floorpie

I’ve lately been listening a lot to Phantom Planet, the band backed on drums by Jason Schwartzman of Rushmore fame. They somewhat harken to the somewhat more mainstream band, The Strokes…but the fact that a somewhat movie-star is actually part of a somewhat popular and successful band makes Phantom Planet somewhat all the better (as opposed to, say, Dogstar with the, ahem, “thespian” Keanu Reeves on bass).

Regardless, their video for California has started showing up on MTV recently. Which (despite the fact that now technically makes them sell-outs [and me a music-lemming]), is pretty cool.

This Saturday I’m going to the Blink 182/Green Day concert with a friend of mine. I suspect that the show will be awesome, but also sobering. Once again, it will be reaffirmed that I am decidedly not 16 anymore.

Odd Thing That My Body Just Did That Only I Will Find Interesting

Having been in the sun a lot, lately, the ol’ epiderm’ is taking a bit of a drumming; and, is in fact, peeling a bit on my shoulders. Never is this more apparent than after the ironically drying experience of a shower.

In putting on lotion after said shower, I sqwooshed a large glorb of lotion onto one hand and then sqwarshed my hands together leaving two equal sqworbs, with the idea of schmlecking some on each shoulder. As I went to do so, each hand went up in opposite, mirrored arcs and smashed together in front of me like a clapping seal. Odd, I’ve never done that before…

My latest Mirror Project submission…

I have the power

I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but I have been given the ability to make some significant changes to the world in which we live. It’s not quite as drastic as if I was given access to The Button, but it’s close. Again, I do not mean to alarm anyone; and, rest assured, I will only use my power for good.

I have been given the keys to the castle.

More specifically, I have been asked to temporarily join…wait for it…the Nielsen family! I know…you’re jealous.

I’ve been given an appropriately named TV Viewing Diary with the request that I record every single program that I watch for more than five minutes over the next week. For my troubles, and as a “token of our appreication” I will gladly accept the enclosed five, crisp, one-dollar bills and faithfully record my many hours of watching MASH, Crossing Over with John Edwards, The Other Half, Sponge Bob Square Pants, and of course, Oprah. (OK, in reality only Mash…and, err, Sponge Bob)

It makes sense, really, that I might be chosen, seeing as my slothfulness has reached rather impressive proportions after being laid-off. Of course, the Nielsen’s will wonder how I can watch so much daytime TV, and still claim to work 40 hours per week, ’cause I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell them I have nothing better to do.

At any rate, due to my efforts, expect to see more re-runs of the Golden Girls like you’ve all been clamoring for…

Amongst other things, this weekend found me at Musee Mechanique, an underground hot spot for the somewhat off the beaten path tourist. Located underneath the Cliff House, this little museum houses a few handfuls worth of old arcade machines from what once was a San Francisco amusement park. And, when I say “arcade” think of the Zoltan machine from the movie Big…awesome.

Unfortunately, the museum is due to be closed in September (although this petition may grant a stay of execution [11254 signatures as of my signing]).

Check out what I saw…

Partially inspired by a recent racially-charged topic over at Ariel’s, I thought I’d transcribe this Scientific American report from 1952:

Professional boxers usually come from the lowest income groups. Two sociologists reasoned that as one ethnic group replaces another the near the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder, its young men become dominant in the ring. According to the statistics collected, early in this century about 40 per cent of all professional boxers were Irish. In the 1920s and 1930 Jews and Italians took the lead. And by 1948 nearly half of all boxers were Negroes. Offered little but unskilled work, generally isolated from middle-class culture, slum boys are tempted by dreams of “easy money” and quickly-won esteem, say the sociologists.

Interesting theory, no? What do you think?

The city in which I live has a yearly purge. Individuals call it Spring Cleaning, I don’t know what the city calls it.

What makes this purge unique is the absolute dissolution of garbage segregation. There are no judgements made based on creed, color, or volume of waste. No sorting need be done based on grade of material, quality of organics, or recyclability. If you want to throw out anything, then throw it out you shall! This without, mind you, the dated and inconvenient practice of putting your refuse in “cans” or so-called “garbage bags” and the like. Nay, a few sturdy backs and some dirty hands are all you need, ’cause govnah, you can pile your crap on the street!

Let me repeat that. You can place your garbage in piles on the street.

Huge piles. In the street. Of anything.

The first year I moved here, the ever increasing mounds of broken TV’s, refrigerators, soiled mattresses, bricks, tree stumps, two-wheeled tricycles, failed beer bottle collections and the like, had me convinced that I had coincidentally moved in a mere few months before all city services had been simply abandoned and it was now everyone for themselves.

I’m now a bit wiser, and am actually impressed with what a cool service that is for the city to provide. Nevertheless, I still shudder a bit to think of scenarios where the garbage trucks decide not to come after all.

I’m about to make another grievous beginning blogging error: the apology post:

Sorry I’ve been MIA lately. Quite a bit of my time has been spent enhancing my real life (and neglecting my virtual one) with ADG.

Also, I’ve come to the recent realization that whatever I’ve been doing job-search wise isn’t working. No interviews, no call-backs, no nibbles. I’d hate to think that I’m really that unattractive to the job market, so I choose to think it’s the state of the economy right now. (ahem) Even so, I’ve decided to completely start over, and pretend that all those earlier failures didn’t happen. Consequently, I present my revised resume…comments welcome. Jobs also welcome, should you be in a position of power.

Help

So if my estimation of the reading public is correct, you are all 14-17 year old girls who work at The Gap or Hot Dog on a Stick. As such, you know a few things about being employed that I obviously have no idea about, being a laid-off loser.

To wit: I’m in the process of revising my resume (’cause what I’m doin’ ain’t working) and would like your opinion on length. Ol’ skool knowledge says one page is the norm, though lately multi-page is getting to be more accepted. I’m having trouble culling down what I have to less than a page and a half…so the question to you is: How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll™ center of a Tootsie Pop™?