(no subject)
Olga Petrovsky (legrandmal) wrote,
@ 2004-11-24 10:07:00
http://www.pbs.org/now/politics/indiangaming.html
Working in the restaurant industry, I've been learning little corporate tricks to subliminally compel one to spend more money. It's called "suggestive selling", and it's constituted by the ability to make one's mouth water with desire. Though, after learning about these little techniques, I knew it had to be done in every store, where selling was the goal, so I began to pay close attention to advertisements....the little inconspicuous ones. I can't even walk through Meijer or Wal-Mart anymore without hearing little bells going off in my head at every aisle, suggestively selling me whatever items I happen to be surrounded by on either side at the particular time when Bing Crosby reminds me that a white Christmas is on its way.
I don't know, I think it was Bing Crosby. I wouldn't put anything past that bastard.
Though I have to admit, I saw the beautiful colors red and white in the sound, and it added bounce to my walk down the Barbie aisle. I didn't think it was possible, but Barbie's are even uglier now than when I was little. Yet, I began to make plans for what I was going to buy for my children.
Earlier in the evening my friends and I had been sitting in an elite coffee shop downtown some city that only believes they're elite because they've never really known the actual size of the world, or the actual size of the world's problems. It was romantic. Their relationship was a disgusting display of female empowered by her seductive abilities, carefully concentrated on man sent gravelling. Unable to watch it anymore, I focused on the table that lay between them, in the distance. The woman eased up to her nervous conversation as the man smiled this hesitant smile, agreed with gestures that resembled anxiety, feeling that if he were to express verbally how much they had in common, she couldn't simply believe him, or that he had originally had any ideas of his own, just because he wasn't the one to first open his mouth.
I knew that, despite the current inadequacy stemmed from intense attraction, they were probably going to be married and live happily ever after. For a few years anyway.
I then looked past them to the white Christmas lights hanging from above the store windows. They reminded me of last winter, and the winter before last. Pneumonia ridden walks and nostalgia for the nostalgic days when Barbie was still a beauty queen to me.
I accompanied my party to Meijer, where they would buy forty fish that would be theirs together. Not ready to commit to kids, not ready to commit to pets, but past plants, we have fish. I imagined a fish dying each time she smacked him in the face in a "don't be naive, darling" tone, until finally we would have the Agatha Christy novel within the aquarium "And Then There Were None". I was sick of them, and I still am sick of them, just like I'm sick of every single god damned piece of shit in my life right now (that's right, every single god damned piece of shit in my life right now), so I ventured alone down the department store aisles, sick with a growing want for kids, a family, a house, a cat, a car, a job, 6 a.m. business meetings, homecomings absent of traces of the hostilities I harbored as a teenager, and no memory of my conformism. I just wanted to listen to U2, cook with a George Forman Grill, and have a house with the "exotic couch" of the mainstream department store, and the largest pot of Bamboo in the plant section. Want painted a picture that could be fulfilled with nothing but display items.
Thank God I'm detached from my own vivid imagination. These are visions of someone else's life, and when I actually add the finishing touch, my figure in the picture, I realize, there could be no counterpart properly placed here that I loved, and if my child were to grow up complimenting the shades of canvas I had given him or her, he could never be something I would be proud of.
Of course, he or she is going to grow up however the hell he or she wants to grow up, but like my parents did with me, I want to instill within them as much as I can. When their little brains develop they can decide for themselves...it's just, their little brains had better develop.
Thus, I'm young and in no hurry, but when life finally comes, I will not be recreating the magazine setting from page 72 that so many have before.
I'm letting my style dissentegrate with hopes that it will take on some amazing form in the opposite direction, below the division line of positive and negative numbers. Visually, I can always transpose it, so all that's really important is the absolute value.
Though I fail every math class I take (well, I mean, I did amazing in algebra, but backed down from the next step because...you know who I've been for several years now, memorizing the ceiling cracks above the bathtub, spending days analyzing dreams I have at night, and occasionally biting a nail or two without thinking), the termonology and concepts I learn in the short time I try are amazing, clean, and logical concepts I can apply to just about...well, anything I try.
A few weeks ago I was in this interesting little building where I was given my GED test. The ceiling was made of windows that met at an arch, and several feet below it was another ceiling to a sort of...building within a building. I tried to flat iron everything into two dimensions, and found I could only do so when putting faith in shades and proportions. When break was over and I returned to the room, I was given a random essay question regarding my approach to stressful situations, and what steps I use to organize. I told them, in so many words, that I flattened my situations to small, surrealist paintings which I could grasp through theories, and then acted accordingly to my own perception. I sat down with the intent to somehow make what I wanted to say relevant to what I needed to say, and two pages later, I realized...I am the master of excuses and the master of rationalizations.
@ 2004-11-24 10:07:00
http://www.pbs.org/now/politics/indiangaming.html
Working in the restaurant industry, I've been learning little corporate tricks to subliminally compel one to spend more money. It's called "suggestive selling", and it's constituted by the ability to make one's mouth water with desire. Though, after learning about these little techniques, I knew it had to be done in every store, where selling was the goal, so I began to pay close attention to advertisements....the little inconspicuous ones. I can't even walk through Meijer or Wal-Mart anymore without hearing little bells going off in my head at every aisle, suggestively selling me whatever items I happen to be surrounded by on either side at the particular time when Bing Crosby reminds me that a white Christmas is on its way.
I don't know, I think it was Bing Crosby. I wouldn't put anything past that bastard.
Though I have to admit, I saw the beautiful colors red and white in the sound, and it added bounce to my walk down the Barbie aisle. I didn't think it was possible, but Barbie's are even uglier now than when I was little. Yet, I began to make plans for what I was going to buy for my children.
Earlier in the evening my friends and I had been sitting in an elite coffee shop downtown some city that only believes they're elite because they've never really known the actual size of the world, or the actual size of the world's problems. It was romantic. Their relationship was a disgusting display of female empowered by her seductive abilities, carefully concentrated on man sent gravelling. Unable to watch it anymore, I focused on the table that lay between them, in the distance. The woman eased up to her nervous conversation as the man smiled this hesitant smile, agreed with gestures that resembled anxiety, feeling that if he were to express verbally how much they had in common, she couldn't simply believe him, or that he had originally had any ideas of his own, just because he wasn't the one to first open his mouth.
I knew that, despite the current inadequacy stemmed from intense attraction, they were probably going to be married and live happily ever after. For a few years anyway.
I then looked past them to the white Christmas lights hanging from above the store windows. They reminded me of last winter, and the winter before last. Pneumonia ridden walks and nostalgia for the nostalgic days when Barbie was still a beauty queen to me.
I accompanied my party to Meijer, where they would buy forty fish that would be theirs together. Not ready to commit to kids, not ready to commit to pets, but past plants, we have fish. I imagined a fish dying each time she smacked him in the face in a "don't be naive, darling" tone, until finally we would have the Agatha Christy novel within the aquarium "And Then There Were None". I was sick of them, and I still am sick of them, just like I'm sick of every single god damned piece of shit in my life right now (that's right, every single god damned piece of shit in my life right now), so I ventured alone down the department store aisles, sick with a growing want for kids, a family, a house, a cat, a car, a job, 6 a.m. business meetings, homecomings absent of traces of the hostilities I harbored as a teenager, and no memory of my conformism. I just wanted to listen to U2, cook with a George Forman Grill, and have a house with the "exotic couch" of the mainstream department store, and the largest pot of Bamboo in the plant section. Want painted a picture that could be fulfilled with nothing but display items.
Thank God I'm detached from my own vivid imagination. These are visions of someone else's life, and when I actually add the finishing touch, my figure in the picture, I realize, there could be no counterpart properly placed here that I loved, and if my child were to grow up complimenting the shades of canvas I had given him or her, he could never be something I would be proud of.
Of course, he or she is going to grow up however the hell he or she wants to grow up, but like my parents did with me, I want to instill within them as much as I can. When their little brains develop they can decide for themselves...it's just, their little brains had better develop.
Thus, I'm young and in no hurry, but when life finally comes, I will not be recreating the magazine setting from page 72 that so many have before.
I'm letting my style dissentegrate with hopes that it will take on some amazing form in the opposite direction, below the division line of positive and negative numbers. Visually, I can always transpose it, so all that's really important is the absolute value.
Though I fail every math class I take (well, I mean, I did amazing in algebra, but backed down from the next step because...you know who I've been for several years now, memorizing the ceiling cracks above the bathtub, spending days analyzing dreams I have at night, and occasionally biting a nail or two without thinking), the termonology and concepts I learn in the short time I try are amazing, clean, and logical concepts I can apply to just about...well, anything I try.
A few weeks ago I was in this interesting little building where I was given my GED test. The ceiling was made of windows that met at an arch, and several feet below it was another ceiling to a sort of...building within a building. I tried to flat iron everything into two dimensions, and found I could only do so when putting faith in shades and proportions. When break was over and I returned to the room, I was given a random essay question regarding my approach to stressful situations, and what steps I use to organize. I told them, in so many words, that I flattened my situations to small, surrealist paintings which I could grasp through theories, and then acted accordingly to my own perception. I sat down with the intent to somehow make what I wanted to say relevant to what I needed to say, and two pages later, I realized...I am the master of excuses and the master of rationalizations.