I shall now eat a rubber tire to the music of The Flight of the Bumblebee... music, maestro!
Last week, I forgot to say thanks very much for the kind birthday wishes. They were terribly nice to read, considering it was a bit of a downer of a day. Spent most of it in a museum-- Louise would be horrified, but there was gelato, which I hope would pacify her-- and the rest of it at a violin concert. (Honestly, I would have rather spent the day doing something a little less cultured, but I'm sort of a philistine that way. I did get to see life-sized replicas of The Swedish Chef and The Electric Mayhem, which cannot be anything but positives in the grand tally-up of life.) Anyway, so. Birthday happened, cake was eaten, next year I'll plan things better. I even wrote a poem about it.
On Turning 23
"Well, that's done,"
she said.
And that's why I don't write poetry, you see.
kadrin made an interesting point about lj-venting the other day that I was mulling over, which I quite agree with but I'm having difficulty summing up in a succinct yet witty response, so we'll just go with an A++++ poster!!! ten thumbs up!!! would listen to again!!! sort of response. He's a cool guy. That helps serve as a segue to the fact that I've been writing and rewriting the same paragraph over and over again, or more accurately, writing and deleting the same paragraph over and over again, trying to convince myself to actually commit to saying something even so vague as "I have not been a particularly happy monkey lately."
And it seems so hideously embarrassing, even to admit that. I want there to be something that goes along with that, but there's really not. I mean, I guess it's an apology. Because when I get in this sort of mood, I become either Captain Reclusive or Captain Bring Down-- and sometimes, if the stars align just right, I become Captain Reclusive Bring Down; there's a theme song and a sidekick in hotpants who gets kidnapped a lot and everything. And I'm really not that way all the time, and I'd hate for people to think I was, just as I hate for people to think I'm any number of other things.
I was never such a ragewad before; I used to be pretty laidback. And it bugs the hell out of me that I'm no longer… uh, me.
Anyway, the best way to defeat Captain Reclusive Bringdown is through swift application of porn and crème brulee. (Or you can use the Wave Trident, but you have to remember to talk to the dolphin on disc 2, and give him five elixirs when he squeaks. This is why it pays to read the walkthrough.)
So. I was recently at the pub-- saying it like that implies that I have a regular place to drink, which I really don't, but it's a lot shorter than saying "I was recently at a bar that I go to often enough that I know what to drink and when Free Glass Night is, but not often enough that everyone knows my name"-- with a friend. She and I have known each other for years, ever since we were wee and often got up to trouble together. The Goldfish Incident is still a sore point with one of our neighbors; that's why I can't walk on their side of the street anymore.
At any rate, although we live next door to each other, we've always gone to different schools. It's only been this past year when we've both been home at the same time that we can catch up with each other leisurely, as we were doing at the pub. And somehow in the course of the conversation, while we were distractedly grousing about our jobs, she wound up telling me about how she had missed out on a certain job right out of college and she'd always probably regret it a little.
What job was that, sez I.
She picked up her pint glass and took a sip. She was quiet for a moment, lost in her memories.
Driving the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile across the country, she finally said.
(A deep silence on both our parts here.)
Yeah? I finally said.
Yeah, she confirmed. I got to the last round of interviews and everything. There were twenty one of us. They flew us up to Wisconsin and everything. Business luncheon and sitting interview and all that.
(More silence. More beer.)
Did they serve hotdogs at the luncheon? I asked.
Yeah, she said.
…Did they only serve hotdogs? I asked.
No, but those were the main thing, she said. There was, like, this whole buffet of every kind of hot dog you could imagine. The cocktail wieners and the foot-longs and corndogs and pigs in a blanket and… basically, everything that could be stuffed in an intestinal casing was there.
Did they have those freaky looking white ones? I asked. I always thought those looked a lot like… uh, never mind.
They did, she confirmed. And don't think I don't know exactly what you were going to say and that we're not coming back to that. Anyway, Oscar Mayer, they're affiliated with Lays and Pepsi, so there were all these Lays and Pepsi products everywhere as well. It was like an advertising smorgasbord. I kept expecting Britney Spears to come out from behind a corner and start dancing on the tables or something.
(Silence.)
Maybe that was the interview, I suggested tentatively. Maybe you only get the job if you eat every kind of hotdog.
Huh. That might explain it, she said. I never thought of that.
How would that even get listed on your resume? I asked. Like, say, as Wienermobile Chauffeur? Hot Dog Driver?
I think you're only a chauffeur if you're driving someone else around, she said, frowning a little.
We both took another sip. We were drinking Lumpy Dog Lager, although we had both tried the special of the night, which was some sort of chili pepper-infused ale. It tasted exactly how you would expect chili pepper-infused ale to taste.
Besides, she continued, the job wasn't just for driving the Weinermobile. I think the official title was Oscar Mayer Spokesperson. You get to go on television and everything. You give out whistles and stuff. You sing the song.
(We both simultaneously broke into song and sang the jingle. Several times. Fortunately, no one in the pub took any notice of us.)
Oh, gotcha, I said when we finished. But we both know that the main reason anyone takes the job is to drive the Weinermobile. I mean, dude.
Well, yeah, she said. That thing is pimped out. There's, like, a DVD player inside and everything, all these electronics. I think you can actually cook hotdogs inside it. I think there's a deepfryer. It's like a mobile home. Just, you know, shaped like a hotdog.
I wonder what it gets to the gallon, I said. Is there, like, some sort of special gas you need for it? Does it run on diesel? On deep-fryer grease? On hot dogs? Hey. Would you have to pump your own gas for it?
I'm... not sure, she said. But there's a whole bunch of cars that you'd wonder that about. Pulling up into the local Shell station with them just seems like-- could you even do it? Are you allowed?
I used to wonder that about the Popemobile, I offered. Although that might run on holy water, I don't know.
The General Lee. Probably runs on moonshine.
You realize we just compared the Popemobile and the General Lee-- them's fightin' cars. Okay, uh. The car from Army of Darkness. You know, Sam Raimi's car, the one that Bruce Campbell drives to defeat the Deadites.
That car from Knight Rider.
I think the car from Knight Rider was smart enough to gas itself up.
Yeah. Like Herbie.
Or Christine, from the Stephen King novel. Actually, he had another evil car too, the Buick 8.
Wasn't there a Christine movie?
Probably. I think the Green Hornet had a weird car. The Black Beauty, or something.
Ghost Rider had a motorcycle.
I don't remember it being weird, though. Was it weird? The Fantastic Four had their Fantasticar, which again, you know, great creativity with your names there, guys.
Yeah, like the Blue Beetle driving the Flying Bug.
Exactly. Superheros suck at naming things. Batman has no imagination. Like the Batmobile, which I can't believe it took us this long to mention.
Like the... the Supermanmobile.
Superman doesn't have a car. He flies.
Are you sure? I'm pretty sure I've seen him driving a car. He had a rocket. That's sort of the same thing.
No, it's not.
Well, Wonder Woman had an invisible jet.
Okay, even if Superman had a car-- which, okay, he probably did even if that did make him goddamn lazy, I don't know all these things-- how the hell are you going from car to invisible jet?
Superman is, like, Wonderwoman's parallel. And I thought we were listing superheroes and their vehicles.
Yeah, ones you can gas up at the station, not rockets or invisible jets or anything. Like, say, you don't see the X-Men dropping down at the Exxon--
I will slay you for that pun.
Right, right. Point is, you can't take the Blackbird to a gas station. Spiderman might be able to take his Spider-Buggy, but we're ruling out jets, rockets, surfboards, helicopters, any kind of boat, and tanks.
Now who's listing lazy superheros? Spiderman can swing around, he doesn't need a car.
He can borrow one from Batman. Batman's got, like, fifty different Batmobiles. This is not the point. The point is, it's your turn.
Jesus. Uh. The Shagmobile. Shaguar. Whatever.
I don't. I don't think Austin Powers counts as a superhero.
Why does it have to be a superhero? Didn't this just start as a list of cars you'd feel weird about taking to the gas station and somehow we managed to list way more comic information than the two of us should ever know in the first place which is probably why we're alone in this goddamn bar in the first place and somehow it turned into a pissing contest about who can name more superheros and their cars? If Austin Powers doesn't get to be a superhero, than Bruce Campbell doesn't get to be a superhero either.
...you're a mean drunk. Also, fuck you, Bruce Campbell is totally a superhero.
Look, let's just get another beer, she said.
(So we did.)
Getting back on topic, I finally said some time later.
Oh Jesus, she said, and dropped her forehead against her hands. You're more hung up on this than I am.
No, hear me out. I mean, aside from the fact that if you're driving the Wienermobile, I think when you pull up to a gas station--
You'd think you were the one who lost the job instead of me. You don't even like cars.
Let me finish what I'm--
Why are you at this hypothetical gas station? You don't even like to drive.
In the Wienermobile! Shut up! What!
Okay, okay.
As I was saying. I think when you pull up to the station, they should pump it for you.
Goddamn right they should.
But the thing is, I wonder if you'd need a special license to drive the Wienermobile in the first place, I said. Do they even have that classification at the DMV? What the hell would that even be? Class H? Class W?
It even had GPS, she said wistfully.
No shit? I asked.
Yep, she confirmed. But, I mean, how lost can you get with a giant Weinermobile?
(We both thought about that.)
I can't decide if that would be the absolute best or the absolute worst vehicle to be driving while lost, I finally said.
Me neither, she said. I mean, on the one hand, you're driving around lost inside a giant hotdog shaped car. On the other hand, you're driving lost around in a giant hotdog shaped car. It's like. It's. Like. It's like, like.
She put her glass down, waved her hands in frustration.
It's like something I just can't put into words, she finally said, and sighed.
Yeah, I said. It's okay. I know what you mean.
...Then, we pretty much just ate pretzels, finished our beers, and got our coats to go. On the way out, something glaringly obvious occurred to me.
Hey, I said. You didn't convert while my back was turned, did you?
No, she said. Why?
Uh, I said. You're Muslim. Your parents refused to let you eat gummi worms at my twelfth birthday party because of the gelatin factor. And yet you were going to try be the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile Spokesperson?
Oh, she said. Yeah. Yeah, I guess that would make it a little weird, huh? But that was never really a factor. I mean, Oscar Mayer Wiener Spokesperson trumps everything. I think my parents would have understood.
Oh, I said. Well, all right.
I wish I'd gotten the job, she said sadly, as she opened her car door. We could be driving home in the Wienermobile right now.
There may yet be other wieners in our future, I said as sagely as possible as I climbed in.
And we went out into the night together.
The entire conversation was a lot funnier when we were mildly intoxicated, but that's the way things always go. You shouldn't feel too sorry for my friend, though. She got another job. She works for NASA. Her goal is to be making six figures by the time she's thirty, and I've no doubt she'll achieve it, either through spaceships or Wienermobiles or whatever.
Well, that's one thing ticked off the list of things I've been meaning to mention. It's raining hard outside. I think I should sleep.
On Turning 23
"Well, that's done,"
she said.
And that's why I don't write poetry, you see.
kadrin made an interesting point about lj-venting the other day that I was mulling over, which I quite agree with but I'm having difficulty summing up in a succinct yet witty response, so we'll just go with an A++++ poster!!! ten thumbs up!!! would listen to again!!! sort of response. He's a cool guy. That helps serve as a segue to the fact that I've been writing and rewriting the same paragraph over and over again, or more accurately, writing and deleting the same paragraph over and over again, trying to convince myself to actually commit to saying something even so vague as "I have not been a particularly happy monkey lately."
And it seems so hideously embarrassing, even to admit that. I want there to be something that goes along with that, but there's really not. I mean, I guess it's an apology. Because when I get in this sort of mood, I become either Captain Reclusive or Captain Bring Down-- and sometimes, if the stars align just right, I become Captain Reclusive Bring Down; there's a theme song and a sidekick in hotpants who gets kidnapped a lot and everything. And I'm really not that way all the time, and I'd hate for people to think I was, just as I hate for people to think I'm any number of other things.
I was never such a ragewad before; I used to be pretty laidback. And it bugs the hell out of me that I'm no longer… uh, me.
Anyway, the best way to defeat Captain Reclusive Bringdown is through swift application of porn and crème brulee. (Or you can use the Wave Trident, but you have to remember to talk to the dolphin on disc 2, and give him five elixirs when he squeaks. This is why it pays to read the walkthrough.)
So. I was recently at the pub-- saying it like that implies that I have a regular place to drink, which I really don't, but it's a lot shorter than saying "I was recently at a bar that I go to often enough that I know what to drink and when Free Glass Night is, but not often enough that everyone knows my name"-- with a friend. She and I have known each other for years, ever since we were wee and often got up to trouble together. The Goldfish Incident is still a sore point with one of our neighbors; that's why I can't walk on their side of the street anymore.
At any rate, although we live next door to each other, we've always gone to different schools. It's only been this past year when we've both been home at the same time that we can catch up with each other leisurely, as we were doing at the pub. And somehow in the course of the conversation, while we were distractedly grousing about our jobs, she wound up telling me about how she had missed out on a certain job right out of college and she'd always probably regret it a little.
What job was that, sez I.
She picked up her pint glass and took a sip. She was quiet for a moment, lost in her memories.
Driving the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile across the country, she finally said.
(A deep silence on both our parts here.)
Yeah? I finally said.
Yeah, she confirmed. I got to the last round of interviews and everything. There were twenty one of us. They flew us up to Wisconsin and everything. Business luncheon and sitting interview and all that.
(More silence. More beer.)
Did they serve hotdogs at the luncheon? I asked.
Yeah, she said.
…Did they only serve hotdogs? I asked.
No, but those were the main thing, she said. There was, like, this whole buffet of every kind of hot dog you could imagine. The cocktail wieners and the foot-longs and corndogs and pigs in a blanket and… basically, everything that could be stuffed in an intestinal casing was there.
Did they have those freaky looking white ones? I asked. I always thought those looked a lot like… uh, never mind.
They did, she confirmed. And don't think I don't know exactly what you were going to say and that we're not coming back to that. Anyway, Oscar Mayer, they're affiliated with Lays and Pepsi, so there were all these Lays and Pepsi products everywhere as well. It was like an advertising smorgasbord. I kept expecting Britney Spears to come out from behind a corner and start dancing on the tables or something.
(Silence.)
Maybe that was the interview, I suggested tentatively. Maybe you only get the job if you eat every kind of hotdog.
Huh. That might explain it, she said. I never thought of that.
How would that even get listed on your resume? I asked. Like, say, as Wienermobile Chauffeur? Hot Dog Driver?
I think you're only a chauffeur if you're driving someone else around, she said, frowning a little.
We both took another sip. We were drinking Lumpy Dog Lager, although we had both tried the special of the night, which was some sort of chili pepper-infused ale. It tasted exactly how you would expect chili pepper-infused ale to taste.
Besides, she continued, the job wasn't just for driving the Weinermobile. I think the official title was Oscar Mayer Spokesperson. You get to go on television and everything. You give out whistles and stuff. You sing the song.
(We both simultaneously broke into song and sang the jingle. Several times. Fortunately, no one in the pub took any notice of us.)
Oh, gotcha, I said when we finished. But we both know that the main reason anyone takes the job is to drive the Weinermobile. I mean, dude.
Well, yeah, she said. That thing is pimped out. There's, like, a DVD player inside and everything, all these electronics. I think you can actually cook hotdogs inside it. I think there's a deepfryer. It's like a mobile home. Just, you know, shaped like a hotdog.
I wonder what it gets to the gallon, I said. Is there, like, some sort of special gas you need for it? Does it run on diesel? On deep-fryer grease? On hot dogs? Hey. Would you have to pump your own gas for it?
I'm... not sure, she said. But there's a whole bunch of cars that you'd wonder that about. Pulling up into the local Shell station with them just seems like-- could you even do it? Are you allowed?
I used to wonder that about the Popemobile, I offered. Although that might run on holy water, I don't know.
The General Lee. Probably runs on moonshine.
You realize we just compared the Popemobile and the General Lee-- them's fightin' cars. Okay, uh. The car from Army of Darkness. You know, Sam Raimi's car, the one that Bruce Campbell drives to defeat the Deadites.
That car from Knight Rider.
I think the car from Knight Rider was smart enough to gas itself up.
Yeah. Like Herbie.
Or Christine, from the Stephen King novel. Actually, he had another evil car too, the Buick 8.
Wasn't there a Christine movie?
Probably. I think the Green Hornet had a weird car. The Black Beauty, or something.
Ghost Rider had a motorcycle.
I don't remember it being weird, though. Was it weird? The Fantastic Four had their Fantasticar, which again, you know, great creativity with your names there, guys.
Yeah, like the Blue Beetle driving the Flying Bug.
Exactly. Superheros suck at naming things. Batman has no imagination. Like the Batmobile, which I can't believe it took us this long to mention.
Like the... the Supermanmobile.
Superman doesn't have a car. He flies.
Are you sure? I'm pretty sure I've seen him driving a car. He had a rocket. That's sort of the same thing.
No, it's not.
Well, Wonder Woman had an invisible jet.
Okay, even if Superman had a car-- which, okay, he probably did even if that did make him goddamn lazy, I don't know all these things-- how the hell are you going from car to invisible jet?
Superman is, like, Wonderwoman's parallel. And I thought we were listing superheroes and their vehicles.
Yeah, ones you can gas up at the station, not rockets or invisible jets or anything. Like, say, you don't see the X-Men dropping down at the Exxon--
I will slay you for that pun.
Right, right. Point is, you can't take the Blackbird to a gas station. Spiderman might be able to take his Spider-Buggy, but we're ruling out jets, rockets, surfboards, helicopters, any kind of boat, and tanks.
Now who's listing lazy superheros? Spiderman can swing around, he doesn't need a car.
He can borrow one from Batman. Batman's got, like, fifty different Batmobiles. This is not the point. The point is, it's your turn.
Jesus. Uh. The Shagmobile. Shaguar. Whatever.
I don't. I don't think Austin Powers counts as a superhero.
Why does it have to be a superhero? Didn't this just start as a list of cars you'd feel weird about taking to the gas station and somehow we managed to list way more comic information than the two of us should ever know in the first place which is probably why we're alone in this goddamn bar in the first place and somehow it turned into a pissing contest about who can name more superheros and their cars? If Austin Powers doesn't get to be a superhero, than Bruce Campbell doesn't get to be a superhero either.
...you're a mean drunk. Also, fuck you, Bruce Campbell is totally a superhero.
Look, let's just get another beer, she said.
(So we did.)
Getting back on topic, I finally said some time later.
Oh Jesus, she said, and dropped her forehead against her hands. You're more hung up on this than I am.
No, hear me out. I mean, aside from the fact that if you're driving the Wienermobile, I think when you pull up to a gas station--
You'd think you were the one who lost the job instead of me. You don't even like cars.
Let me finish what I'm--
Why are you at this hypothetical gas station? You don't even like to drive.
In the Wienermobile! Shut up! What!
Okay, okay.
As I was saying. I think when you pull up to the station, they should pump it for you.
Goddamn right they should.
But the thing is, I wonder if you'd need a special license to drive the Wienermobile in the first place, I said. Do they even have that classification at the DMV? What the hell would that even be? Class H? Class W?
It even had GPS, she said wistfully.
No shit? I asked.
Yep, she confirmed. But, I mean, how lost can you get with a giant Weinermobile?
(We both thought about that.)
I can't decide if that would be the absolute best or the absolute worst vehicle to be driving while lost, I finally said.
Me neither, she said. I mean, on the one hand, you're driving around lost inside a giant hotdog shaped car. On the other hand, you're driving lost around in a giant hotdog shaped car. It's like. It's. Like. It's like, like.
She put her glass down, waved her hands in frustration.
It's like something I just can't put into words, she finally said, and sighed.
Yeah, I said. It's okay. I know what you mean.
...Then, we pretty much just ate pretzels, finished our beers, and got our coats to go. On the way out, something glaringly obvious occurred to me.
Hey, I said. You didn't convert while my back was turned, did you?
No, she said. Why?
Uh, I said. You're Muslim. Your parents refused to let you eat gummi worms at my twelfth birthday party because of the gelatin factor. And yet you were going to try be the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile Spokesperson?
Oh, she said. Yeah. Yeah, I guess that would make it a little weird, huh? But that was never really a factor. I mean, Oscar Mayer Wiener Spokesperson trumps everything. I think my parents would have understood.
Oh, I said. Well, all right.
I wish I'd gotten the job, she said sadly, as she opened her car door. We could be driving home in the Wienermobile right now.
There may yet be other wieners in our future, I said as sagely as possible as I climbed in.
And we went out into the night together.
The entire conversation was a lot funnier when we were mildly intoxicated, but that's the way things always go. You shouldn't feel too sorry for my friend, though. She got another job. She works for NASA. Her goal is to be making six figures by the time she's thirty, and I've no doubt she'll achieve it, either through spaceships or Wienermobiles or whatever.
Well, that's one thing ticked off the list of things I've been meaning to mention. It's raining hard outside. I think I should sleep.