Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

krisis

Krisis has been creating Crushing Krisis since 2000, writing songs since 1996, and reading comics since 1991. He is a Customer Success and Digital Brand Strategy executive, serial organizer, parent, and feminist, among other things. Based in Philly through 2017, he now resides in Wellington, NZ.

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Halfway into what should have been my lunch break i found myself with five very short minutes to mock up a fold-out publication layout from a few simple black and white pieces that a colleague had expertly laid out, and i came to the near epiphany that i would be utterly and completely fucked without a glue stick. Yes. A glue stick. Which, incidentally, was the first piece of non-standard-issue office supply that i specifically requested for my desk. Much to my delight and relatively small surprise, said glued mock up was the toast of our meeting with the Medical department, praised as both “sturdy” and “informed.” This was reflected by a congratulatory email was circulated within our department afterwards.

So, basically, my job description involves an amalgam of both my pending Bachelor’s of Arts and tricks i picked up in third grade art class. Don’t ever let anyone tell you education isn’t important.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200302119/

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I was going to bitch about how I have no money. That was our scheduled morning blog. Indeed, I have no money. Less money, in fact, than I did previous to beginning my fancy corporate job. Only thirty-three dollars more than the time that I threatened to throw my roommate’s possessions out into the street if he didn’t pay me back rent. Anyway, I had this whole lament planned about how costs increase with the increase of income, and how I’m really just a victim of Philadelphia’s nine-to-five cost of living. But, really I can track my newfound poverty to a few very specific sources: smoothies & shoes. And don’t let me tell you anything otherwise.

As for the first, you know those Christian Relief Network commercials where they play all the schmaltzy music and tell you that you could feed a child somewhere in the third world by giving up your shitty 7-11 large coffee every morning because, really, you’re better off with Maxwell House than buying coffee from a place with a 24-hour self-rotating hot dog grill, and also because starving children in the third world will not be receptive to Christianity unless they’ve received some nourishment first? Right. Well, I could probably keep an entire block of these underfed unfortunates supplied with more rice than they’ve ever seen in their life if I could manage to give up my daily smoothie/salad routine. The smoothie is nearly $4 for some strawberries, orange juice, sundry other fruit, and honey for my poor abused vocal chords. As Erika pointed out last night: for christssake, I’ll put some strawberries and OJ in a blender for you every morning if you pay me $20 a week. Which makes me think maybe the Christian Relief Network should just tap into the overpriced smoothie market.

Point being, I am ADDICTED to having a 20oz all fruit kick-off to my slam bang cube-shaped day, and between that and my narcotic-like addiction to Caesar dressing alternating with wasabi drenched salmon rolls I’m shelling out upwards of a Hamilton a day just on overpriced city nourishment, which is half convenience charge and half just being ripped the fuck off. Time to switch over to bag lunches.

As for shoes, I bought some shoes. Okay, I bought four pair of shoes. I couldn’t help myself – never before in my life have I allowed myself the luxury of having multiple shoe options for the same occasion! Imagine me, a creature of art and logic, confined to only a single pair of black dress shoes every morning! Now the pre-smoothie portion of my morning routine has been brightened by the endless possibilities (that would be three, for those of you who did *not* major in Communications). My quality of living has gone up immeasurably.

The one pair I am most enamored with is an otherwise dorky pair of Saucony running shoes that are bright orange. When I wear them I feel like I have springs on the bottom of my feet – they make me feel effervescent. Last week I wore them on casual day and became convinced that if I really put my mind to it I could perform complex wire-work choreography from The Matrix. One slim hallway seemed to call out to me every time I would pass it on the way to the restroom, screaming for me to pull a Trinity-in-the-Lobby and run up the wall, only minus the sexy black leather and shotgun, neither of which would go with my orange shoes anyway.

So, next time I bitch about how poor I am, just remind me that: a) I could be feeding starving children who could otherwise be born again b) I just spent more on shoes than I did on guitar related equipment in the last year and c) I am more easily amused than a squirrel in a Planters nut factory.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200295528/

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Victory! Sweet, sweet, blueberry victory!

In other news: last night i played guitar for what has become a routine four hours, breaking only for the penultimate episode of Buffy and white pizza courtesy of Ross’s new credit card. This morning the skin on my fingers is rind-like and impervious to pain.

You could say that i’ve become a little obsessed with my practice regimen, ostensibly because i’m playing at a backyard festival this weekend and have vowed in public earshot to blow away all of the other performers. Really, though, it’s because i don’t know if i actually can. The recently revealed running order of the event finds me sandwiched between a duo of golden-throated music majors and a terrific a cappella group that i arrange for, with the entire day both book-ended and dotted by talented multi-instrumentalists and Philly pub performers. And in the middle is little old me.

At this late stage drilling finger exercises until i feel as though i’m going to vomit if i have to stretch my pinky to the seventh fret again probably isn’t going to do me much good, which is why i typically leave that until just before bed. The regimen begins as soon as i have stripped out of my corporate skin of shirt and tie, sometimes finding me strumming the opening chords of “Tangling” in an undershirt and low rise briefs. The run through the current iteration of my set quickly (and seemingly inevitably) descends into seething about my inability to pick complex patterns or endless fiddling with my amp tone, and rarely features more than a single complete song. Alternately, i could probably just look in a mirror and scream “you are worthless” for thirty minutes to achieve a similar effect on moral.

After this inevitably crushing warm-up routine, i turn to my Bible, The Complete Beatles Scores. What better comfort could there be to my inability to play my own misbegotten songs than to learn how to play some of the best songs ever written? Last night was a medley of Let It Be‘s A-Side, none of which i can carry all on my own. Still, the practice is useful because i am trying to match a specifically scored and recorded sound rather than some elusive cipher of a rhythm that only plays inside of my head.

After a solid run at the Beatles (always including thirty minutes on the riffing of “Dig A Pony” and at least two renditions of “Blackbird“) I am ready to perform my own set, minus the sniffling and whining. Or, rather, the sniffling and whining is restrained only to lyrical appearances. This set is typically much more affirming, though as a rule “Apart” sounds like utter shit. “Under My Skin” is placed strategically dead in the middle to remind myself that, yes, i can actually (write / play / sing) with some modicum of professionalism on a consistent basis. This is necessary, as my shot at “Seams” typically breaks down shortly after the key change.

I end with “Little Love,” because for a month i had intended to start with it and so bootstrapped it up past all of the intermediate levels of (total shit / shit / lyrical Alzheimer’s / inability to cross bridge / endless descent into ad-lib and riffing / constant Simon-Cowell-ing of vocal performance) to the point where i spent an entire hour last week walking around Center City with a guitar strapped on over my shirt and tie playing it and being asked my name and if i could be heard at any local bars or pubs. It isn’t “Under My Skin,” but it allows me to ignore (or, at least atone for) the two dozen false starts of “Apart” from earlier in the evening. It allows me to believe for a second that the forty or so friends that will be enduring me for a precious half hour on Saturday will perhaps clap out of something other than obligation.

Only after that do i brutally work my pinky fingers until my stomach knots with each effort. And then, sometimes, i go to bed.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200290435/

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As far as i’m concerned, there is only cranberry. I can literally loiter at the muffin stand for ten minutes eyeballing each fresh baked item trying my best to locate chocolate chips, or even blueberries, but no matter how sure or how random my guess is i still wind up with cranberry. I know the other muffins are in there somewhere — i’ve seen other people eat them. Still, today i chose a corn muffin only to arrive at my desk and find that it was, yes, a cranberry muffin in a corny disguise.

Once again, I am again kicking off my morning with a healthy urinary tract, muffin stand. Damn you, muffin stand, damn you and your insidious red berries!

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200283418/

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I walk into the bathroom on 35 and it seems empty, but as the door closes i hear a strange rasping noise from the open stall at the end of the row. I slowly approach the stall and peer around its corner cautiously, hoping not to find any half-naked strangely rasping co-workers slumped Elvis-style over the throne. It is empty.

As I wash my hands I hear the noise again, but do not bother to investigate. Maybe if I am lucky I will find myself cast in a real world retread of the classic Gremlins 2, where the sneaky critters invade an otherwise innocuous office building and precede to wreak havoc upon its unwitting staff. A worthy sequel to an already campy first flick.

Careful not to touch anything that might re-germ my now sanitized hands, I think am I unwitting?, closely followed by Surely there were a couple of people who died in bathrooms. I really ought to buy the DVD to check that out.

Two minutes later I am back at my desk firing off an email about compiling a master style guide for our department. So, essentially, you’ve just been missing out on my trips to the bathroom.

Oh, and I won a wine-drinking contest, bought four pairs of shoes, saw X2, passively participated in buying a new house, and wrote a song with Gina. But, really, that’s about it.

sigh

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200279537/