Open Letter to American Express: Blue

Dear American Express: Blue, I just received your monthly correspondance, as usual, and I wanted to write back to thank you for supporting 100f my drinking habit this year. Every pint of beer, every dry martini, and every glass of wine has been enjoyed on your line of credit. You must understand that this year, in ONLY the two months of this year, I have ingested more alcoholic beverages than any other entire year prior. I know that this trend will not continue throughout the entirety of 2006, which is why I feel you should be thanked at this important occasion. Not only does your letter to me (it's cute how you refer to it as a "Statement"), represent my significant monetary expenditure on alcoholic beverages, but it serves as a wonderful trip down memory lane to some of those memories that may have been lost in the raging rapids of vermouth and hefeweizen. I glance at the laserjet font on your pale blue paper and see so many friendly faces, I can't help but smile as I reach for my checkbook. I can also assure you that you will soon be hearing from many of my friends as well, because you, AmEx Blue, are responsible for many drinks for many friends: Bryan and Katie, Adam and Amanda, my girlfriend's champagne splits, Jeremy's birthday shots, Matt's Guinesses, and I'm sure many more that I've forgotten about. Besides, you've also got Wade and Lica at the Prospector whose generosity was not forgotten by the reciept for your bar tab. Your economical and financial prowess has been a great help to me and my friends, American Express: Blue. This next drink is on you as I drink TO you. I wish you well and I'm sure I will see you soon, whether it's at the Prospector, the Edendale Grill, La Poubelle, Cinespace, or a new piece of barwood as yet undiscovered by your clear, embossed plastic majesty. With Regards, Jeffrey A. Crocker PS- Please find enclosed my check for $468.03 as requested by your "Delinquent Accounts" representative. Here's to you guys! Oh yeah! Don't worry about that President's Day weekend when I blacked out and threw up blood- I'll put the medical bill on my Discover card.

South American Herbal Insanity Tea

There is a person at my office who may or may not be "my boss," that does a lot of online shopping. The result is a deluge of odd packages that arrive at the office every day. Some days its' Porsche tires; some days we get Burmese wooden Buddhas wrapped in Thai silk. Some of the other recent purchases have been: racing seats, stick shift grip knobs, four giant boxes of leather bound literature classics, computer accessories, motorcycle chains, a translucent Rolling Stones mirror, and the list goes on. Usually about one item every day. Today, it was Peruvian tea. Or as the package says, Inka Tea. I'll save you the trouble of researching it- it's tea made from the Coca plant and as expected, it is illegal in the United States. This person in the office, who may or may not own the office, opens this box from Peru and walks into the kitchen with a GIANT plastic bag full of tea bags, their little strings all twisted around each other. This person in the office, who may or may not sign my checks, asks us if we want some "herbal" tea. I'm kind of thirsty and eager to take a break so I say, "sure!" The water boils and the tea steeps. It's pretty smooth and tasteless, which would be the worst thing that I could say about it. This is a good example of one of those things that I will make a crack about and someone will say, "you don't drink it for the TASTE!" like I'm some sort of asshole insulting their ugly kid sister. Why can't I drink it for the taste? You don't eat food for the societal impact it has on Ethiopia. You don't breathe air to prove all those fish wrong. If I'm going to drink tea, I'm going to dri... ...oooooohhhhhhh..... THAT'S why you drink this tea.... I'll catch you guys later, there's some R & D that needs doin'....

Newsgroup Recommendations

I need some newsgroup recommendations; preferably for glue-sniffing, indelibale marker huffing, or a guide to using home solvents and cleaning products for alternative uses. Apparently my subscription to alt.news.huffnet expired. And I think they took www.pensnifferillustrated.net down. Also, I don't get the newsletter from PaintThinnerBrainThicker.org anymore. This is all for research on a documentary I am working on. Seriously. Also, did anyone TiVO the last season of "Last Comic Standing?" Also, my research calls for the study of powerful hallucinogens. Also, it's urgent.

Shirt

I'm helping research a documentary about early 20th century Jews and their "business" dealings. Basically I'm transcribing a few paragraphs every page, directly from a book to create a portfolio of research materials to present to potential investors. So I'm near the end of the book, and I'm reading about all these Jewish gangs that would go out regularly and fuck up any Nazi rallies or marches or meetings. One of my favorite passages is from one of the leaders of a New Jersey Jewish assault gang, Puddy Hinkes: "(His) most famous exploit occurred at Schwabben Hall on Springfield Avenue bordering the German neighborhood in Irvington. According to Hinkes, 'The Nazi scum bags were meeting one night on the second floor. Nat Arno and I went upstairs and threw stink bombs into the room where the creeps were. As they came out of the room, running from the horrible odor of the stink bombs and running down the steps to go into the street to escape, our boys were waiting with bats and iron bars. It was like running a gauntlet. Our boys were lined up on both sides and we started hitting, aiming for their heads or any other part of their bodies, with our bats and irons.'" Holy shit. Imagine sitting in your office, and you start to smell something horrible. You run outside to escape the smell only to be beaten by BATS AND IRON BARS. Now imagine that your office was run by Nazis. Actually, go ahead and imagine being a Nazi yourself, because that would help my metaphorical imagery work. Here's my story: In the 1930s when the Nazis and Fascists were gaining power they had their respective enforcers, the Brown Shirts and the Black Shirts. In Minneapolis, an anti-Semite William Pelley created the Silver Shirt Legion. When I was a kid, my mother bought me a black, collared shirt, which I thought was pretty spiffy. I don't actually remember WHERE I ever wore it because when I tried to wear it to Shabbat services, my mother told me I couldn't because of the Black Shirts. Besides the fact that this was FIFTY years after the Black Shirts existed, why in heaven's name of all that is holy would she buy me that stupid shirt if I couldn't wear it? Was I going to wear it to school? Instead of my "Kiss my Ice" No Fear-brand shirt, and corduroy shorts? If I'm correct, I wore that shirt for one day in my entire life and that was the year 2000, to my final high school jazz band performance- where for one, glorious, musical night,- I was the Fascist I had always wanted to be.

The Horror. The Horror.

Please let me know if this has EVER happened to you, because I want to believe that it is more common that not; either way it was the most terrifying experience I've ever had, next to watching Event Horizon. Also, if I had to give this weblog a rating it would be [R], proceed if you are over 17 or accompanied by an adult. I got to work early, same as everyday, and made some coffee. Since I rushed out the door and didn't eat any breakfast I decided to make some scrambled eggs(it's a cool office). Inman rolls in ten minutes later and I say, "I'm making some eggs, want some?" He obliges and so I start cracking the six eggs we have left into a medium sized bowl. I'm trying to be a little health conscious(duh! I have a moustache!) so I decide to go for three yolks, three whites. I always do the whites first, because it's more complicated, and I like to get the hard work out of the way first. Crack! Slowly I transfer the yolk between the shells to get the white into the bowl. One white in. Crack! Two whites in. Crack! Here's the third white...only...it's not...white... ...it's red. All of the inside of the egg is red. It is oozing out of the egg onto my hands, and I hear someone screaming. Oh wait. it's me. My hands are covered in, not yolk? blood? protein? placenta? I know nothing about the anatomy of chickens, but I'm pretty sure that I just aborted one. I drop the [mess] into the sink and wash it into the tearing, grinding noise of the Insinkerator brand garbage disposal. I wash my hands again and again. Inman pokes his head into the room and says, "What happened?" "Red! It was red...i don't...it was...i can't...aaaaaaaaaaa" Inman makes a scrunched up face, and says, "Yeeesh." A very good friend of mine's girlfriend is not a vegetarian, or a vegan, or an octogenarian, or a squallus-eater, or a carnivore, or an omnivore. Actually, she's probably an omnivore. But she doesn't eat eggs. "Why not?" I asked her once. "Because I don't want to eat a fetus." Eggs aren't fetuses. I mean, they aren't supposed to be. They are eggs. In a human, eggs aren't fetuses. They are eggs. A fetus is like a three month old fertilized embryo. You're not killing anything or eating anything because it's nothing. It's just a cellular organism. So is lettuce. Still, my breakfast abortion(great name for a rock band) was pretty terrifying and I was having a really good day so far. Blech. (oh yeah- i figured out how to use the "Listening to" feature. If you can track down Rainbow's(shitty name for a rock band; what were they thinking?) "Since You've been Gone," it's really really really good. Almost as good as Paper Lace's "The Night Chicago Died.")

Scheduling and conflicts

My girlfriend, whom i speak so highly about, signed me up for the UnCab Lab. Its a writing workshop to develop your personal essys/creative non-fiction into something more substantial- a one-person show, a sit-com script, a collection of essays, open mic performances, or the ever ready stand-up comedy routine. Basically, the class consists of four three-hour sunday sessions where you get in front of the microphone for five minutes and talk about....whatever you want. You have five minutes to talk about yourself. They put extra emphasis on the fact that if you tell a story about a friend or relative, you need to explain how the story relates to yourself. Some(most) people have things they are working on, a large number of people are aspiring comedians, and some just show up and use it for therapy. On top of that, its an INCREDIBLY diverse group of people. Psychologists, TV executives cum struggling parents, middle school teachers, criminal lawyers, and a varied spattering of actors and writers. This past Sunday was the third meeting of the class and I sort of prepared, but really didnt. I relegated myself(somewhat succesfully) to complaining about how effecient of a planner I am, and how that leads to never having any interesting stories to tell in class. Heres my point: Beth, the teacher, suggested that even though I do interesting things, it may never seem like it to myself. She suggested I take a day and NOT PLAN ANYTHING. Just wake up and say, Surprise me! Sounds like great advice, but with one hitch, I thought to myself, I dont really plan that often to begin with, so how is this going to be any different? I left class somewhat confused as to how I was going to carry out my assignment. And then, this morning, as I sat in Starbucks, writing, waiting to return my tux(see previous entry), I tore off a piece of scratch paper and started listing a few things that I had to do today. Write some e-mails, charge the camera batteris at work, return my tux, get information about Wanda Jackson at Amoeba this week; and then I realized I was totally planning! I make lists like these every day, mostly to remind me of things I should, have, or want to do. Holy shit. I plan fucking everything. I never STOP planning, or figuring out, or deciding, or researching, it goes on and on and on. Of course I didnt think that I did all this planning- DENIAL is the first step to realizing you have a problem! Im the least spontaneous person on the PLANET. Seriously, I think my teacher brought up a very good point, psychologically more than creatively(though both may go hand in hand), it really would be a dramatic change if I didnt plan anything at all, for an entire day. Im sure I would realize just how much I do plan. I may not be able to handle it. I may just break down in a slobbering heap and cry. Whats worse is that I want to PLAN when the day is that Im not going to plan. AAAAAHHHHH!!!!! I CANT DO IT!!! [jeffs head explodes all across his computer screen]

Rented Tuxedo

My girlfriend was nominated for a Director's Guild Award, for being a part of the daytime serial directing team, of television's "baby-killer" soap, Days of Our Lives. That's pretty impressive, lucrative, amazing, and all sorts of assorted hyperbole that I can't hunt down. She's quite the awesome lady and I am proud to be dating her. Since she is part of the nominated directing team, she is invited to the HUGE awards dinner at the Century City Hyatt Regency. I did not receive an invitation and thought I was going to stay at home on Saturday night and play videogames. Instead, I get a call from my girlfriend Thursday afternoon saying she scored an extra ticket and asking if I wanted to go. "Sure- that sounds like fun!" "Can you rent a tux?" Hmmm...can I rent a tux? This question should be preceded by, "Do I WANT to rent a tux?" As much as I like dressing up, I feel like the tuxedo pales in comparison to a nice suit with a sweet tie, and a modest, but sharp-looking vest. The problem is that I've never been to one of these things so I don't know how important it is to wear a tux and I assume that everyone is going to be in their nicest attire. It is, and they are. So I roll down to "Tuxedos by Mike" Friday morning, the day before the event, hoping that he will have something for me. I walk in right when "Mike" opens up shop(he's standing on his storefront's stoop, smoking a comically large cigar and reading the Hollywood Reporter), and I tell him I need to rent a tux. Mike(thick armenian accent): What kind of tuxedo would you like? First of all, this is the second time I've ever rented a tux. The first was for my junior prom. Somehow, I've figured out how to make it to 23 years old having rented a tux ONCE. Looking back, I remember half a dozen occurrences when I would have had the possibility of wearing a tux. For instance, I was a groomsman at my college roommates wedding; except we wore khaki pants and white shirts with yellow lillies pinned on them. Needless to say, I'm aware of only one kind of tuxedo- the regular one. And since I don't know how strict they are at the Century City Hyatt Regency, I opt for the all black, vest and bowtie, traditional penguin style tuxedo. I change clothes and put on the shirt, the bow tie and the pants and emerge from the dressing room. I'm a young guy, I've got some metal pinned into my face, I was unshaven and probably hadn't showered since the previous morning, and maybe I looked a little ridiculous in the tuxedo, but not like a hobo or anything. "How do I look?" I ask the PROFESSIONAL tuxedo technician(engineer? taylor?) "What event are you going to?" Mike asks me. "The Director's Guild awards." "Oh yes..." as he looks me up and down "Are you working?" So in case you see any press photos of Jake Gyllenhaal or Clint Eastwood or Steven Spielbeg and you recognize me and say, "Hey! Jeff's a banquet waiter! He got to work the DGA awards! That's so cool!" Fuck off, Tuxedos by Mike! Epilogue: Days of Our Lives did not win the award. My girlfriend and I, were a little late(she had to work) and because of that, we didn't receive the following items- salad dressing a wine glass a napkin wine an entree If anyone can find these at the Century City Hyatt Regency, please let me know because the filet mignon Clooney was eating looked really good.