Disproportionate angst.
Torn jeans.
Notes in class.
Heavy guitars.
That's right-I am presently trapped within the grasp of mid-nineties alt rock. Particularly Pinkerton as a whole, but of course more specifically, El Scorcho. I'm not certain if it's the opening profanity or the misaligned harmonies in the chorus but I am yet again captivated. There's something so comforting and reassuring about being engrossed in the early high school soundtrack. Probably the fact that in reflection, the all-consuming tribulations of those distinct years are minute comparatively to life from there on out.
I recently sanctified our defiled porch and was rooting through my nearly forgotten possessions. I came across a journal I kept from 10th to 12th grade which I had then entitled The Diary of Nikki Walter-Frank. (yes, I lacked discretion even then) As I read the mundane details of my existence, my face became inflamed. In 11th grade, my primary preoccupation was the fact that my romantic life was forever scarred and invalid because my boyfriend of less than 6 months and I had broken up. Each chronicle was intermittently peppered with hopelessly shitty lyrics which I thought at the time were sheer, heartache genius. Once I had reached the end of that terrible dreck, I was so compelled by the poor structure and lack of substance that I decided to trash it. Farewell, downtrodden teen Nik. You are gone, and unfortunately, not forgotten.
Thank you, Rivers Cuomo, for inciting me to relive my petty, teenaged delusions once more. Those melodic reminders of yesteryear do it to me every time.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Box Office Poison ala Carrot Top
This may very well be one of my favorite movie reviews of all time. "Justin" is truly a man after my own heart.
http://www.mutantreviewers.com/rchairman.html
http://www.mutantreviewers.com/rchairman.html
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
On the Subject of Trade Shows
There is a sea of khakied, extroverted creepers and I am the only aquatic pedestrian. They leer, they stop and grasp at conversational straws and they self-inflate their profession like there's no tomorrow. And at trade shows, maybe it IS all about the moment. Relentless networking, tireless rejection, and cold calling. No wonder these fellas are so forward. Rejection's sting is significantly reduced when it occurs day in and day out. As I look into the white collar, leathered face of a 40-something lifer in sales, I can see the realm of underlying emotion that surges just beneath the surface. The social neediness, the isolation, the loneliness, and the sheer frustration with, yet addiction to this field.
I was speaking with one such gentleman today, though he kept his creep factor at a minimum. He was more interested in selling the plight of the salesman than the product itself. And he didn't say anything I found groundbreaking. My father has been in sales for years now so I have an idea of what it entails. Long hours, memorization, constant availability, ceaseless networking, countless phone calls, and other perpetual, unforeseen expectations. The man was insistent on preaching to the choir about how “everyone thinks it's so easy” and subsequently, just how wrong they are. After a few moments of “ I know's” and “I hear that's”, he finally shut up and realized his attempts of conversion were unnecessary.
I believe my favorite part of this convention is lunch-time. It's not because my cup runneth over with free eats, either. It's the Sandwich Sultan. Each day, a few minutes prior to 12, a Haitian hotel staff wheels in the summation of everyone's mid-day dreams: about 300 cellophaned half-sandwiches. You present a lunch ticket which likely cost the convention around $20.00. The event schedule allots 1.5 hours for what professes to be a buffet. Call me a sloppy American, but to my ears, buffet signifies myriads of steaming, untouched dishes of C-grade food just waiting for me to attack with unbridled and unlimited vigor. This “buffet” consists of aforementioned sandwich-halves, microscopic bags of chips, and drop fruit from a suburban orchard. The Sandwich Sultan takes your ticket and promptly informs you “only one half sandwich”. One half sandwich?! I'm sorry, do I look like a 3 year old? 'Fraid this machine needs a few hundred more calories to be sated. I've witness more than a few suave, distinguished businessman attempt to swipe an extra wrap or two. To my sheer delight, the S.S. was quick to call them out on the folly of their treachery and demand immediate return of the edibles. Some were indignant and others sheepish. Either way, I did a piss poor job of masking my snorts. I was going to attempt the “clueless cute ditz” move and see if my marginally presentable appearance could garner me an additional half, but then reality set in and it dawned on me that Sandwich Sultans cannot be reasoned OR flirted with. One half sandwich. No more, no less. Sucks to be that guy. I wonder if he and Open Bar guy drew straws for tasks and S.S.'s was just a little shorter. Nonetheless, this proved a great source of amusement in my day, other than faux smiling and impersonating all attendees and vendors alongside my mentor/father, Rodger K. Walter.
I think the most prominent piece of knowledge I've attained is that you can get a ton of free bullshit by merely walking around at these functions. Various writing implements, tote bags (one style of which I've been intently lusting after), notepads, chip clips, the works. Yesterday, I was struck with an intense desire to learn about water in the many displayed facets. Today, I'm periodically shifting from left cheek to right cheek in a last ditch attempt to stay awake. It's a shame, too. So many individuals in life make quite a handsome living in sales. As it were, I feel immensely uncomfortable when forced to seek out business or ask for money. Call it being a Walter or my good, old-fashioned German/Hungarian/Irish pride, but either way, I could never truly excel at this. It's most unfortunate, because from what I've gathered over the years, and in these few days, you can make an exorbitant income by essentially knowing your shit and being personable. All I know is that if one more of these testosterone laden, follow-you-to-your-car-and-hurt-you types approaches my father and comments on my exterior, I'm going on a booth and ego destructing rampage all over the 5th floor of this Marriot Marquis. I cannot convey enough the type of crowd at this event. Just booths and booths of middle-aged, Caucasian men who think lewd comments are kindness and endless conversations will make a sale. Selling anything pertaining to water/water treatment plants is certainly a male-dominated profession. I've counted the females actually working at this thing and there were 5 (other than me) out of approximately 275. On the rare occasions I pass another living XX-chromosomed human being here, we just sort of exchange empathetic glances and go about our separate paths.
This place is ripe for psychoanalysis, but unfortunately, I have not the will, nor the laptop battery left. They actually CHARGE you to have electricity at your booth. In fact, dad and I looked into how much it would cost to have wireless at the booth. No joke-$750.00! I have decided to pass and commit this to blog when out of beautiful, bustling Time Square and back into a place where I'm permitted to consume more than a half sandwich per sitting and utilize internet for under a grand a day.
I was speaking with one such gentleman today, though he kept his creep factor at a minimum. He was more interested in selling the plight of the salesman than the product itself. And he didn't say anything I found groundbreaking. My father has been in sales for years now so I have an idea of what it entails. Long hours, memorization, constant availability, ceaseless networking, countless phone calls, and other perpetual, unforeseen expectations. The man was insistent on preaching to the choir about how “everyone thinks it's so easy” and subsequently, just how wrong they are. After a few moments of “ I know's” and “I hear that's”, he finally shut up and realized his attempts of conversion were unnecessary.
I believe my favorite part of this convention is lunch-time. It's not because my cup runneth over with free eats, either. It's the Sandwich Sultan. Each day, a few minutes prior to 12, a Haitian hotel staff wheels in the summation of everyone's mid-day dreams: about 300 cellophaned half-sandwiches. You present a lunch ticket which likely cost the convention around $20.00. The event schedule allots 1.5 hours for what professes to be a buffet. Call me a sloppy American, but to my ears, buffet signifies myriads of steaming, untouched dishes of C-grade food just waiting for me to attack with unbridled and unlimited vigor. This “buffet” consists of aforementioned sandwich-halves, microscopic bags of chips, and drop fruit from a suburban orchard. The Sandwich Sultan takes your ticket and promptly informs you “only one half sandwich”. One half sandwich?! I'm sorry, do I look like a 3 year old? 'Fraid this machine needs a few hundred more calories to be sated. I've witness more than a few suave, distinguished businessman attempt to swipe an extra wrap or two. To my sheer delight, the S.S. was quick to call them out on the folly of their treachery and demand immediate return of the edibles. Some were indignant and others sheepish. Either way, I did a piss poor job of masking my snorts. I was going to attempt the “clueless cute ditz” move and see if my marginally presentable appearance could garner me an additional half, but then reality set in and it dawned on me that Sandwich Sultans cannot be reasoned OR flirted with. One half sandwich. No more, no less. Sucks to be that guy. I wonder if he and Open Bar guy drew straws for tasks and S.S.'s was just a little shorter. Nonetheless, this proved a great source of amusement in my day, other than faux smiling and impersonating all attendees and vendors alongside my mentor/father, Rodger K. Walter.
I think the most prominent piece of knowledge I've attained is that you can get a ton of free bullshit by merely walking around at these functions. Various writing implements, tote bags (one style of which I've been intently lusting after), notepads, chip clips, the works. Yesterday, I was struck with an intense desire to learn about water in the many displayed facets. Today, I'm periodically shifting from left cheek to right cheek in a last ditch attempt to stay awake. It's a shame, too. So many individuals in life make quite a handsome living in sales. As it were, I feel immensely uncomfortable when forced to seek out business or ask for money. Call it being a Walter or my good, old-fashioned German/Hungarian/Irish pride, but either way, I could never truly excel at this. It's most unfortunate, because from what I've gathered over the years, and in these few days, you can make an exorbitant income by essentially knowing your shit and being personable. All I know is that if one more of these testosterone laden, follow-you-to-your-car-and-hurt-you types approaches my father and comments on my exterior, I'm going on a booth and ego destructing rampage all over the 5th floor of this Marriot Marquis. I cannot convey enough the type of crowd at this event. Just booths and booths of middle-aged, Caucasian men who think lewd comments are kindness and endless conversations will make a sale. Selling anything pertaining to water/water treatment plants is certainly a male-dominated profession. I've counted the females actually working at this thing and there were 5 (other than me) out of approximately 275. On the rare occasions I pass another living XX-chromosomed human being here, we just sort of exchange empathetic glances and go about our separate paths.
This place is ripe for psychoanalysis, but unfortunately, I have not the will, nor the laptop battery left. They actually CHARGE you to have electricity at your booth. In fact, dad and I looked into how much it would cost to have wireless at the booth. No joke-$750.00! I have decided to pass and commit this to blog when out of beautiful, bustling Time Square and back into a place where I'm permitted to consume more than a half sandwich per sitting and utilize internet for under a grand a day.
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