Gound- n. The crusty yellow substance that collects in the corner of one's eye while one sleeps.
so we can get rid on eye- boogers and sleep snot, with it's proper term, you can talk about gound at the dinner table! (no don't thank me, just glad to help)
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
All I wanted was some help...Damn!
Recently I was in need of a curl defining leave-in conditioner so I decided to seek help from my friendly neighborhood product specialist at Ricky’s Beauty Supply store. I have to preface this tale be saying that in the past I have found the sales people at Ricky’s (various locations) enthusiastically helpful and full of information about the products they carry. Now I don’t know if Mars was in retrograde, the moon was full, or the two female clerks had been working with each other long enough to sync their PMS cycles, but on this day I was highly disappointed.
So I enter the store, it was completely empty. I went to the hair care section and began to scan my choices. Lost in the labels I sought help, I spied a clerk re-stocking a shelf about ten feet away,
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me?”
She looked over at me, without moving a muscle and I suppose that since she was looked at me, I was to infer that she was listening.
I waited a beat just to see if she would make a move to get up and actually engage me but…no.
“Could you come over here?” I asked- yes I had a tone in my voice; you know that I did because you could almost hear it in this written word. She rose with a slight huff that implied a slight annoyance at having to …I don’t know…do something…
When she finally reached me I presented my query. “I am looking for a leave-in curl definer, which could you recommend?”
She sighed, and thought,
“Well” she said sounding as if she was in desperate need of a B-12 shot “I use this.” She picked up a bottle. I waited for more information, like perhaps a why, or a what made it different, better…nothing. Finally I asked her about another product I had heard about,
“Yeah, that’s good too.”
“Because…I mean what is the difference between them….”
She looked at me with a vacancy sign flashing in her eyes, oh yeah there were many rooms available in that hotel. I searched her face for signs of life- screw intelligence.
“It can leave a film” she said like some of my student when their answer is more of question in hopes of…
Okay so after I pulled the front two molars, I was pretty sure that there were no wisdom teeth to extract in her case. I was frustrated, and started to break.
“There is a shelf full of product here that say they do want I want, there has to be some difference between them, can’t you tell me anything?”
It was like ringing the bell on the concierge’s desk when the “Gone Fishing” sign is out.
I was through with her, useless.
“You know what? You’re a bit passive about helping me, is there anyone else who might know?” she pointed to the women behind the counter, counting bottles. Again there is no one in the store, we are in the middle of a Re-Depression and I am trying to purchase something you would think that in the interest of job security there might be more urgency. Ummm…no.
“Excuse me.” I begin to young woman’s narrow back, she turned around and immediately I see that the neon light in her eyes is doing that flickering dance they do right before dying out, you know that intermittent flashing that can give an epileptic a seizure?
I reiterate my desire to her. Nothing. I ask her if she had a sample of the product Zombie #1 suggested. She routs through a drawer and has none. She looks at me as if to say “What! What else do you want?”
“Can you make any suggestions?”
“You can look back there on the shelf, all of the conditioners are back there”
I had had it.
“I was just back there, can you come out from there and help me?”
She huffs, and begins to come from behind the counter when she bumps into a guy whom she quickly passed off the pesky task of WORK to. Now you have to understand that this gentleman was standing not a foot from her when I told her what I needed, so you might be able to understand my irascibility when he ask what I needed!
I was done, done with these passive, lazy ass people who were supposed to be at work, who were supposed to be their to provide information, and sell things – but who were acting as though they couldn’t be bothered, and can’t seem to understand why the hell you are interrupting them from whatever they are NOT doing.
I abhor bad service, and I abhor people who make it your problem that they hate their jobs! I what to slap the audacity off of the faces of cashiers who hold conversations with one another as they check you out slower than Canadian Molasses moves in the dead of Winter, and then drop your change for not watching what they are doing. I am sick of bad service, no I am sick at people not taking pride in their work, no matter how “menial” it might seem it’s necessary, it needs to be done which makes it important. With the economic condition we’re in everybody who has a job to go to better be damned grateful. Everybody should be tap dancing during rush hour because they have a place to rush to!
Sorry but I had to get it out. Look all I’m saying is:
If you’re at work- be at work, do your job! If you’re in the service industry, SERVE! You can’t work at the information desk and get pissed when someone asks you a question. If you don’t like your job, find another (and- good luck with that these days LMAO), otherwise, suck it up like everyone else and then after your shift go get a cocktail like everyone else, and just hope that you bartender doesn’t have a shitty attitude!
So I enter the store, it was completely empty. I went to the hair care section and began to scan my choices. Lost in the labels I sought help, I spied a clerk re-stocking a shelf about ten feet away,
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me?”
She looked over at me, without moving a muscle and I suppose that since she was looked at me, I was to infer that she was listening.
I waited a beat just to see if she would make a move to get up and actually engage me but…no.
“Could you come over here?” I asked- yes I had a tone in my voice; you know that I did because you could almost hear it in this written word. She rose with a slight huff that implied a slight annoyance at having to …I don’t know…do something…
When she finally reached me I presented my query. “I am looking for a leave-in curl definer, which could you recommend?”
She sighed, and thought,
“Well” she said sounding as if she was in desperate need of a B-12 shot “I use this.” She picked up a bottle. I waited for more information, like perhaps a why, or a what made it different, better…nothing. Finally I asked her about another product I had heard about,
“Yeah, that’s good too.”
“Because…I mean what is the difference between them….”
She looked at me with a vacancy sign flashing in her eyes, oh yeah there were many rooms available in that hotel. I searched her face for signs of life- screw intelligence.
“It can leave a film” she said like some of my student when their answer is more of question in hopes of…
Okay so after I pulled the front two molars, I was pretty sure that there were no wisdom teeth to extract in her case. I was frustrated, and started to break.
“There is a shelf full of product here that say they do want I want, there has to be some difference between them, can’t you tell me anything?”
It was like ringing the bell on the concierge’s desk when the “Gone Fishing” sign is out.
I was through with her, useless.
“You know what? You’re a bit passive about helping me, is there anyone else who might know?” she pointed to the women behind the counter, counting bottles. Again there is no one in the store, we are in the middle of a Re-Depression and I am trying to purchase something you would think that in the interest of job security there might be more urgency. Ummm…no.
“Excuse me.” I begin to young woman’s narrow back, she turned around and immediately I see that the neon light in her eyes is doing that flickering dance they do right before dying out, you know that intermittent flashing that can give an epileptic a seizure?
I reiterate my desire to her. Nothing. I ask her if she had a sample of the product Zombie #1 suggested. She routs through a drawer and has none. She looks at me as if to say “What! What else do you want?”
“Can you make any suggestions?”
“You can look back there on the shelf, all of the conditioners are back there”
I had had it.
“I was just back there, can you come out from there and help me?”
She huffs, and begins to come from behind the counter when she bumps into a guy whom she quickly passed off the pesky task of WORK to. Now you have to understand that this gentleman was standing not a foot from her when I told her what I needed, so you might be able to understand my irascibility when he ask what I needed!
I was done, done with these passive, lazy ass people who were supposed to be at work, who were supposed to be their to provide information, and sell things – but who were acting as though they couldn’t be bothered, and can’t seem to understand why the hell you are interrupting them from whatever they are NOT doing.
I abhor bad service, and I abhor people who make it your problem that they hate their jobs! I what to slap the audacity off of the faces of cashiers who hold conversations with one another as they check you out slower than Canadian Molasses moves in the dead of Winter, and then drop your change for not watching what they are doing. I am sick of bad service, no I am sick at people not taking pride in their work, no matter how “menial” it might seem it’s necessary, it needs to be done which makes it important. With the economic condition we’re in everybody who has a job to go to better be damned grateful. Everybody should be tap dancing during rush hour because they have a place to rush to!
Sorry but I had to get it out. Look all I’m saying is:
If you’re at work- be at work, do your job! If you’re in the service industry, SERVE! You can’t work at the information desk and get pissed when someone asks you a question. If you don’t like your job, find another (and- good luck with that these days LMAO), otherwise, suck it up like everyone else and then after your shift go get a cocktail like everyone else, and just hope that you bartender doesn’t have a shitty attitude!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Dose of Prose
There were moments when she could feel the spaces within her that were incomplete. Places where miss matched edges touched like the soft spot on an infant’s head, tender, and unable to withstand pressure. In her unfinished places she was jagged and crude, and insecurity grew under wet mossy rocks, thriving in the tight dark spaces. While treading on the flatlands of herself, unexpectedly she would stumble upon these gaps, slipping on one of these unformed areas could send her tumbling into a ravine of uncertainty and indecision. Collapsing into the vortex of organized chaos that was her mind, her head would turn inside a spectacle of color, where her reality twisted within this kaleidoscope of fear …
Unfinished …
At days end in and artist’s studio when all is still, as the paint dries does the work know that is in progress? Can it feel its becoming? Does it rest easily in the knowledge that tomorrow its creator will return and complete its mouth, form fingers? Does the symphony hear the ending of its phrase? Is it restless contemplating its future, does it have thoughts of what it should be? Does it have dreams of a direction of its own? Does it ponder, “How will I turn out?” “ Am I to be a masterpiece?” Does a melody already know its harmony? Does a sketch feel as complete as the final painting, or does it long to be completed? Does it feel…unfinished?
Like a Mona Lisa painted by Picasso, she was fractured and haphazardly reconstructed. There were no neat seams in her structure. She was abstract and indefinable in style and technique. The colors of her were clear, vivid and muddy all at once. Like a Bearden that only knew of itself as a whole, having no recollection that it had been pasted and glued into being from scraps and fragments of once larger, complete objects.
In her unfinished places tiny fissures marred her constitution. There were gaping holes, and fine pinpricks where liquid bits of herself seeped through. Places where she was split open like a tree struck by lightening leaving her insides exposed to the elements. Assured by the firmness of what she knew beneath her feet, she feared the depth of what was yet to be discovered within. She hopped stone by stone from one formed place in herself to another, crossing a creek in the woods of her Self. She tread slowly making her way through life, trying not to get her feet wet in her unfinished places, carefully, toes gripping to what she knew for certain, fearing a loss of footing that could send her plummeting into her void.
If she fell in she would have to struggle against that current like a salmon fighting its way upstream to its death, thrashing about in the turbulent surf of her own becoming. Within the formless void lay the whispers of expectation and the desires people held for her life. The murmurings echoed through the cavern of her head creating a powerful undertow in the murky waters of her unknown. In her uncertainty, the desires she held for herself pulled against the expectations of others. It would be a while before she realized that it was her own voice resonating within her head. In an effort to find the shore of herself, the voices of others had been sublimated into those of her own whispers of fear, of failure, and disappointment. Her sea of Self was wide, deep and upsetting. She was immense, vast and ever changing, full of everything that is or ever was…
Her incompletion threatened to envelop her, thick and heavy it wanted to pull her into the depth of it. The current was strong but she could see the shore. She was so tired she did not think she would make it. She did not know if she wanted to. When the surface is troubled, the depth is at rest; there is silence at the bottom of the sea. It would be so easy to surrender, be drawn down by the current. There was stillness, an ease, a weightlessness down deep. Enervated with life, its struggle and herself, she relented. She would lie on her back, feel the sun on her face; let life happen to her sink or float. No fear, no fight, just float…
Unfinished …
At days end in and artist’s studio when all is still, as the paint dries does the work know that is in progress? Can it feel its becoming? Does it rest easily in the knowledge that tomorrow its creator will return and complete its mouth, form fingers? Does the symphony hear the ending of its phrase? Is it restless contemplating its future, does it have thoughts of what it should be? Does it have dreams of a direction of its own? Does it ponder, “How will I turn out?” “ Am I to be a masterpiece?” Does a melody already know its harmony? Does a sketch feel as complete as the final painting, or does it long to be completed? Does it feel…unfinished?
Like a Mona Lisa painted by Picasso, she was fractured and haphazardly reconstructed. There were no neat seams in her structure. She was abstract and indefinable in style and technique. The colors of her were clear, vivid and muddy all at once. Like a Bearden that only knew of itself as a whole, having no recollection that it had been pasted and glued into being from scraps and fragments of once larger, complete objects.
In her unfinished places tiny fissures marred her constitution. There were gaping holes, and fine pinpricks where liquid bits of herself seeped through. Places where she was split open like a tree struck by lightening leaving her insides exposed to the elements. Assured by the firmness of what she knew beneath her feet, she feared the depth of what was yet to be discovered within. She hopped stone by stone from one formed place in herself to another, crossing a creek in the woods of her Self. She tread slowly making her way through life, trying not to get her feet wet in her unfinished places, carefully, toes gripping to what she knew for certain, fearing a loss of footing that could send her plummeting into her void.
If she fell in she would have to struggle against that current like a salmon fighting its way upstream to its death, thrashing about in the turbulent surf of her own becoming. Within the formless void lay the whispers of expectation and the desires people held for her life. The murmurings echoed through the cavern of her head creating a powerful undertow in the murky waters of her unknown. In her uncertainty, the desires she held for herself pulled against the expectations of others. It would be a while before she realized that it was her own voice resonating within her head. In an effort to find the shore of herself, the voices of others had been sublimated into those of her own whispers of fear, of failure, and disappointment. Her sea of Self was wide, deep and upsetting. She was immense, vast and ever changing, full of everything that is or ever was…
Her incompletion threatened to envelop her, thick and heavy it wanted to pull her into the depth of it. The current was strong but she could see the shore. She was so tired she did not think she would make it. She did not know if she wanted to. When the surface is troubled, the depth is at rest; there is silence at the bottom of the sea. It would be so easy to surrender, be drawn down by the current. There was stillness, an ease, a weightlessness down deep. Enervated with life, its struggle and herself, she relented. She would lie on her back, feel the sun on her face; let life happen to her sink or float. No fear, no fight, just float…
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Word of the Day
Cacocallia-n. The state of being ugly but sexy
Would it be a like that attraction people have to Ellen Barkin? But she's not really ugly per se, just crooked faced so that's not it...
Or it's like how Seal has the scared up face, we don't really know why, but the soft spoken English accent and the raspy voice could make it happen, you just have to avert the gaze...
I know I know, I think I've experienced this. You know those days when the face is beat down but the body is still banging like that little drummer boy?
That's Cacocallia!!
Have you have those days, or is it just me? rummpphummpummm rummpphummpummm rummpphummpummm
Would it be a like that attraction people have to Ellen Barkin? But she's not really ugly per se, just crooked faced so that's not it...
Or it's like how Seal has the scared up face, we don't really know why, but the soft spoken English accent and the raspy voice could make it happen, you just have to avert the gaze...
I know I know, I think I've experienced this. You know those days when the face is beat down but the body is still banging like that little drummer boy?
That's Cacocallia!!
Have you have those days, or is it just me? rummpphummpummm rummpphummpummm rummpphummpummm
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