Surcharge My Ass

I wanted to go to a show tonight. This band, Phoenix is playing. Some of you may have heard of them. A bunch of French young men who’ve gotten together to play what the young folks like to call the “rock n’roll.” Though I’ve heard some young people call it “electronic,” which I assume is like the rock n’roll. I have no idea why I’m talking like that. Forgive me. I have what I like to call a “minor migraine.” So I took about a million little brown pills, what I like to call Ibuprofen, to assuage the burning upper back pain and that fabulous dull headache. No really. I’m sorry, I’ll stop with the whole “I like to call it,” ‘they like to call it” bit.

So I go to the good ole’ Smith’s to buy some tickets. Advertised price on the website: $12 in advance, $15 day of show*. When I get there, I pull out my debit card, already to pay, knowing what I’m getting myself into and what to expect as far as price goes. I say to the girl in the spirit of hustle or be hustled, hoping she’ll sell them to me for $12 instead of stupid $15, “So what, how much are they anyway? $12?”

She says she doesn’t know, but looks it up on her ancient computer (so it could be wrong, really, because it’s so old and decrepit).

“Okay, actually it’s going to be $22.75.” She turns, looking a little frightened, because honestly, I’m ripped. I AM RIPPED. I work-out like, 3 times a week or something. Plus, she too realizes how absurd this price is.

“$22.75?!” I repeat, stupidly, like an annoying old lady with poor hearing, clutching her hat, gloves and handbag in arthritic hands, all hunched over. You can imagine me yelling something like, “Speak up, young lady!” But I don’t. In reality I look large and threatening. It’s my demeanor. I really project when I’m angry. “Are you serious? I just looked on your website and they were advertised for $12.”

“Did you look today? They sometimes go up the day of the show.” She’s projecting too, but projecting the innocent little Bambi deer-look. I almost feel bad for being so annoyed. And honestly, I haven’t been that rude. It’s not like I told her to go to hell and punched her out or something.

“Yes I looked today. Just a few minutes ago.”

To make a long, stupid story short. The price difference was because of the SURCHARGE. She explained that there was a $7.75 surcharge. So I told her "surcharge my ass" and "go to hell" and then I left. I don’t LOVE Phoenix, the band, that much. I like them. But not $22.75 much. I’d have to get two tickets, too, because I was obviously going to take my lover, Stoker**, with me. Also, it’s not like I have no experience with surcharges on concert tickets. I used to have to explain them when I worked at the Graywhale and we were a Ticketmaster outlet. But $7.75 is OUTRAGEOUS.

I’m telling you this hilarious, sad story because I’m calling for swift and sudden change in the concert ticket industry. How many shows can a person go to a month or a year if every ticket is already between $12 and $30 in addition to a surcharge? Like two, or something (and I’m not talking the $100 ticket prices for acts like Bob Dylan and David Bowie. These are small, indie-type acts. It’s a joke, not to mention, absurd). Most kids are in college anyway and we’re already dumping thousands of dollars into our music addictions. I have news for you, I am not made of money. Money does not grow on trees. My parents are not ATM machines. Stoker is not an ATM machine. My credit union’s ATM machine is not an ATM machine. I mean, does not give away free money. So I say someone should make one of those free online petitions to require that ticket outlets start listing the damn ticket prices with the surcharge already added in. No more of this false advertising.








*A $3 increase just because IT’S THE DAY OF THE SHOW? What? Why? Whose idea is this? Who do I have to speak to to get some service around here? I mean really people. Do they do this to increase sales so people will buy their tickets way in advance so the show is more likely to sell out? What’s going on? And speaking of, I’d say hours before the show should be considered ‘in advance.’ So whose definition of ‘advance’ are we going by, anyway?

**And yes, he’s afraid of my muscles.

Arrested Development

Who knows if they'll read it?

But I thought you might want to:

********************


Dear Fox Big-wigs or Lowly-interns,

I love Arrested Development. I've heard from several, concerned friends that there's a chance the show will be taken off the air. I hope this doesn't happen, but if it does, please find a way to keep the Bluth family alive.

I rarely watch television, except while working out at the gym after work and those are usually Friends reruns. So, I think it speaks highly of your show that I try to always tune in on Sunday nights. Or I watch the Season One dvd's during the weekdays when I'm unwinding, after a long, draining workday, with my equally television-show discriminating fiance (which is to say, I've allowed Arrested Development to enter my "sacred circle" of friends) . I've never been a big fan of television and while what prevails on it is (what I would call) the crap known as reality shows, the humor and character development of Arrested Development is the proverbial breath of fresh air. Ron Howard's steady narration is television-land's last vestige of hope, the anchor amidst the raucous winds of shock-crime-law-and-order-CSI-cutting-people's-guts-out-one-hour-dramas (did you get that? Kind of long and grueling, but then, that's how those shows feel).

So please continue your most intense efforts to keep the Bluths on the air. They kill me, even though you had Buster's hand bit off by a seal. What?


Your most sincere fan,


Nicole


p.s. "I punish thee!"

*********************

Sign the save Arrested Development petition even if you don't watch it. What have you got to lose? Nothing. And you're doing me a favor.

Pink

Haven’t been feeling very clever. Yesterday was rough. Today is better. I’m wearing a pink shirt and I don’t know what happened with that. I’ve always been in the school of thought that pink sucks. My mom gave me this shirt and I guess I’m just too old to hate pink. Pink has won me over.

What hasn’t won me over and never will, is the whole color-coded by gender thing. I refuse to join in the Barbie culture of pink is for girls (see the Barbie aisle at your local Wal-Mart. You DO have a Wal-Mart, don’t you?) and blue is for boys. That’s just a bunch of crap and who thought that up in the first place anyway? Growing up I rejected this stereotype. Imagine me, as an adorable little girl aware of gender-based stereotypes already, at 6-years old, battling them left and right in my simple small way.

At the Rafter as a little girl, with my mother (an old department store, now gone the way of all the earth):
“Oh, Nikki, try this blouse on, it’s cute.”
“Mooooom, its PINK. And I hate blouses.”
“You don’t hate blouses OR pink.”
“Yes I do. Pink is for girls.”
“You ARE a girl.”

Minor detail.

Now I think just the opposite. I mean about pink. But not on me, although I’ve received many compliments on how I look in this blouse. Er, shirt.*

About the pink. I think it looks very good on men in the right context. Isn’t that funny? We have this color that’s supposed to be all feminine and we use it that way—socializing children from their very first moments on earth that girls dig pinks and pastels and soft/warm colors; boys like dark, cold/hard colors like blue. But then, oddly enough, when a grown man wears something pink it makes him seem more masculine and comfortable with his sexuality.

Anyway, if you go to my flickr site, I have a picture there of me in my pink shirt (along with one of Michael Jackson because I don’t know any other way of putting pictures on my blog). Actually, I have my green sweater on with my pink shirt underneath. I was wearing my J Crew clothes that day, along with Stoker who was in his Gap "outfit" (you can't say outfit when it's about a man. Only girls where outfits. Men wear a suit or a combination of a shirt and pants, but never, NEVER an outfit). In our defense I must say that I’m actually a jeans and t-shirt kind of person, as is Stoker. But when I scored a desk job 8 months ago (score?), I was forced to wear ‘nice’ clothes. Since then I’ve been working on increasing my wardrobe to include ‘nice’ clothes, because as we all know, jeans and t-shirts are not ‘nice.’ Wearing them is the equivalent of wearing your most worn out shirt and sweats. At least in the business world. Please note the heavy use of sarcasm to convey my opinion that jeans and t-shirts are the clothes of the gods, the modern day parallel for ambrosia, nectar and togas.

Thank you.


*I'll give you something to think about. Think about how English attempts to be a gender-specific language, but fails miserably at my fingertips. With words like blouse, panties, purse and etc. Which all actually mean shirt, underwear and bag. I reject the use of all these so-called feminine words. Stoker is hell-bent on getting me to admit that what I have is a purse and not a bag. He’s always trying to trick me into saying “My purse.” But it’s not a purse. It’s a bag, and it actually looks better on him than on me, which merely proves my point.

Reunited: After 20 Years, I Rediscover William Shatner

Depressing.

So last night, while in my old town Logan (Utah), I stopped by my old haunt. Graywhale CD. While there, I purchased Fiona Apple’s Tidal for my lover (Stoker) and William Shatner’s album Has Been, for me.

I heard Has Been when it came out. It struck me, but I didn’t buy it. I heard it again on iTunes because I’m obsessed with that place—when they had Spaced Out! The Best of Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner on their home page (I want to get that too, some day). Anyhoo, haven’t been able to get the song “I can’t get behind that” out of my head. So I bought. And I love.

What’s depressing about that, you ask. I’ll tell you what’s depressing about that. It’s depressing because I think it’s damn good, and I want to tell good ole’ William that I think so. I want to be able to call William up and say, “William, I know you received some criticism and some people* made fun of you, but I want to tell you, maybe I am part of the ‘common people’** but I think it’s brilliant.” I’d like to be able to do that.

I’d also like to tell him that I really appreciate that he’s doing something. As you may know, because I told you, the title of his album is Has Been. But I don’t think he’s a has-been and maybe he’s just playing with that, capitalizing on the culture surrounding the idea that William Shatner is warshed up (yes, I said warshed, as in “y’alls need to get in thuh tub and warsh yuhselfs.”***). Since his days with Star Trek, he’s gotten a lot of criticism, you know, things like “Well, I heard William was a big jerk on the set, stealing lines and stuff all the time,” and etc. I don’t know if that’s true. But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and say to hell with it. He’s doing something.

That’s my point. What I can’t get behind, is the jerks on stupid American Idol who suck and suddenly, one day the world is like “this guy is a superstar.” You know, because what can they do but stand on a stage and try to sing like annoying Mariah Carey? They sing songs someone else wrote, to music someone else composed, to instruments they can’t play. And here’s William Shatner talking (yes, not singing, because apparently he’s not like that) to music composed by Ben Folds. But here’s the tip of the point I’m trying to slowly make (brevity is the soul of wit), William Shatner is talking (because he’s not singing) from the heart. It’s real. And I love it.

So, William Shatner****, if you're reading, out there, somewhere in the cosmos of cyberspace, I want to tell you that Has Been defies expectations. It's poignant, moving, fun and I love it. I LOVE IT.


*Jerks.
** Though I really don’t think so, I think I’m extraordinary
***I have no idea if that’s a dialect anywhere except in my own head
****My first big crush as a 5 or 6 year old [wow, that’s super young to be thinking about being in love] [I know], catching every TJ Hooker episode. But alas, no longer

Some Terms of Existence

I don’t want to:

1) write stupid reviews of other people’s books

2) write articles for magazines or newspapers where I’m forced to love/hate someone else’s work and resort to terms like “hip,” “trendy,” “self-deprecating,” or “clever” to describe them or their work

3) spend the rest of my life sitting in a piece of parceled space like a toy in a tidy package being told that the work I’ve produced isn’t good enough or what they were “looking for,” as though my job is to read their mind (or understand the poor terms they’ve outlined in their very brief “creative brief”) and know exactly what they’re “looking for.” Or maybe this is my job and I just don’t realize it

4) pander to musicians, authors, directors or actors or any other "artist" in writing, or even with my vocal cords, just to get in good with them. They should be pandering to me, is the way I see it

5) compete with other writers or scholars for the rest of my life, constantly wondering if I’ll get that much needed promotion or appointment to some seat as a dean of some college or board somewhere at some point in my life, secretly hating everyone because they’re a threat to my career

6) sell my work or creations for less than they’re worth out of fear of never "amounting to anything"

7) tell other people I think they’re work sucks or isn’t quite “what they could produce if they just put their mind to it”

8) gaze out of an office window wishing I was outside during the spring, summer, winter or fall every weekday for the rest of my life (I guess you could say, at least I have a window, but this seems to gloss over the true tragedy of it)

9) stick with the status quo, like the government does with everything now (i.e. switch to a consumption tax, it’s a BETTER IDEA), out of fear that change will be too disruptive or scary or I might not know where I’ll end up. Change is good, is healthy for my brain, heart and soul

10) grow more and more afraid of new things


etc…….

4th Floor Windows

I wish I could open my window and ask the window/building cleaners (yes, they're actually cleaning the building too, washing the red brick and everything) if they could please do my window again. They cleaned it yesterday. And for some reason, today they did the windows ABOVE it. The cleaning fluid has coated my window and now it's like looking out from inside a bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Greasy.

I can see them out there now. I wonder if they know sign language...

(Belly)

You thought this post was going to be about body parts, or potentially the use of sex appeal in advertising. Well it’s not about either, though I have much to say on the subject of both. It’s about the band I’m listening to right this minute. And I’d put a link on my blog sidebar under what I’m listening to, but that’s too much trouble.

I tell you what, though. I’ve been into "King" since last spring. So I thought I’d do a tribute to Belly of the early 90’s, now disbanded. Though their first album, "Star," was the big hit, "King" has me hooked. And according to allmusic.com, this is the album that bombed, like hypercolor shirts did when everyone realized they were stupid (what a concept, a shirt that changes color when exposed to heat). Unlike hypercolor shirts, "King" doesn’t have the excuse of being a stupid album. In fact, I’d say it was the audience that miserably failed the intelligence test (good job to the few out there who got it and kept their "King" albums). I don’t remember what happened because I was only 16 and extremely misled by pop radio stations. Besides, everyone evolves at a different pace or, to be unexpectedly cliché, marches to the beat of their own drum and I was hearing and evolving to the drums of Chicago’s "Greatest Hits, 1982-1989," and the likes. Embarrassing to admit now, but that was the truth for then (not embarrassing: very early Chicago).

So anyway. Lucky for me there are souls who are more misled than I am (now) and while working at the before-mentioned Graywhale cd store (see Sense of Humor: some have it…) my superior (but only in rank. Joke) Bryan, pulled a $5.99 used copy of "King" off the shelf and said, “Have you ever heard this?”

I said, “No.”

And he said, “It’s really good. My friend, Jesse [or Jason, or Bill or something], loves this band. He got me into them. Try them out.”

So I did, try them out, that is. (I don’t know what else it could have been but felt like saying that anyway because I think adding ‘that is’ to anything is extremely funny. Or stupid, I don’t know.) Yeah, I tried them out and at the time thought, they’re kind of cool. Besides, I found one in our store for $3.99, which meant like $1.00 for me because of employee discount and therefore I bought. (I left ‘it’ out on purpose.)

I listened to it during the spring of that year, and before I went to Prague with Matt (the mathematician) and got all weirded out by Isaac (just suddenly, one day I didn’t trust him) I blasted it through my sweet Tacoma stereo driving up to southern Idaho to ride horses in Eden (not really Eden, but a very beautiful area which I liked to call Eden). This was before Stoker.

This story has gone on way too long. The point is, I’ll always associate it with spring/summer music. And the lonely time before Stoker and after arm-band-tattooed-Isaac, because I listened to it a lot before Stoker and after Isaac (self-explanatory really, but I’ve a tendency to over-explain. Do forgive). And I didn’t think it was a great album, then. I listened to it because it was new to me and different from the shoe-gazing emo music (to steal an ‘industry’ description) I’d been listening to for months and months. Sitting at work lately, listening to it very, very often, because I’ve been too lazy to change what’s playing—you know, all the energy it takes to move my arm a foot to my right, grasp the mouse and drag the arrow across the screen and click the little button—I’ve come to realize that it is, after all a great album.

Album favorites: all of them.
Album highlights: probably all of them, at different times, depending on my mood.
Album first-loves: “Seal my Fate” and “King.”

Album favorite lines: from “King” – "Now, I see, you lay your perfect body, down by me..."
From "Untitled and Unsung" -- "I want your pearly little hand in my hair, we make a strange and furious pair..."
From "Now They'll Sleep" -- "You know the breath my shape will take before I let it out..."

Most played song on the album: “Super-Connected.”

What to do if this album doesn’t strike you as excellent at first: Give it time. If you have a cd-player in your car, take all the other albums out. Leave only "King" at your disposal for your listening pleasure. When tempted to take it out, don’t. Turn it up. Continue listening. Learn the words. Sing along. Let the magic eat you alive and enjoy it. How many albums get better with each listening? Not the likes of Maroon 5 (though, admittedly, I like some of their songs). Why? Because it doesn’t have endurance. It lacks, like so many people these days, staying power.

Tomorrow: “10 things NOT to do in the bathroom at work.”*


*I’m building you up. Creating anticipation. Making promises I might not keep.

Sense of Humor: Some people have it....

Nobody at work gets my sense of humor. I’ve puzzled about this for some time and have decided that the only explanation is that its so cryptic and developed (and also that I’m so intelligent). Or it might be that I mainly sit in my cubicle and refrain, for the most part, from talking to anyone for longer than one minute. In the space of one minute, how could there be any time to discuss anything other than the weather? Unlike farmers, though, the weather is less consequential to corporate business types like my co-workers and me. Co-workers schmo-workers. We’re hardly co-anything, me just recently 27 and most of them 35+. So anyway, I guess there are several reasons no one gets my delightfully sarcastic sense of humor, age being one of them. Here’s an example of how I fail miserably to connect with them:


Returning from lunch, Linda* passes me on her way out of our boss’s office. And she says over her shoulder what is mostly likely intended for our boss, but could have very well been directed at me since we’re facing each other and even make direct eye-contact, “Alright, good work!”

To which I reply, “Thank you.” She breezes by in her usual efficient, brisk walk. She says nothing. In fact, I almost think not a soul has noticed my casual wittiness until I hear Bob shout from his office.

“She was talking to me!” And this is followed by small, inconsequential half-banter, with me delivering the entire half of the banter.


But you see, this is how it always is. I might mutter a smart remark from within the confines of my cubicle and everyone around me largely ignores it. Five or six other people surround me, all within earshot, and I can’t even banter with them. In any other environment, my tongue-in-cheek ‘thank-you’ would have gotten a round of applause, followed by a snide-remark in return. I.E.:


“Alright, good work!” Said over the shoulder, obviously meant for someone else.

“Thank you.” Followed by much laughter.

“Ha, good work. Work is like the f-word to you, something you’ve never done.” Followed by more laughter, and this is obviously my fantasy job as a construction worker** since nobody here EVER says the f-word (or maybe they do, just not around me).

Taking off my white glove (you didn't realize I was wearing gloves, did you), I reply by inserting a recently materialized brick into the glove, and then proceed to slap my co-worker's face several times with the brick-heavy glove, in manner of Yosemite Sam and Bugs Bunny. When I'm done, I shake the brick-remains out into a small pile at my feet. . . .


But, you get the idea.

And actually, I did have a job like this. The cd store in Logan. Graywhale. Where everything was always a joke and I was teased over everything, from my secret love for pop music to being a lesbian (which I’m not, but that didn’t stop my male co-workers. They were all male and fantasists). And actually, if I think about it a lot and am honest, I prefer the job where no one gets my sense of humor and there’s a thin pretense of respecting each other. I prefer that over the job where everything’s a joke.

But seriously. Can’t there be an in-between? If there is, sign me up.

Tomorrow,"10 things the bathroom at work is NOT intended for."



*Obviously names have been changed to protect me from losing my job over writing blog entries about work.
**Construction worker?

Niagara Falls

While being tempted to write about something sobering (realistic/unrealistic expectations in people), I settle on telling you about Niagara Falls lady.

I first noticed her about a month after I began working here. I didn’t actually see her face for several weeks, that’s why I started calling her Niagara Falls lady (she could have been anyone). At risk of being disgusting, I tell you that she drew my attention immediately for her efficient ability to simply and seemingly open a trap door beneath her bladder and unload high volumes of urine all at once. The gushing noises coming from her bathroom stall are unlike anything I’ve ever heard before (even louder and more impressive—in a gross way—than the sound of a man urinating into a toilet). It’s intimidating. For myself, I’ve usually just begun and have barely made a dent in my own full bladder and she’s all done (most often she’s come into the bathroom after me). Maybe this is too much information, but I tell you what, I’ve seriously wondered if she’s not an alien in disguise.

It wasn’t for several months until I pieced it all together: Niagara Falls lady is this scary looking woman who moves quickly, efficiently, always in a hurry. Very businesslike. She actually looks like she might be an alien disguised as a woman. Pale skin and hair. Dark, eerie eyes. Tall. I’ve never spoken to her, and though I know her name, I’ll never tell. She may be the nicest person in the workplace, for all I know. The first time I saw her, I thought it would be fitting if she was, in fact, the Niagara Falls lady. Well she was. And I’ve created this impossible history for her, as well as a new name. Sometimes I dread going to the ladies' room. She might come in. When she does, I always suspect her from the quick, high-heeled step, click-click-click-click-click. A brief pause. Maybe an unzipping sound. And then, let the floodgates unloose their burden!

Disturbing.

Speak Up

Today I read an article the in Deseret News about how the ACLU and other organizations are protesting the web page posted by Health and Human Services about teens and sexuality. They say the article preaches values, focusing on abstinence. The government can’t teach values, they say.

So I’m really opinionated about it. I loathe the ACLU. Anyway, I figured I’d go to this website to see how it taught values. Through a series of links, I found the site directed towards teens and their sexual health (link). Under the heading “Related Issues,” are links for “Abstinence” and then “Birth Control.” I went to both of these sights to read what was so offensive to the ACLU and the homosexual alliances.

First of all, I feel pretty bleak about America. My outlook for our country is dismal, and if history is any indicator for what will happen to us, then I’m certain we’re in for a major crumble. Or tumble. Like Humpty Dumpty, sitting upon a wall. It doesn’t help that no one in any station of authority can (or will) take a stand for strict morals without being attacked by the ACLU or the media or anyone. The only guy who doesn’t care what you say about him, who dares to call it like he sees it is Mike Savage. While I don't always agree with him, I respect that he's not swayed by popular opinion or harsh criticism.

Personally, the things I read on the HHS’s website were refreshing. I agree that the only foolproof, guaranteed way to not get pregnant or not contract an STD is through abstinence. Because of the human tendency to err. You can always make a mistake even after taking every precaution, and as a teenager, do you want to risk it? I don’t think so. Live young. Live without a care or worry about pregnancy or STD’s. What a way to rush old age, with heavy concerns like that on your mind ("Am I pregnant?" or "Do I have HIV?"). And aside from the risk for pregnancy, teenagers are not mentally equipped to deal with the ramifications of being sexual. (See National Geographic’s cover story on the brain.) It’s huge. And everyone knows that relationships are complicated beyond comprehension by the smallest kiss, let alone sex.

Anyway, I’m not saying teenagers shouldn’t be taught about birth control methods other than abstinence, nor does the HHS web site. It’s still instructive and explicit. Go visit the site, read about the controversy and speak up with your opinion. Be heard. If you don’t have children, like I don’t, it still matters. Someday you might have kids and think about what you’d want them to know. Think about what you’d want for them, what you’d want to do. You were a teenagers once, think about what you wanted to know and what you wanted people to say to you. You may disagree with me. Whatever. Just think about it. All of us are still teenagers within, looking for beliefs to cling to.