Dear Diary,
I'm so into collecting. I love collecting stamps, but haven't for years. The stamp glue got all over my fingertips, and then my clothes and my face. Stamps suck. Anybody I meet that has a stamp collection, I tell them they're stupid.
I've also collected pictures of animals. If a friend had a picture of their pet, I'd ask if I could keep it. If they said no, I'd asked to borrow it and then never return it. If a friend refused to lend me their picture, I'd ask to borrow their pet, just until I was able to take a picture of it.
One night, I woke up from a nightmare where hundreds of dogs were barking and hundreds of cats were meowing and hundreds of hamsters were running on hundreds of hamster wheels. I screamed at the top of my lungs, and proceeded to throw all my pictures out into the backyard and then set fire to the hill of photos, still screaming and screeching. I was still half-asleep when the fire department showed up. When they accidentally hosed me down, I fully woke up, and cried and screamed and screeched all over again as I realized that all my pictures were gone.
I've collected other people's chipped dishes, blades of grass, string and left-over Chinese take-out. One common theme has run throughout my every collection: I have no clue what to do with all the junk once it blocks every exit of my house. I've just gotten rid of my hot water tank collection and want to try something new. I'm thinking apartment building incinerators.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Company Barbecue, Part 2
Dear Diary,
So the company barbecue was in full swing in our building parking lot. All the companies in the building were invited, and starved and sweaty after participating in the Office Olympics. Three long lines of famished office workers waited on me, as I was manning all three barbecues wearing my gold medal. They waited a full hour before the first burger was served. And that's when I got my first complaint.
"This meat is all red and mushy."
I stared down at this fellow and his half eaten burger. "It's a Sloppy Joe-style burger. It's supposed to be mushy. It keeps it sloppy."
"I'm not going to eat this," he replied, as everyone behind him kept shouting their orders.
"Fine," I said, and I clutched the half eaten burger and handed it to someone else who had just ordered a burger.
"This burger's half eaten," this new person said.
"Fine," I responded angrily, snatching the burger back. "Waste food!" I threw it on the ground. "And pollute! See if I care."
Another complaint. This time from a woman. "This chicken burger is still pink and frozen in the middle."
I was now frantically scrambling from one barbecue to the next, trying to keep up with all the orders. "Chew on it harder. I'm just grilling here. I'm not here to eat the stuff for you."
Then another. "This wiener still has ice covering it."
I rolled my eyes. "They're like corn dogs on a stick. Like a corn dog Popsicle. But without the breading or the stick. They're diet corn dog Popsicles."
People started throwing up, from salmonella, which made me puke uncontrollably on all three barbecues. I think I vomited for a whole five minutes, just retching. I leaned down, opening the soda cooler, and puked some more in there.
I stood back up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Who's next?"
Everyone quietly dispersed, the barbecue officially over, and only two people served.
So the company barbecue was in full swing in our building parking lot. All the companies in the building were invited, and starved and sweaty after participating in the Office Olympics. Three long lines of famished office workers waited on me, as I was manning all three barbecues wearing my gold medal. They waited a full hour before the first burger was served. And that's when I got my first complaint.
"This meat is all red and mushy."
I stared down at this fellow and his half eaten burger. "It's a Sloppy Joe-style burger. It's supposed to be mushy. It keeps it sloppy."
"I'm not going to eat this," he replied, as everyone behind him kept shouting their orders.
"Fine," I said, and I clutched the half eaten burger and handed it to someone else who had just ordered a burger.
"This burger's half eaten," this new person said.
"Fine," I responded angrily, snatching the burger back. "Waste food!" I threw it on the ground. "And pollute! See if I care."
Another complaint. This time from a woman. "This chicken burger is still pink and frozen in the middle."
I was now frantically scrambling from one barbecue to the next, trying to keep up with all the orders. "Chew on it harder. I'm just grilling here. I'm not here to eat the stuff for you."
Then another. "This wiener still has ice covering it."
I rolled my eyes. "They're like corn dogs on a stick. Like a corn dog Popsicle. But without the breading or the stick. They're diet corn dog Popsicles."
People started throwing up, from salmonella, which made me puke uncontrollably on all three barbecues. I think I vomited for a whole five minutes, just retching. I leaned down, opening the soda cooler, and puked some more in there.
I stood back up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Who's next?"
Everyone quietly dispersed, the barbecue officially over, and only two people served.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Company Barbecue, Part 1
Dear Diary,
Today was our company barbecue. It was held at lunchtime in our parking lot with all the combined companies from our building invited. For days now, I've begged Sheila, our boss, to let me man all three propane barbecues. I need to show to all the accountants in this office that I am way more than just the guy they hired to photocopy and collate. I am a man, not a boy, but no one seems to notice. Now they will. Another thing no one knows: I am a modified vegetarian and have not eaten red meat since 1993, and I've never prepared it.
The barbecue kicked off at 10am with office Olympics held between all the companies. The games included track and field, shot put and the javelin throw. I sat out the two-hour games, telling Sheila I needed to prepare for the barbecue. I got out a big jar of ketchup, then mustard and lastly relish and placed all three on the condiment table. I then sat in my lawn chair and took a breather as everyone continued their stupid games and Derek, the guy I hate the most in our office, won everything. Everyone was cheering, "Derek! Derek! Derek!" My eyes squinted in anger, increasing in squint as the Olympics wore on. When the games were finally over, my squint was pretty much just two opened slits that you could barely squeeze a dime through.
Everyone then gathered before a stage as Derek and his jazz quartet performed. Derek was all sweaty and gross, strumming a large bass and singing all the vocals while sporting all six of his office Olympic gold medals. All the women rushed up close and swooned over him. I grabbed three canned colas from one of the coolers, popping them open and downing them one after the other. I hate Derek. My squint came back.
In the middle of a song, Derek set up a hat and sign at the front of the stage. He was collecting donations for his favorite charity, "Old People Are People Too." I shoved my way through all the women, right up to the stage and booed through the entire next song. Charisse and her friends told me to shut it. I then yelled out to everyone, trying to get a chant going, "Old people are old and that's why we hate them! Old people are old and that's why we hate them! They smell like moth balls, and some like sardines! Old people are old..." That's when Sheila pulled me away.
"You should be barbecuing the burgers," she hissed. "Everyone's hungry."
"I'm on it," I replied, but on my way over to the three barbecues, I couldn't help but jump on stage and join Derek. I pulled one gold medal over his head and wore it myself, throwing my hands up high, running in circles and shouting, "Yeah! I'm number one!"
After one of Derek's quartet members pinned me down, I got up to my knees and begged Derek to let me wear the one medal for the rest of the day. "You have five others, for Pete's sake..." When he quickly nodded, I ran off stage, raising my arms again and hollering, "I'm the best! I'm the best!"
When everyone began to form three long lines toward the barbecues, I looked down intently at the three contraptions.
"What's wrong?" Sheila asked.
"How do you turn these things on?" I questioned her.
Shaking her head, Sheila turned on all three for me.
I pushed her out of the way then. This was now my show. And I looked awesome with my gold medal.
Today was our company barbecue. It was held at lunchtime in our parking lot with all the combined companies from our building invited. For days now, I've begged Sheila, our boss, to let me man all three propane barbecues. I need to show to all the accountants in this office that I am way more than just the guy they hired to photocopy and collate. I am a man, not a boy, but no one seems to notice. Now they will. Another thing no one knows: I am a modified vegetarian and have not eaten red meat since 1993, and I've never prepared it.
The barbecue kicked off at 10am with office Olympics held between all the companies. The games included track and field, shot put and the javelin throw. I sat out the two-hour games, telling Sheila I needed to prepare for the barbecue. I got out a big jar of ketchup, then mustard and lastly relish and placed all three on the condiment table. I then sat in my lawn chair and took a breather as everyone continued their stupid games and Derek, the guy I hate the most in our office, won everything. Everyone was cheering, "Derek! Derek! Derek!" My eyes squinted in anger, increasing in squint as the Olympics wore on. When the games were finally over, my squint was pretty much just two opened slits that you could barely squeeze a dime through.
Everyone then gathered before a stage as Derek and his jazz quartet performed. Derek was all sweaty and gross, strumming a large bass and singing all the vocals while sporting all six of his office Olympic gold medals. All the women rushed up close and swooned over him. I grabbed three canned colas from one of the coolers, popping them open and downing them one after the other. I hate Derek. My squint came back.
In the middle of a song, Derek set up a hat and sign at the front of the stage. He was collecting donations for his favorite charity, "Old People Are People Too." I shoved my way through all the women, right up to the stage and booed through the entire next song. Charisse and her friends told me to shut it. I then yelled out to everyone, trying to get a chant going, "Old people are old and that's why we hate them! Old people are old and that's why we hate them! They smell like moth balls, and some like sardines! Old people are old..." That's when Sheila pulled me away.
"You should be barbecuing the burgers," she hissed. "Everyone's hungry."
"I'm on it," I replied, but on my way over to the three barbecues, I couldn't help but jump on stage and join Derek. I pulled one gold medal over his head and wore it myself, throwing my hands up high, running in circles and shouting, "Yeah! I'm number one!"
After one of Derek's quartet members pinned me down, I got up to my knees and begged Derek to let me wear the one medal for the rest of the day. "You have five others, for Pete's sake..." When he quickly nodded, I ran off stage, raising my arms again and hollering, "I'm the best! I'm the best!"
When everyone began to form three long lines toward the barbecues, I looked down intently at the three contraptions.
"What's wrong?" Sheila asked.
"How do you turn these things on?" I questioned her.
Shaking her head, Sheila turned on all three for me.
I pushed her out of the way then. This was now my show. And I looked awesome with my gold medal.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
I am here, somewhere in the past...
Dear Diary,
My eyes are closed and I am far away into the limitless, mountainous horizons of my mind. I hear wind blowing against branches and leaves, with the liquidity and substance of water moving underneath the surface of the ocean, and the winds breathing the most beautiful music my soul has ever heard. I feel a strange intimacy to this music, going back thousands of years. I am lost and fulfilled. I am home. Somewhere ahead, past many mountains, and intertwined within the wind, I hear a flute.
Who is playing this flute? Perhaps it is my grandmother who has finally come back to me. And she’s just made fresh pudding, with peanuts in the middle. Our little secret. But she never played the flute. She hated that racket. She once rushed at the TV with a baseball bat as Zamphir played the pan flute on PBS. That week, in church, she launched a campaign to stop everyone from donating to PBS. The campaign turned violent. My grandmother was run out of town, taking me with her across North America, living a life in constant disguise. Our most dependable costumes was my grandmother as a young Russian ballerina defector, and myself as the world’s first ten-year-old Hasidic rabbi.
We gave shows across the nation as Tatiyana and Shlomo the Lil’ Rabbi. We mostly did Cheap Trick covers and selections from The Starlight Express, but roller-skating is a tough gig in a long black robe. When we were finally discovered, it wasn’t because my grandmother was in her eighties, still dancing on the tips of her toes to Tchaikovsky in an attempt to fool tourists who thought they recognized her as the woman who once attempted to take Yanni hostage in an effort to snuff out PBS forever. It was because I froze as I was about to perform a Bris.
As the police pulled us apart, my grandmother in mid-twirl, a consummate pro 'till the very end, I cried to her, "I'm sorry, grandma. I'm so sorry." She reached for me then, trying to wrap her arms around me. "I'm the one," she said. "I'm the one who did this. Not you."
I open my eyes, as I wipe them. Those peanuts inside the pudding were never shelled. I miss that crunchy pudding.
My eyes are closed and I am far away into the limitless, mountainous horizons of my mind. I hear wind blowing against branches and leaves, with the liquidity and substance of water moving underneath the surface of the ocean, and the winds breathing the most beautiful music my soul has ever heard. I feel a strange intimacy to this music, going back thousands of years. I am lost and fulfilled. I am home. Somewhere ahead, past many mountains, and intertwined within the wind, I hear a flute.
Who is playing this flute? Perhaps it is my grandmother who has finally come back to me. And she’s just made fresh pudding, with peanuts in the middle. Our little secret. But she never played the flute. She hated that racket. She once rushed at the TV with a baseball bat as Zamphir played the pan flute on PBS. That week, in church, she launched a campaign to stop everyone from donating to PBS. The campaign turned violent. My grandmother was run out of town, taking me with her across North America, living a life in constant disguise. Our most dependable costumes was my grandmother as a young Russian ballerina defector, and myself as the world’s first ten-year-old Hasidic rabbi.
We gave shows across the nation as Tatiyana and Shlomo the Lil’ Rabbi. We mostly did Cheap Trick covers and selections from The Starlight Express, but roller-skating is a tough gig in a long black robe. When we were finally discovered, it wasn’t because my grandmother was in her eighties, still dancing on the tips of her toes to Tchaikovsky in an attempt to fool tourists who thought they recognized her as the woman who once attempted to take Yanni hostage in an effort to snuff out PBS forever. It was because I froze as I was about to perform a Bris.
As the police pulled us apart, my grandmother in mid-twirl, a consummate pro 'till the very end, I cried to her, "I'm sorry, grandma. I'm so sorry." She reached for me then, trying to wrap her arms around me. "I'm the one," she said. "I'm the one who did this. Not you."
I open my eyes, as I wipe them. Those peanuts inside the pudding were never shelled. I miss that crunchy pudding.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Conflict Resolution with Derek
Dear Diary,
Derek, the guy I can't stand the most at work, cornered me this morning, sitting across from me in the lunch room as I was pouring chocolate syrup into my sippy cup filled with milk. I love my sippy cup. I once had to pry it from my mother as she was about to throw it out. The convenience of a covered cup cannot be overstated, plus I love sucking on it as I rock to and fro in my cubicle chair, humming Mary Had a Little Lamb.
DEREK: Is there something maybe we should talk about?
ME: What's your problem?
DEREK: You just seem to be short with me, a lot of the times. And you never say anything when I ask you how you are. You just mumble what sounds like threats mixed with multi-syllable swear words.
ME: You have a problem with me, just be man enough to come right out and say what it is exactly. I don't have time for this beating around the bush, and all this mumbling.
DEREK: I just wanted to know if I had done something to offend you.
ME: Well, if offending me is what you're trying to do, you're on the right track. Keep it up buddy, you're on a roll.
DEREK: I'm confused.
ME: Big surprise. Playing dumb and being dumb: same difference in my book.
DEREK: What are you talking about?
ME: Some people are just really smart. You're going to have to accept that. You're on the outside looking in, at all the people who are a lot smarter than you - people who think thoughts that are huge about the world and how to resolve things like peace, and make bridges and chairs. Some people might like you, Derek. But these are small, petty people of no consequence. And we'd all be better off if they didn't exist.
DEREK: I don't know what's happening.
ME: Derek, I'm probably the only one in the office who doesn't hold it against you that you probably don't tie your own shoes. I'm okay with people who aren't as intelligent as me. Honestly. As long as they don't talk to me and they act invisible when I'm around.
DEREK: Are we okay?
ME: Stop stalking me and I won't call the cops. Is that "okay" enough for you?
DEREK: All right.
He got up from the table then.
DEREK: I'll leave you alone.
ME: I'm just telling you this as a friend... but why don't you call in sick next week? Do us all a favor.
Derek, the guy I can't stand the most at work, cornered me this morning, sitting across from me in the lunch room as I was pouring chocolate syrup into my sippy cup filled with milk. I love my sippy cup. I once had to pry it from my mother as she was about to throw it out. The convenience of a covered cup cannot be overstated, plus I love sucking on it as I rock to and fro in my cubicle chair, humming Mary Had a Little Lamb.
DEREK: Is there something maybe we should talk about?
ME: What's your problem?
DEREK: You just seem to be short with me, a lot of the times. And you never say anything when I ask you how you are. You just mumble what sounds like threats mixed with multi-syllable swear words.
ME: You have a problem with me, just be man enough to come right out and say what it is exactly. I don't have time for this beating around the bush, and all this mumbling.
DEREK: I just wanted to know if I had done something to offend you.
ME: Well, if offending me is what you're trying to do, you're on the right track. Keep it up buddy, you're on a roll.
DEREK: I'm confused.
ME: Big surprise. Playing dumb and being dumb: same difference in my book.
DEREK: What are you talking about?
ME: Some people are just really smart. You're going to have to accept that. You're on the outside looking in, at all the people who are a lot smarter than you - people who think thoughts that are huge about the world and how to resolve things like peace, and make bridges and chairs. Some people might like you, Derek. But these are small, petty people of no consequence. And we'd all be better off if they didn't exist.
DEREK: I don't know what's happening.
ME: Derek, I'm probably the only one in the office who doesn't hold it against you that you probably don't tie your own shoes. I'm okay with people who aren't as intelligent as me. Honestly. As long as they don't talk to me and they act invisible when I'm around.
DEREK: Are we okay?
ME: Stop stalking me and I won't call the cops. Is that "okay" enough for you?
DEREK: All right.
He got up from the table then.
DEREK: I'll leave you alone.
ME: I'm just telling you this as a friend... but why don't you call in sick next week? Do us all a favor.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Derek is my all-time worst enemy
Dear Diary,
I'm just so angry and worked up about this guy in our office. His name is Derek.
I hate Derek because...
5. Everybody loves Derek
Women in this office are always talking about all the volunteering he does for people who are old and stuff, and probably have leprosy. If he brings leprosy in here, I swear...
4. Derek might have leprosy
Leprosy is contagious. My arm feels tingly. I think Derek brushed up against it this morning.
3. People love Derek
Derek lends a hand to anyone who needs help in the office. He's all so familiar with everyone, and friendly. It's creepy. I Google his name a dozen times a day, just in case something suspicious pops up. I once found an article about a drug dealer/multiple murderer named Derek(!!!) (Hello! Did no one run a check on this guy before he was hired?). I made several copies and anonymously posted this article all over our office, and the post office, and Craig's List, but no one made the connection between Derek and the vicious druggie killer. I gather this killer (from the article) went by a different last name, looked a little different (racially), and died in prison ten years ago.
2. Derek acts like he knows me
I have my own friends, thank you. I don't need you. In my entire life, I'm proud to say that I've only ever lost two friends, and made three (if I'm allowed to count cats).
1. Everyone is crazy about Derek
Don't know why. Derek is disgusting.
I'm just so angry and worked up about this guy in our office. His name is Derek.
I hate Derek because...
5. Everybody loves Derek
Women in this office are always talking about all the volunteering he does for people who are old and stuff, and probably have leprosy. If he brings leprosy in here, I swear...
4. Derek might have leprosy
Leprosy is contagious. My arm feels tingly. I think Derek brushed up against it this morning.
3. People love Derek
Derek lends a hand to anyone who needs help in the office. He's all so familiar with everyone, and friendly. It's creepy. I Google his name a dozen times a day, just in case something suspicious pops up. I once found an article about a drug dealer/multiple murderer named Derek(!!!) (Hello! Did no one run a check on this guy before he was hired?). I made several copies and anonymously posted this article all over our office, and the post office, and Craig's List, but no one made the connection between Derek and the vicious druggie killer. I gather this killer (from the article) went by a different last name, looked a little different (racially), and died in prison ten years ago.
2. Derek acts like he knows me
I have my own friends, thank you. I don't need you. In my entire life, I'm proud to say that I've only ever lost two friends, and made three (if I'm allowed to count cats).
1. Everyone is crazy about Derek
Don't know why. Derek is disgusting.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Celebrity Celebration
Dear Diary,
I wonder what it would be like to be a celebrity. Do you get up in the morning? Or do you stay in bed and sleep until you're ready to go spend all that money? I wonder if you start drinking as soon as you're awake? Do you get wasted right away, and call people up for an all-day/all-night party? Sometimes I get mad that I have to go to work while there are people out there having an all-day/all-night party.
When I woke up yesterday morning, I waited for my wife to leave for work, and then proceeded to knock back a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. I called everyone I knew and told them I was having a party all day until 6pm when I expected my wife home. I would have invited her as well, but when I made a suggestion the night before that I'd be staying home to drink and party, she told me to at least hold on to my job until they found a reason to fire me that has more to do with what I can't change about myself than just being stupid. I nodded my head, pretending to understand the difference.
At 10am, the party was hoppin' and boppin', and the music was blarin'. Everyone I called was at work and couldn't come. I called an exterminator in the yellow pages and when he arrived, I slurred and stumbled through some made-up story about some frogs near the stereo. I turned up the music real loud then and tried to make him dance, and partake in a little creme de menthe. He raised one eyebrow at me, like I was some crazy person, but still snatched the bottle and downed the entire thing in one gulp. We got really crazy then as he showed me some break dancing moves. The last thing I remember, I was spinning on my head, projectile-vomiting. When my wife arrived at six, she found us passed out in a bundle of arms and legs, the soundtrack to Beat Street on repeat.
I've been apologizing for the past twelve hours, assuring my wife that she only married some bozo who can barely hold down a job. By no means did she marry a celebrity.
I wonder what it would be like to be a celebrity. Do you get up in the morning? Or do you stay in bed and sleep until you're ready to go spend all that money? I wonder if you start drinking as soon as you're awake? Do you get wasted right away, and call people up for an all-day/all-night party? Sometimes I get mad that I have to go to work while there are people out there having an all-day/all-night party.
When I woke up yesterday morning, I waited for my wife to leave for work, and then proceeded to knock back a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. I called everyone I knew and told them I was having a party all day until 6pm when I expected my wife home. I would have invited her as well, but when I made a suggestion the night before that I'd be staying home to drink and party, she told me to at least hold on to my job until they found a reason to fire me that has more to do with what I can't change about myself than just being stupid. I nodded my head, pretending to understand the difference.
At 10am, the party was hoppin' and boppin', and the music was blarin'. Everyone I called was at work and couldn't come. I called an exterminator in the yellow pages and when he arrived, I slurred and stumbled through some made-up story about some frogs near the stereo. I turned up the music real loud then and tried to make him dance, and partake in a little creme de menthe. He raised one eyebrow at me, like I was some crazy person, but still snatched the bottle and downed the entire thing in one gulp. We got really crazy then as he showed me some break dancing moves. The last thing I remember, I was spinning on my head, projectile-vomiting. When my wife arrived at six, she found us passed out in a bundle of arms and legs, the soundtrack to Beat Street on repeat.
I've been apologizing for the past twelve hours, assuring my wife that she only married some bozo who can barely hold down a job. By no means did she marry a celebrity.
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