scanned over the menu, I became sad. I noticed that my favorite entree--Tastee Liver N' Chips Platter, Piggy Eater Sized--was discontinued after a mere 2 month appearance on the menu. But I also became sad because I knew that no matter what I did in life, there will always, always, always be children around me.

This is not to say I disdain children. I find it impossible, however, not to turn my nose up at the ones who think howling will draw food closer to their mouths--and the ones who morph into Osh Kosh Cantankerous trolls when strangers, how dare they!, accidentally make eye contact with them. Strangers such as myself prefer much more meaningful experiences like listening for their names to be called by restaurant hostesses than to establish some dull exchange with a self-muting child. Yet these children always seem to think that all adults are interested in cajoling them into smiling or saying something innocently clever (the chances of which are exasperatingly low). Such childish presumption, I stress, should never be rewarded by parental attention! Parents should simply inform their children that the adult has little interest in anything but herself. A cheerful pat on the child's back may follow to ease the child's deserved embarassment.

I was a bit of a troll myself, as you may have guessed. I was also one of these children who did not enjoy children-lovers. I hated answering questions about my teacher's name, what grade I was in, if I did well in school, and if I could tie my shoes all by myself. Even at the tender age of 6, I recognized a lame question when it was posed to me. It was worse when I answered factually, and the children-lovers patronized me further. How unbearable! I couldn't wait to grow up!

As an adult now, I make a conscious effort not to betray Trollish Sylvia by being a silly-toned, dumb-talker-to'er of children. Recently I watched a woman my age ask little Hannah who her teacher was and then lie to the little Hannah by saying that so-and-so was the best teacher around. That day young Hannah equated "best teacher around" with "giver of Ds and Fs on dictation tests". If only Trollish Sylvia fought off Liar Liar Woman-My-Age's Pants on Fire in time. Hannah says your love is whack, lady!

Be Mine Forever and Ever, Will You?

I shrieked when I opened up the envelope you set on my adjustable office chair with the stained lumbar support. I wish you would have given me the entire perforated sheet of Leonardo DiCapprio valentine cards, but I can't be so greedy. I get greedy only when it comes to you. My name's Sylvia, not Slyvia, but you lost only a few minor points from that. Can you get me a job at the student ID kiosk at school?

Fantastical Deer Dream

Last night I dreamt of tiny white tailed deer that sprouted from the ground. My dog, the brave husky, pounced on them. I got nervous. I almost barfed. Actually, I did, and all the deer scattered. My dog turned into a deer and ran off as well. I am the lonely barfer with nothing to write about today.

Superbowl Sunday

My dog tapped me on the shoulder to wake me this morning, alerting me to her desire to piss in the leafy ground covering that separates my apartment complex from my neighbors'. I got out of bed and my dog led me to the back door. She escaped outside on a short leash, looking for a spot to piss on. I stayed behind. I was unfit for public presentation and half awake. Someone said hi to me, I think. I don't find it appropriate for neighbors to acknowledge folks when they're trying to hide, so I ignored her and hoped she'd learned her lesson. When I was fully awake and my dog content, I decided to wash a couple of loads of stinky clothes. These clothes are made stinky from the damn skunk that lives under the building. But that's another story. I fell asleep while folding the first load of clean clothes. I woke two hours later and found another lady in the laundry room. She had taken my clothes out of the dryer. I apologized. I knew it would be a bit much to explain that I'm usually extraordinarily conscious of these things. She said she wanted to get her stuff clean and get out of there. Later I remembered it was Superbowl Sunday and that she was probably off to a party to get happy. Football makes me lose my appetite.

Fake as they come!

The titles for my last two posts are so desperate sounding. Those exclamation marks, they're so telling! Not only am I without emotion, but I am without wit. I rely on exclamation marks to feign feeling, which, upon this third offense, makes me a feigner of feeling. It's like when you're at a poetry reading and some acclaimed somebody is reading a lot of her poetic words--more than she needs to, if you ask me--and you are saying these other words in your head: hackneyed, cliched, trite, pedestrian, tedious, uninspired, and toilet paper. In these situations I become a regular feigner of feeling, an shameless exclamation-mark-abuser, one who applauds and nods in a yes, yes, this imagery is so fresh! fashion. Liars stink, but at least I shower every day and use deodorant.

Whazzzup, Cottage Grove, MN!!

This season of American Idol kicked off with the Minneapolis auditions (whazzzzup, Minneapoluss!) to show the world that that part of the country is only successful at breeding Red Bull and Vodka drinking Saturn drivers and HOT vegan burger flippin' hippies. Take for instance Jewel Minor from Cottage Grove who thought talent by osmosis was really possible. I think she needed to sneeze.

Stars will never hurt me!

I, for one, won't be discouraged by one-star reviews on Amazon dot com! Then again, I may receive them posthumously, and I'd be okay with that, I guess.

(Thanks to L.N. for the link.)

Dark Side of L.A.

Visit me here today:

Time
(Mason, Waters, Wright, Gilmour)

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.

Going Out

My last post revealed a very angry side of me: Angry Sylvia. Angry Sylvia doesn't want to die during her daily commute because that would be going out with a whimper (totally weak!). Angry Sylvia does not want to be the reason traffic builds up when people slow down to look at accidents. Angry Sylvia is starting a petition to get this Toonces into prison.

1. Sylvia
2. 
   

Hey, I didn't catch your name!

To the person who cut me off and slammed on her brake to make a U-turn ALL IN SAME SPLIT SECOND on Jefferson Blvd. at 4:35pm today, please meet me for lunch at the S&W Diner in Culver City tomorrow so we can maybe spot a celebrity while sharing a patty melt and milkshake. I can make a few lighthearted jokes, flag down the waitress to refill your Coca-Cola, and ask you if you'd like to order a slice of pie unless you don't have room for dessert because you sure as hell don't have room in your brain to drive safely, you patty melt and milkshake fucker!

At the Automatic Teller Machine Machine (ATM Machine)

I tapped this dude on the shoulder with my cigarette and told him I wanted to fight. We were in front of the ATM. He was ahead of me in line, waiting for some other dude to get his cash and split. Instead of agreeing to fight me, he asked me to stay where I was and said he'd be quick when it was his turn at the ATM. I said, "Look, man, I don't care about that. I want to fight you." He was busy counting his cash. I noticed he was low on 20s and that this was the right place and right time for him to use the ATM, but I wasn't there to sympathize. I was there to fight. Well, to use the ATM and fight. I needed to fight him, but he didn't understand. All he could think about was how to get more money. Greedy bastard.

Lovely Poetry

Thank you, friend who expressed appreciation for me with attempt at lovely poetry:

So I came up with parody lyrics for you to Fergalicious (it's totally stuck
in my head and completely over-played on my iPod
now...)

Original
I'm Fergalicious
But, I ain't
promiscuous

New
I'm Sylvilicious
But, I ain't a
lesbian

Original
Baby baby baby
If you really want me
Baby
have some patience
Maybe then you'll have a taste

I'll be tasty
tasty
I'll be laced in lacey
It's so tasty tasty
It'll make you
crazy

New
Baby baby baby
If you really want me
Baby don't
be pretty
You don't even have to shave

Oh, be
artsy-fartsy
And have money money
If you're just a smarty
Please don't
be so nerdy

White or Wheat?

Everything depends upon white
or wheat bread, waiting
to be buttered on your cold restaurant dish.
Red wheelbarrow! Red wheelbarrow!

(There. My moronic moment of the morning.)

More than a Headache

When a group of words get together for one big mindless party, you get something called "More than a Feeling" by Boston. I have to apologize for this one, friends. I was overconfidently ambitious when I announced I was going to produce another one of my insightful "English Major" essays on these lyrics. Therefore, I invite my intelligent readers to offer some of their insight into this troublesome rant about non-feelings. My unintelligent readers can stay tuned for an upcoming Yes-or-No "quiz" about whether they prefer white bread or wheat. (I choose rye!)


More than a Feeling

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone
Turned on some music to start my day
I lost myself in a familiar song
I closed my eyes and I slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

So many people have come and gone
Their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on
as clear as the sun in the summer sky

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

When I'm tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
and dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away