Ramblings at 4am

Sometimes I get afraid to go to sleep because I won’t know I’m dreaming.  Does that make sense?  If I could be guaranteed that the dreams wouldn’t involve a stressful day at work, or a satanic possession, then I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.  On the other hand, waking up from a dream where I just won the lottery or an Oscar can be sort of depressing.  I like dreaming in theory.  But when I start to think about it before I fall asleep…then I get freaked out.

Kind of like when I think about the fact that I can hear my thoughts, or see images in my mind’s eye.  HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN?

The need to sleep makes us very vulnerable.  How did we ever survive as a species in the caveman days?  Just laying out in the jungle or wherever the fuck for a few hours a day like a buffet of meat for nocturnal predators?  I wonder if cavemen judged other cavemen for sleeping in.

Sometimes I wonder what happened when the first person died non-gruesomely.  Like in their sleep or natural causes.  When did the other people figure out that this person was never waking up?  How did they react?  It must have been very confusing.  Maybe that’s when they started to invent religion.

CAVEMAN #1:

“Why he no wake up?”

CAVEMAN #2:

(Points to the sky.)

“Go to other place.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  Oh well, let’s club something.”

Not saying there isn’t something else, but maybe that’s where the theory began.

At any rate, sleep is weird.  I love it and hate it at the same time.  Once you get a good one going, it’s so comfortable and nice.  You feel great afterward.

The times I hate it are times like now; when I want it and can’t achieve it.  When the cycle goes off the rails and no matter what I try I can’t get back to a “normal” pattern.  My mind loves the early morning.  My body does not.  I want to be awake at sunrise.  I love the quiet time that occurs as the world wakes up.  I love the feeling of accomplishment when I’ve gotten many things done before noon.  My body, on the other hand, likes to wander my apartment aimlessly during the hours of midnight to 4am.  Perhaps this wouldn’t bother me so much if the world didn’t cater almost exclusively to the early risers.

At any rate, I should try and attempt sleep.  Maybe if I wear myself out enough with pointless blog posts I can distract my brain from freaking out over the simulated reality of dreaming, and my ignorance during it’s embrace.  Or maybe I’ll just have one giant meta-dream about dreaming.  Am I doing it right now?

“Why Am I Awake?” – A Haiku

Sleep you elude me.

You are my best frenemy.

My Regina George.

Born This Way

Gaga’s Born This Way is what happens when a star gets carte blanche to do whatever they want too early in their career. The album’s biggest flaw is it’s lack of a strong editorial voice.  The lyrics are often over-written and feel ripped right from the pages of an art school student’s personal diary.  Musically and conceptually it is at heart a Madonna tribute album.  The themes, chord progressions, and accompanying music videos are so reminiscent of the Queen’s late eighties “Like A Prayer” album I feel she should look into filing a copyright lawsuit.

Going back to the lyrics for a minute, Gaga’s clear desperation to be taken seriously as a capital-A artist are her own undoing.  She ruins perfectly catchy hooks and beats with cringe worthy lines like “Jesus is my virtue/but Judas is the demon I cling to.”  It’s really a shame because the aforementioned song, “Judas,” is actually pretty damn good up until that moment.  The concept that her lover is her personal Judas, a man who constantly betrays her, but yet she can’t pull herself away from him is a great idea.  The simple cleverness of it feels more in line with the tongue-in-cheek songstress who wrote “Paparazzi” and “Pokerface” than it does the scattershot Madonna impersonator who shows up on this album.

“The Fame,” and it’s subsequent EP “The Fame Monster,” was a pop concept album about love and the dance floor viewed through the eyes of a socialite/party-girl character.  But what is the overriding concept of “Born this Way?”

At first, there was this whole Klingon Madonna thing going on (thanks for that DListed), where Gaga hatches from an egg and is caught in a war between twin light/dark goddess versions of herself.  Okay.  Interesting.  I’m with you so far.  But then, the whole thing flies out the window so she can dress in Madonna drag for “Judas.”  And then after that she lost me.  For most pop-stars, this is not a problem, but unfortunately Gaga has built her own cage.  She has declared on many occasions that she wants to make museum worthy art with her albums.  She has thrown herself into the role of performance artist which brings with it a certain responsibility of follow through.  If “Born this Way” is a musical art installation, what are all of the pieces saying other than “Gaga likes to dress crazy a whole lot?”

With all that said, I do enjoy the album.  It is still far and away a really solid pop record with vocals and music that easily surpass what most of her contemporaries are doing.  I love “Marry the Night,” “Black Jesus+Amen Fashion,” and a few others.  My issue is that much of it feels self-indulgent.  The songs go on just a minute too long.  The verses are just a little too on the nose for my taste.  I wanted to hear an evolution of the sound she started on “The Fame.”  “Marry the Night,” as the opening track, was a fantastic entry point to an album that didn’t exist beyond that song.  It’s a sophomore effort that magnifies all of her schtick and exhausts you with it.

I love her voice.  I love the fact that she brought a certain level of craziness and spectacle back to pop music.  I was just really hoping for more, and in some cases less, from her.

It’s an Erin Brockovich Kind of Day

We won't let the man hold us down!

You ever have one of those days where you just need to watch something about someone triumphing over adversity?  There’s something really cathartic about laying on the couch and going through a make believe journey with a bunch of actors who recite lines designed to make you feel empowered.

Essentially, it’s visual comfort food.  It’s funny how certain movies can have that effect on you.  When I’m feeling nostalgic I like to check in with “Ghostbusters,” or ‘Back to the Future.”  When I want to just chill out with a couple favorite characters I’ll pop in “Jackie Brown.”  And oddly enough, my feel good movies are “Scream” and “Nightmare on Elm Street” parts 3 and 4.  I know, I have issues.  But when I need to feel like the man can’t hold me down, like I can overcome the obstacles life throws at me, I like to throw in “Erin Brockovich” and vicariously live through all the sassy back talk.

 

 

Purple Rain

Let's Go Crazy...all over Apollonia.

As I sit here, once again, watching “Purple Rain”, I find myself confronting my mixed feelings regarding the actual content of the movie.  I love it because I love the music, I am a Prince fan, and I love the overall craziness of it.  On the other hand, it is a movie that is aggressively misogynistic in its portrayal of women, particularly in the case of Apollonia.

The woman spends ninety percent of the movie getting verbally and physically assaulted by the Kid only to end up with him in the end in what it is clearly supposed to be a happy conclusion.  His mother and father, who experience the same kind of relationship, end up in the same place as well.

Yes, I get the theme concerning the continued cycle of violence/abuse and how that behavior can be passed down to children through their environment, but when we reach the climax what is the film saying about the danger of those relationships and their affect on the abused?  Clearly everything can be solved through the use of moving musical numbers.

The ending as it stands basically says “yeah, the Kid was a jerk, but he was going through some shit, so all’s forgiven.”  What about what Apollonia went through?  Or the Kid’s mom?  They essentially continue the same cycle of forgiveness/abuse.  We are never given any indication that this pattern will cease.

When our heroine has the gall to go out on her own and seek help musically from someone other than the Kid, namely Morris Day, she is paraded around as a sex object with no discussion of whether or not she actually has talent other than the aside that “she doesn’t need it.”  She’s never a musical equal to either of the two main, male protagonists.  She’s merely a pawn in their sexual game, even to the point where she’s tricked into exposing and humiliating herself to the Kid just for the chance at receiving his help.  All her attempts at musical success are presented as calculated and meritless.  She gives Prince’s the Kid everything she has, including pawning her belongings to buy him a guitar he has his eye on, only to receive a few slaps to the face in return.  And at the end of all this, when he ruins her big night and beats her under a freeway overpass, what happens?  She runs back to him because he played a killer rendition of “Purple Rain.” When his father shoots himself, his mother does the same as Apollonia, running to her abusive mate’s hospital bed.

The ending is supposed to be uplifting, but I suggest that it is far darker than that and actually has the opposite effect.  It is the prime example of the charismatic abuser charming his victim/lover back to his bed.

There are so many things I love about this movie that are going on around all this, but it’s impossible to escape the actual, depressing storyline.  When the Kid ends the film by singing “I Would Die 4 U” it’s not quite the triumphant moment the filmmakers clearly intended.  In fact, I think its a prescient moment concerning what will most likely happen after the credits have rolled.

Unplugged

One month ago when I moved into this apartment, I set up my digital converter box, my T.V. and my rabbit ears, and assumed that I would be able to get broadcast channels, just like all those ads promised.  Well that was a joke.  It turns out that the digital switch didn’t make finding channels with rabbit ears easier, it made it much, much harder and incredibly frustrating.

You see, instead of dealing with some slight static on a station you don’t quite get as you did in the analog days, you now have to deal with a digital signal that essentially skips the way a scratched DVD would.  No longer are you able to sit through the wavy picture and still somewhat enjoy the show.  It is now a complete cluster you know what of pixelated images and voices caught in a digital loop.  Its horrible.

The frustration is compounded by the fact that you actually can’t get all the networks, at least not in Los Angeles where FOX doesn’t broadcast on a signal the converter box can pick up.  In fact, the only channels I can get almost exclusively air Telenovelas and infomercials.  Now I love me a good Spanish language soap opera now and again, and who hasn’t been sucked in by the phrase “set it and forget it,” but come the fuck on.  I need my television.

So, I quickly realized that under my rug was a magical white coaxial cable that once attatched itself to a cable box and I found that when I attatched it to my T.V., voila, instant access to broadcast channels, which is all I really want.  At least until today, when I came home from work and discovered my connection had been cut off.

Now look, I wasn’t stealing cable.  I did not receive one cable channel.  All I got was the channels I am legally guaranteed to get by the FCC: the standard VHF/UHF networks.  These channels have become increasingly difficult to receive over the years due to what I believe is a vast cable conspiracy to jam the airwaves and force consumers to pay for television.  Don’t give me that nonsense about the increase in cell phone signals and wireless internet and so forth contributing to my inability to have access to the free channels.  I honestly believe that is a load of crap.  If you can watch T.V. on your tiny little iPhone, then why can’t I watch it on the giant box in my living room?

What I have come to discover is that the cable companies have a “broadcast reception” service which they charge for and it guarantees you access to all the channels you were  supposedly guaranteed access to by the digital revolution.  For twenty dollars a month, plus tax, a deposit, and a twenty dollar “installation fee” I can receive the channels I should be receiving.  Okay, first of all, why do you need to install something when I already own all the equipment necessary?  Secondly, after some more research, I found out that the price for broadcast reception varies depending on area, and in a blue collar section like the one I live in it costs $20, but in Orange County, where the top one percent lives, one of the richest, if not THE richest areas in the country, the cost for the monthly service is EIGHT DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS!  Are you kidding me?!

So now, as I was on the verge of beginning writing a regular column for 2snaps.tv on “American Idol,” a column I spent the last two years slowly building, I no longer have the ability to watch the show.  You see, “Idol” is one of the only shows FOX doesn’t stream on its website because it charges between two and three dollars for EACH PERFORMANCE on every episode over on iTunes.

I love television.  I’ve never been one of those people who has been unable to accomplish things because of a T.V. addiction.  I know how to budget my time.   I read a lot, and I write a lot, but there are hours of the day, especially when your job cuts your hours unexpectedly from 35 to 15 a week, that a person enjoys a lunch date with “Cold Case Files” or an afternoon coffee with “The Wendy Williams Show.”  I can’t even begin to think about the loss of this season of “Survivor” which I have been anticipating very highly (don’t even get me started on the horror show that trying to watch a video on cbs.com can become).

I realize there are larger problems in the world.  Much larger.  I’m not asking anyone to shed a tear for me and the sudden unexpected loss of my broadcast reception, but damn.  This is some frustrating bullshit.  When did turning on the television become so unreasonably difficult and expensive?  How have the cable companies managed to get away with taking something that was free and replacing it with a charge to get it back?

Frank, A Tribute

I am one of those people who for one reason or another attributes human characteristics to inanimate objects.  I believe the official term is anthropomorphism.  In particular, I have focused all my anthropomorphic powers on my car, a 2000 Ford Focus whom I have taken to calling Frank.

Why Frank?  Well, he feels like a Frank.  Since the day we met, he never really liked to accelerate quite when I needed him to; it often felt as though he was saying “I’m getting there, hold on, I’m getting there” kind of like a really old man.  It was as if he spoke to me and said, through a wheezing cough, “Hi, I’m Frank, and I will be slowly getting you wherever you need to go.”  And he has.  Mostly.

I pet the dashboard when I get in (a) so he knows he’s appreciated, and (b) to encourage him to PLEASE refrain from breaking down on me.

He has so much personality.  Like the way the rear passenger side door groans when it opens, or how he lurches forward randomly when I try to merge onto the freeway, or the yellow and red scrapes along his sides from my various run ins with gas station and drive-thru park posts.  (Hey, I never said I was a good driver.)

Frank and I have been through some tough times and some good times in the last six years.  He has seen me at my best and my worst.  He got me from the East Coast to the West Coast, but lately he’s been giving me a tough time.  Maybe he’s feeling under-appreciated.  So I want to take this opportunity to say thanks for getting me where I needed to go.  Please keep getting me there.  I can’t afford a new vehicle, and quite frankly (pun intended) I don’t really want to.  It’s hard to find good traveling companions, and you’ve been one of the best.

Today’s Lesson in Cuisine

This person sprung for wheat bread. Must be nice having all that money to burn!

Today my friends I am going to share with you a top secret recipe for a delicious entree that costs less than two dollars.  No, I’m not going to refer you to the good old dollar menu at Mickey D’s.  This hearty slice of fine cuisine can be made in under sixty seconds right in your very home (take that Rachel Ray!).  This modern marvel is (drumroll)…the Mustard Sandwich!

First, take one slice of store brand white bread.

Lay it out carefully on a crisp square of paper towel.

Next, grab a bottle of store brand yellow mustard, or, if you’re feeling sassy, brown spicy mustard.

Squeeze the bottle onto the bread.  Now this is the part where you can be creative!  Have fun with it!  Maybe you’re in the mood for a zig zag pattern, or I don’t know, perhaps a star!  The bread is your canvas!

Finally, fold the bread in half, mushing the mustard together, take a bite, and enjoy.

Working the Whore Stroll

It’s only fitting that I title my inaugural post on the new “Your Waiter Hates You” with a small tribute to one of my favorite bloggers, Michael K. of DListed, because, yes, I am desperately working that Hollywood whore stroll.

Since my “amazing” serving job has kindly reduced my hours from 35 to 15 a week, I have wholeheartedly thrown myself into the pursuit of additional income.  On the one hand it’s a good thing because I did, after all, transplant my entire life 3000 miles from the East Coast in order to pursue a career in the TV and Film industry, and the need to eat is forcing me to try and get paid to do what I came here to do.  On the other hand, it’s a terrible thing for my need to eat.  However, I will gladly take hunger pains over the mental pains I was subjected to for three months while living in the Manson Family compound in the Valley (but more on that later).

In my efforts to work the stroll, I registered myself with a prominent “background actors” employment agency.  For those of you unfamiliar, a background actor is an extra.  What essentially happens is you cram your ass into a small room with about one hundred other people, wait in line for your picture to be taken, and then call a casting hotline where someone looks at your photo while on the phone with you, and then decides whether or not they need you.  Unfortunately, no one told me when my picture was taken that I had somehow smeared the ink from my pen onto the side of my face.  I only discovered this after accidentally walking into the ladies room and checking myself out in the mirror.  Thankfully no one caught me in there as I wandered in confusion searching for the urinals.

So I’ve been calling the line, submitting myself online for glamorous roles such as “cashier” and “waiter,” which I have enough experience to play, believe me, and repeatedly checking the “ETC” tab on Craigslist, that ever so reliable bastion of legitimate work and roommate requests.  I refuse to look for another serving job.  The reason:  I’ve chosen this to be my real, official retirement year from the serving industry.

If serving or bartending is something you love to do, then more power to you.  I, however, am sick of it.  It’s been ten years.  I’m ready for a change.  It has afforded me numerous opportunities to pick up and travel and live a pretty flexible lifestyle, but I have reached the point where enough is enough.  I’m bored and unfulfilled, which I guess is one of the main reasons I took this California adventure in the first place.  Ten years feels like the right amount of time for me to say au revoir  to the question “would you like fries with that?”  I’m finally ready to do the hard work and make the sacrifices involved with the transition from the job I use to pay my bills to a career that I enjoy.  At least until tomorrow, when I might totally exercise my right to change my mind. With that said, I have ten years worth of frustration just waiting to find an outlet, and that outlet is here.

So, as I share my hand to mouth existence, my daily walks on the stroll, my crazy ramblings, and my attempt to live the dream with you, never forget one thing:  your waiter hates you.

The Wobbly Table

I understand that there are instances where you, the customer, have no control over the way a table is set up. For example, outdoor seating in the city often leads to slanted sidewalks that force tables to wobble. However, when you are in control of choosing your own table, and you choose the ONE TABLE that is clearly unstable, then it is your fault and you need to deal with consequences.

I am busy. I do not have the time nor skill to “fix” the problem. I can barely manage to find a working pen and the time to do all the random things I have to do at any given moment, let alone a tool set and the time to get all up under your table and stop it from moving back and forth. If you want to place a stack of napkins under the legs go ahead and knock yourself out, just don’t ask me to do it.