Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

consume

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I am met only with incredulity whenever I mention that I haven’t seen it. Personally, I don’t understand the sheer and utter disbelief most people express when they find out that you haven’t seen a movie. Movies need to be found, sat down in front of, paid attention to. Much easier to hear music; I feel as though I ought to reflect back an equal amount of shock at people who claim that they don’t know any songs by David Bowie, or the Beatles.

Various women in my life have managed to seat me in front of the classic flicks of the eighties, but I still have survived with a big gap in the area of mid-nineties cultish comedy classics, to which my noise was firmly upturned at the time. The one movie that most often draws a reaction from my friends and colleagues is Office Space. How, oh how, could I appreciate working in a corporate office without having watched Office Space?

A more surefire tact would have been to mention that Jennifer Aniston played one of the few female roles in the film, but apparently she isn’t worth a mention in the midst of such apt critique of the business world. Something about “PC Load Letter?”

Taking pity on my ignorance of this film classic, my colleague John took it upon himself to loan me the DVD for my home viewing pleasure. And, well, I have derived some pleasure from it, though not as much as everyone seems to expect me to. I should preface this with a caveat that I only managed to sit through half of this dreadfully paced farce, and so could still be missing out on some golden epiphany that comes nearer to the end of the film.

I just don’t think it’s funny. I cannot have pity on hapless morons just because they work in an office, and I certainly can’t find the mocking of the Y2K code replacement especially amusing since grunt work like that is what averted a worldwide financial and nuclear fallout on New Year’s Day that could have effectively canceled my spectacular first kiss.

Aside from the obvious support of any character who romantically pursues Ms. Aniston, there was one scene in the movie that especially struck me. The bit about having a million dollars. We’ve all thought about having it, but I don’t know that the thought ever occurred to me that what I would do with it would be the ultimate reveal as to what I should be doing with my life.

I figured out what I would do while at an art show with Melon, Erika, and Kate over the weekend. I would do art. Not just pictures, or music, or words. I would surround myself with inspired and beautiful things and with tools, guitars, pianos, canvases, empty notebooks, and just create all of the time, every day.

What’s funny is that after you answer the million dollar question, the answer doesn’t seem so obscure any more. This weekend I spent a day going through my belongings from childhood through high school graduation in preparation for my mother’s quickly approaching settlement on a house, and everything I found was art. Academic papers, a comic book I had drawn across the headers of my eighth grade math notebook, a folder full of scrawled out short stories, two full-program scripts from high school health fairs, a binder of plotting outlines for my own series of superhero comics complete with logo designs, a pile of literary magazines that I edited. No science fair projects. No math tests.

A million dollars would just confirm what I’ve tried to do all along. Would it for you?

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200352480/

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I feel as though there’s something i have to tell you — i really owe it to you. It won’t be easy, but i have to. But, first you should know that when i got back home last night from Lyndzapalooza i felt as if i had bruised everything that i had: fingers, muscles, voice, brain, and heart. I was, as i put it so eloquently to Elise, “a piece of hurt.” Not that it’s any excuse for what i’m about to tell you, but i just feel as though you should have an idea of the state i’m in.

I cried at the end of Armageddon. There, i’ve said it. I cried, not only for the characters on screen, but for myself — for having so knowingly bought in to a written-by-committee tearjerker that barely aspires to B-movie status because of one thing: Bruce. Bruce Willis. The man doesn’t always make the best movies out there to be made, and he isn’t always the best actor that could be found, but you just don’t kill him. Do you understand? Don’t kill Bruce. Because, in killing him, you force him to let loose, to lose control, to unlease all of the pathos and weariness that he has built up during the shooting of countless Die Hard movies as well as the physical emotiveness he reserved while dubbing his voice into the Look Who’s Talking series. And when you let me know that for the entire population of the Earth, including those of us spending our waning hours watching this bland by-the-numbers Bay/Bruckheimer creation, the only thing that stands in the way of our imminent deaths is the noble self-sacrifice of Bruce Willis then by god maybe the end is nearer than we think, because i will be blown into a thousand pieces by errant space debris before i’ll watch Bruce sacrifice himself again to save a pansy talentless hack like Ben Affleck who draw the straw of death fair and fucking square! Do you hear me?!?! Straw of death.

Like i said, i’m not especially emotionally stable right now. Apologies. Hopefully you don’t think any less of me for it.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200308389/

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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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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/