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Monthly Archives: September 2008

Some elderly lady wouldn’t let me help her find some underwear she was looking for a couple of days ago. Every other sentence was, “Is there maybe a girl working?” I really wanted to tell her something along the lines of:

“I don’t mean to be rude, but you can barely even describe what you’re looking for–give me a chance to help you, and I’ll attempt to help you. To be honest, I’ve probably touched more panties in the past three weeks than you have ever worn. Every single pair of panties on this table was either removed from a box or organized in the drawers by my hands. Sorry for going out on a limb and assuming this, but we keep all our ‘granny panties’ on a table in the back room.”

Oddly enough, when I got a female representative to help her, the girl guided her to the High Leg Briefs in the back (a.k.a. the Granny Panties). I simply shook my head and prevented myself by yelling “I told you so” after her by reminding myself that I hadn’t actually said anything to this lady besides, “What are you looking for” and “Of course I can find you a female sales representative.”

Some girl came in looking for G-strings. I showed her where the String and Double String Thongs were, but before she could go she found and held up what she was really looking for. I told her those were called String Bikinis and laughed a little. She said, “Wow, I guess you know more about panties than I do.” We both laughed because I obviously do. No, really–I tend to know more about panties than the people who actually wear them…isn’t that kind of sad? Barring my place of employment, there is no logical reason for me to ever know the difference between High Rise and Low Rise panties, Hipsters and Cheeky Hipsters, Bikinis and String Bikinis. But I do. And sometimes that’s awesome.

To be fair, I wear boxers. I don’t have to have a broad knowledge of what’s embracing my dangly parts.


Last night I dreamt that Sean Connery was in a library where he told myself and a group of my colleagues that Spyware will save the world. He said, in a significantly Sean Connery-ish accent, “If we didn’t know where the problems were, then how would we fix them? Spyware is the main reeshon computers are advancing so quickly.” I was about to ask him why the hell he was theorizing in a library as well as why he hasn’t been in a movie for years when I woke up.

Why the hell are there still overdraft protection fees in this day and age? I think it was probably perfectly understandable in the 40’s and earlier when a teller would get a call like, “Hey Geraldine? Some stupid college kid forgot how to add again. Can you transfer some money from his savings account to his checking account before the day is up? Great. Thanks. Oh, also, be sure to give yourself $20 of his money for being an idiot. But don’t bill him for idiot charges. Call it something like…I don’t know…overdraft fees?”

But these days who are they kidding with these overdraft fees? “Hey, computer program–some dumbass just wrote a check his ass couldn’t cash. Can you just not listen to me and automatically transfer $100 from his savings to his checking then automatically deduct another $20 and give it to the bank? Oh, you already did? Great work, computer program. Keep up the good work and we won’t fire you. Or reprogram you. Or update you. Wait a minute, why the hell am I talking to my computer? Where’d I put my anti-psychotics? Hey Geraldine! Who took my pants??”

Yes, that’s right. I am trying to imply that the only sane person in the Banking industry for the last 60 years has been Geraldine. In related news, way to go, WaMu! USA! USA! USA!

There seems to have been some sort of street rave over the weekend at my Alma mater. When the article about it was uploaded to the newspaper’s online community, to paraphrase The Roots, shit started poppin’ off world-wide. People brought up everything from the Vagina Monologues to Muslim professors taking down American flags–who, upon closer inspection, were American and not necessarily Muslim–after 9/11. Since all these exciting trivialities kept coming up, I get the impression that people–on both sides–have been storing up some things they wanted to say to each other and were glad to be able to finally express them in a forum.

General sentiment seemed to align in two camps: the kids said something along the lines of, “We work hard, we party hard, we don’t like this town and we don’t think WPD responded appropriately.” Of course, that was never literally said, but that’s neither here nor there. The adults seemed to say, when they were at their most coherent, “We work hard, we don’t understand why you have to party hard, this town doesn’t like you either and you were drinking in public. You broke the law and you’re whining too much because you’re privileged. Your school’s not that great and you need to act more maturely.”

So then, shouldn’t we be able to reach an agreement on this? Worcester‘s not the best city in the world. It’s okay to admit that the second biggest city in New England is not the second most awesome place in the world. But, in all honesty, what town hasn’t had it’s ups and downs? What city doesn’t have scars and down-and-out parts of town? You can find what you need and it’s near to a lot of other stuff that you can’t get right there. I know those generalities aren’t particularly insightful, but we’ve all got to live somewhere, right? At the very least, we’ve all got to live. (Oh Christ, I sound like such a hippie.)

If memory serves, one person said something about how she could not understand why college kids couldn’t act like mature adults. I guess, doesn’t it have to do with the part about how college kids are neither mature nor adults? I’m fairly sure that I never considered myself either one in college and even now it’s hard to call myself an adult; part time at Victoria’s Secret is not a career. I also submit that I ever become mature, I have lived a terrible lie.

Sure, sure, drinking underage is obviously illegal, but when you have people around you who are not only of age but also rife with fake IDs, why then is it so hard to believe college students drink illegally? I’m not condoning it, but let me say this: I was a Head Resident Assistant and I still found time to drink. I think it’s fair to say, drinking socially on the weekends is a part of our country’s makeup. Then again, just as underage drinking has become part of the definition of America, so has excessive (or binge) drinking.

I mean, is it me or are these things sort of obvious? I think some of the things I wrote are even summaries of some of the comments; most of the arguments I made are not original. I think these people could argue with each other ad nauseam and still come up with these same basic conclusions. Doesn’t that also imply that since this has been going on for years and that every “new” point someone makes is just another variation of all of the above, that these two opposing groups will never agree with each other? Everyone has the same points of contention but no one is able to present a solution; wouldn’t it be fair to say that these complaints are, quite possibly, devoid of a solution? No, I take that back; I have a solution.

Some kids made a mistake and went to jail. We’ve all made mistakes. Now everyone just shut the fuck up and get along.

Diora Baird writes love letters to funny guys but she lives on the other coast.


I saw two episodes of Sex and the City the night before last and it was hard to come to terms with what faced me. I’m a less read, more frequently published and significantly less sexed Carrie Bradshaw.


Upon reflection, I am a completely misguided fuck. I’m in the middle of attempting to live four dreams at the same time while pretending that I can do one in my spare time. In all honesty, it was my high school dream to work at Victoria’s Secret and now I’ve done it and this is even my second tour. So one down, four to go then.

But what I mean is, I’ve wanted to be a firefighter since about the age of 15, an editor since the age of 21, a Lego designer, subliminally, since the age of 8 and a touring guitarist since the age of 19 or 20. Sure, I had the majors to do just about any of those–Mathematics and English (concentration in Poetry, bitches!!!!)–but how in the hell do I do all four at once??? One of them is even in Denmark–I can’t put out fires in NYC one week and fly off and design awesome T-shirts and city dwellers for the next week while writing songs and editing books on the plane. Even though that would pretty much be ideal, living the dream as it were. Jesus, I just realized I’d even love to make jokes for a living–I guess I incorporate that on the air time? Shiiiiiiiiyyuuuutttttt, that makes one down five to go!!!!!

To a certain extent, a lot of this could easily be classified as escapism. It’s not quite that I want what I can’t have, just that I can’t decide upon what I don’t have right now. I met a dude last night who was talking about an internship at his production company and I thought, “Why in the hell did I go to NYU’s Summer Publishing Institute if it’s fairly clear–to the both of us–that I would much prefer to be in the music industry?” It’s entirely possible the only reason is because I knew, subliminally, that this is the town for everything. I applied to NYU and Columbia, but when my mom suggested applying for the Denver program I was like, “Naaaahhhh, that’s dumber than illegal drug use.” She was all like, “Yeah…I guess you’re right.”

They got all kinds of shit here, literally anything in my wildest dreams. I guess I just have to send my resume to everyone I want to be. But in the mean time:

Dear cover letters,

I hate you, fuck off, die!!!!!!!

Look, so sometimes this hurts to admit, but sometimes there’s nothing better for you. My only roommate who’s not as white as I am made me realize I’m a dumbass.

I think it’s the first time I’ve cried since I heard my aunt was dead almost three years ago, but it was truly eye-opening. She posed it as “Ask-A-Black-Person” and I realized, she was right, I was totally trying to take advantage of the fact that I live with two white dudes and a black chick.

Sometimes, there’s nothing like realizing how ignorant you are than being one of a few who pretends to be OK with living far–FAR-away from what you grew up with. And yet, you both know that neither of you has ever experienced this sort of thing before and that you are on the douchehbag end for avoiding eye contact.

It comes downs to so much more than eye contact, but those are the basics, you see what I mean? I have secluded myself simply because of skin color. People are people and there’s no reason that People (who like the same music and culture that I do) should not get along with another. We all like to be alive, so why not co-exist?

I apologize for dreams of bullets in the head, Notorious B.I.G. fantasies, etc. I’m an ignorant asshole and I’m only just coming to terms with it, so, I’m sorry.

Again, sleep well, and know that I’m sorry that years in suburbia have disguised my ignorance.

No, seriously, for years I thought I was better than this. I sorry I’m an asshole and I promise it will never happen again. Good morrow.

I had no idea my apartment-mates were so awesome. Some of them are producers, some of them work at Atlantic and some of them encouraged me to sleep with one of my apartmentmates. Gross.

Anyway, the most awesome of them agreed with me. Even the producers who work at major labels are like, “No, That T-Pain Shit? Done within the year.” I was all like, “Oh my God, Someone agrees with me. Best. Night. Ever.”

They were even like, “Yo, for real. Kanye’s last album was dope….but, too much radio play killed it.”

Even one of the guys was like, when I asked him who the best rapper alive was, “I mean Weazy is crazy in the booth. I hated on him, expected him to be an asshole, but the dude was the most down-to-earth guy I’ve ever met, but he’s not the best rapper alive. He’ll listen to a beat, Ingest it, come back five minutes later without writing anything down and rap.” I was like, “But what about Jay-Z?” and, of course, he goes, “dope as shit” and I was like, “Agreed.”

In general, it was great to meet some other people that thought T-Pain’s career would end within the year and that there are better rappers alive than Weezy. OMG, I’m not alone.

This certainly is a beautiful world.

I was watching some spanish channel telenovela where this dude was in the middle of a field for apparently no reason except to make a fence with his huge beard and sledgehammer. The show kept cutting between him and these other people inside a house. All of sudden, a bright light showed up and the dude in the field appears to have died as well as the dude inside who was playing the piano. (But, knowing telenovelas as I have come to understand them in the past couple of weeks, those two are not really dead: their souls may have been stolen, but they will both come back to life at just the opportune moment. Say, when their bodies are being put into graves???? “Ay, papi!!! Tu vives!!!! No me encanta Miguel nada mas!!!!!!!!”)

This got me thinking, “WTF?????” as well as, “You know what, spanish channel TV is right. I do need a sledgehammer for no reason at all (and to stop shaving, clearly).”

I have absolutely no idea what I’d do with one but I do know that those aliens and that fence in the middle of nowhere made me realize that I’ve had a hankering to destroy something–anything–recently. Sometimes I’ll have my roommate’s guitar in my hands and be like, “I ought to Pete Townshend the crap out of this guitar…but it’s not mine so I won’t.” Sometimes I look at the walls in the kitchen and think, “Well, we don’t really need that one right there. We’d probably all be better off if it was gone. Now where’d I put my sledgehammer…”

I think it’s also just part of my job ruining my psychological makeup again. I have to organize and put together so much stuff to earn a living as well as keep my apartment in tip-top condition that sometimes the creation breeds desire for destruction; I want to be Shiva after having acted as Vishnu for so long. Then again, it could even be simpler than that: man make fire, man put out fire; man grow beard, chop logs so man can make or break house as he like. Man go buy sledehammer, beat up nerd and steal lunch money now.