tomorrow 05.09.09

all right all right all right! Celebrate my successfully-torrented Morrison Hotel Doors album with this slideshow that has nothing to do with that whatsoever!



Some faves, in no particular order:



Moses the Giant destroys a normal-sized chair.



Josh Fadem gets all "Jewish."



Marisol Medina is romanced by Chad Fogland.

View the whole set here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/megalope/sets/72157618060148725/

(Oh rite, and PHOTOBOOTH OMG)

you really should talk to somebody

if I had a nickel for every time someone recommended I see a therapist—and these someones have run the gamut from ill-mannered to intentionally hurtful to well-meaning—I'd have a couple dollars. That's not enough money to pay for even one therapy session, which is what it would take for me to resolve the inner crisis brought on by proposing an "if I had a nickel for..." scenario.

-Why do we do it? It's completely hypothetical!
-Some of us like dealing with hypotheticals.
-Yeah, okay, but we're moving forward with our life; we can't keep pining away for the shoulda couldas in the past.
-But "having a nickel" is completely imaginary; it's not something you failed to ...

And then I interrupt my own feedback loop before it devolves into a deep and impassioned study of my failures as friend, lover, daughter, artist... (I had to actually interrupt this sentence before I could continue the superficial examination of various roles in which I have failed.)

I've spent the past couple of weeks resenting a coworker for his "Pass the Dutchie" ringtone, general slovenly appearance, classic rock earbud noise overflow, and his grunting. Right around noon (i.e., four hours and twenty minutes before he wishes he were "anywhere bud here," right? Get it?!), Subway's favorite patron grabs a footlong and hoofs it back to work. He sits at his computer and eats, and then the grunting starts. I don't know if these noises are a courtesy deflection from outright belches, or if they're even digestion-related at all, but it borders on vulgar. In fact, I'll upgrade them to a solid Bon Qui Qui "Rude!" since BMarleyFan1979 doesn't seem to care that he shares the workplace with civilized individuals.

The most offensive thing he's ever done, though, has to be a certain comment he made to his supervisor Melissa last week. We're in the middle of a hiring process, and everyone in a semi-managerial role has been scrambling to get our ducks in a row before the pre-med students leave in June. Post-Subway and pre-grunt, my coworker brought Melissa a sandwich, which he does every day despite her assurances that she isn't interested or hungry. Melissa graciously thanked him anyway, and he responded, "Hey, you want to thank me? Hire more blondes."

It is almost relevant that every female at my work save one has brown hair (and I include myself); but I doubt the comment would have been less offensive had all of us listening been born tow-headed. One of us even piped up, "Hey!"

("Hey" as in, "Hey, Reggae-Loving Med-School-Dropout, how about you leave the sexist comments at home seeing as how we tolerate the sight of your unwashed hair on a regular basis?")

But to her protestation—and to the offended glares of the rest of our brunette crew—he only offered, "What? I like blondes."

Here's why I need therapy: this offends me. Whenever I do something clumsy at my work now and he's in the room, I can't help but think, "A blonde wouldn't have done that." And even before he made that comment, I had already emotionally and mentally established that never in my lifetime would I consider a romantic or platonic relationship with this person. Am I really so sensitive that someone clearly lacking social graces is so easily able to irritate me? Any normal person would have laughed it off. A normal internal balance would keep me even-keeled, even when his iPhone received-text beep goes off every fifteen minutes, probably for some blonde.

I guess I'm not a normal.