Hard day at the office

During my time working for an unnamed cable network, I’ve had many moments where I’ve paused and asked “is this really my life?”  None moreso than today.

I started my day by watching “Cheaters,” which has entered my list of top ten greatest shows in the history of television.  It’s the perfect storm of comedy, violence, mystery, and suspense.  They feature the trashiest people Texas has to offer, and the voice over writing is top notch.

For instance, in one episode they were following an extremely fat bitch as she cheated on her boyfriend.  The show had to throw in obligatory weight jokes, of course.  The narration:  “Then, the couple stopped off for super-sized grinders at a sandwich shop.  After she made quick work of her sandwich…”

There’s always a terrific payoff, when the cheater gets caught in a random location with the other person.  The cheater always denies it, even as the camera crew surrounds them and Joey Greco reveals they were being followed.  The next response is shock at how their significant other would DARE involve a television show in their private lives, yet their face isnt blurred so they obviously signed a release granting permission that their private lives be featured on said show.

After finishing up with this gem, the next thing on my to-do list was watching a Spring Break wet t-shirt contest and a sexual positions contest. Both of which involved women exposing their breasts and kissing other women.  Most workplaces fire you for looking at this kind of content, but for me, it’s required viewing, and a test to keep myself in check.  It’s tough to not get a chuckle of excitment out of this, as I am only human.  Though I’m watching nudity, there is a female coworker five feet away from me who can see my monitor. 

In an act of what must’ve been divine intervention, the internet radio station I was listening to rebooted and went to the All-Christmas channel.  So as I’m watching two 19-year-old girls from the University of Missouri grind on each other with exposed nipples, Bing Crosby’s rendition of “Away in a Manger” was the audio backdrop.  Nothing could have done a better job of killing the mood.

I took it as a reminder to be more pious and complied by moving on to the more family friendly Naked Bungee Jumping.

Hopefully my workload tomorrow wont be as stiff.

To the boom box guy

Yes, I’m talking to you.  You know who you are.  You were walking on Sunset this afternoon with two street tough friends, dressed like you were going to the Warped Tour in 1995.  Slung over your shoulder was a boom box, blasting out dope indie rock for all the world to hear.  You walked in beat http://pro.corbis.com/images/42-15218811.jpg?size=67&uid=%7B42F57938-6EDE-4507-AA35-4C22ED42EE3D%7Dwith the song, inviting everyone within earshot to see how cool you are.

I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s been a lot of technological advances since 1991 that make listening to music in public more practical.  The Walkman, for instance.  You can listen to music via a compact player that fits in your hands.  Or the ipod, which can hold your entire collection of music.  Each of these has a head phone jack that allows you to listen privately.

How will your friends be able to listen?  Well, they can put the music in their own ipods and enjoy it at their leisure.

Also, holding a heavy and awkward object over your shoulder like that is very unhealthy for your back.  Eventually, this could cause a misaligned spine or a herniated disc.  Both of which aren’t worth it just so you can prove your hipness.  Real hipsters don’t have to prove anything to ANYONE.

If the issue is not looking cool or being unable to impress your friends, worry not.  As long as long greasy hair, clothes that are three sizes too big, and Vans are in style, you’ll always eat with the popular kids at school.

Barenaked Ladies + Children = Me

I’m an unabashed fan of Barenaked Ladies, the literal meaning of the phrase and, arguably more so, the band.  After being talked into attending a concert in November 2000, I’ve bought every CD, learned every song, and even have a ridiculously dorky t-shirt with a thumbs up on it.  I fervently defend them and block out the laughs when I tell people of my favorite band and they think I’m joking.

BNL have released a children’s album, “Snacktime,” and are doing a mini-promotional tour.  Upon hearing they’d be at the nearby grove on June 11th, I was giddy with enthusiasm.

Then something better came along.

My producer sent out an e-mail to the team that he found amusing.  It was promoting an upcoming BNL show at The TreeHouse, a swanky childcare center in Beverly Hills.  This exclusive show was only $25 per ticket.  With an arousal usually reserved for bedroom antics, I tracked down the number of the venue.  The fact that it was a childrens album being peformed at a daycare center did make for a mild red flag, but I forged ahead anyways.

“Hello, Treehouse,” the woman answered.
“Hi, I’d like to purchase tickets to the Barenaked Ladies show,” I said enthusiastically.
“OK, great,” She said.  “Are you a member of the Treehouse?”

A bit of panic began to set in.  Maybe getting the tickets wouldn’t be so easy.

“Um, no, we’re just really big fans of the band and would love to see them perform for the kids,” the dispair set in.
“Sir, this show is for members only.  How many children do you want to bring, and how many in your party total?”
“Well, no kids.  Just two adults.”
“This is a kids’ show.”
“Like I said, I’m just a huge fan.  Is there anything you can do?”
“Let me check with my boss.”

I was put on hold for a minute, but I already knew the answer.

“Hi sir.  This is a members only show with a 50 seat venue, so we’re not allowing outsiders to purchase.  But, give me your name and number and I’ll call you if something changes.”

At this point, embarassment set in.  This woman probably thought I was a creepy child molestor wanting in the children’s concert under the guise of a true fan.  I was going to say “at least she doesn’t know who I am,” but I promptly gave her my name and number, so I’m most likely blacklisted from The Treehouse for life.

Although I suffered some mild embarassment and the chance that people I don’t know think I’m creepy for wanting to go to a children’s rock concert, it was worth it for the slim chance that they’d call back and let me see the show.

And I wouldn’t bring any candy, I swear.