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cheedogg
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Name: Chee-Ming.
Country: United States
State: New York
Metro: New York City
Interests: Finding another way around it, trying to get away with it, and getting yelled at by others for doing so
Expertise: Retaining useless facts; Imitating my brother imitating me; Naming all 49 states, alphabetically (no, I will not recognize Missouri)
Occupation: Convincing you to read this
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
8/28/2002
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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| Up Up Down DownAs I'm riding the subway escalator there's an electronic sign that says "Escalators are for passengers only."
I have no idea what this means.
Have people been using escalators as makeshift urinals? Are folks playing Slinky down the mechanical steps? Are Dominicans selling bottled waters while sitting along the rubber handrails?
I'd like to write the MTA to ask them why this sign is truly there. I'd like them to either respond by telling me that they're a bunch of retarded retards, or that someone lately has been transporting large shopping bags of dog poo up and down the escalator steps -- and something needed to be done. Oh, please be the latter. | | |
| Celebrity Gossip (Really Late Edition)The scoop from listening to a 50's Jewish woman in my neighborhood. We're standing three feet apart:
- "Richard Gere is a real jerk. He completely ignored me while leaving the Dave Letterman show -- you know, the one in Manhattan?"
- "That guy, oh what's his name, you know -- the one who played the sister-in-law's brother on Everybody Loves Raymond*? Wow, now that's a real down-to-earth kind-of guy. A real listener."
Slowly moving backwards until we're at a more comfortable ten feet apart (her spit projectile was getting to me):
- "Eddie Alberts* once took a gift from my friend, who was a huge fan, and threw it in the garbage right in front of him! The nerve of that guy!"
- "I always knew Richie Chamberlain* was gay. In 1977, I saw him hiding his face while shopping in my department and holding hands with his partner."
Starting to walk away, after saying "Nice to meet you" and "Sorry, I need to go" several times. We're now twenty feet apart and she's yelling:
- "I had a feeling about Marilyn Monroe! I knew something was wrong with her, but to die? So tragic! Too bad they didn't they have rehab then!"
- "Michael Jackson -- what a sweet guy! I don't care what anybody says! Not a fan of his music though! Too loud!"
Forty feet away, my back against her waving goodbye:
- "Are you... (inaudible)... show business?! I could... (inaudible)... Long Island... (inaudible)... awful playwright... (inaudible)... Florida!"
I'm around the corner; no longer in sight:
- "I... (inaudible)... Jimi Hendrix!!! He..... (inaudible)"
*Who in the shit are these people?
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| RepresentAs of today, I now officially have a literary agent.
And no, it had nothing to do with her accidentally stumbling upon this web log, which I'm still convinced no one reads. On purpose, anyways.
I was talking with a friend over the phone, and without thinking I started a sentence with, "So I had lunch with my agent." I stopped myself right there, mid-sentence to think about what I had just said.
I bet this is the exact same shit that Stephen F. King* says to his friends on the phone. Or better yet, this is probably what every single successful author, musician, actor, and Las Vegas gay tiger trainer says to their friends on the phone too.
Yes, this felt great, but it also gave me this sudden feeling of enormous pressure. I am faaaaaaaar from successful -- especially since there are plenty of artists out there with representation who can't find work, can't find acceptance, and can't amount to more than an occasional call to tell a friend that he had lunch with his agent. Shit. I felt this wave of uncertainty and self-doubt hit me like a big fuckin' wave (sorry, still working on my metaphors) and became so anxious and worried from all this that I had to abruptly end my phone call early to take a dump.
It's what I do.
Now, with a cleaned-out colon and a clearer conscious, I can happily report that I still have no idea what the hell I'm going to do. My agent's told me not to worry about the details, to just keep doing what I'm doing (which, don't tell her, consists of Nintendo DS, The Office on Hulu, and oatmeal, lots of oatmeal). One day soon, she insists, we'll have the perfect pitch, the perfect manuscript -- and whether we toast our accomplishments or failures along the way, at least we'll be drinkin.'
Until then, I'd better get to work. On second thought, hand me that phone first. I need to call someone back to finish a sentence.
* F. is the author's middle name, Fucking
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| Office ConvoOverheard in the office: "Data Management is like the weather: everybody complains about it, but nobody does anything about it."
When I heard this, I choked on my cup of ice water. I almost drowned.
My main problem is how this guy said it -- loud and confident, like he was the smartest and funniest guy ever for saying something so awful, so flat out wrong. Does he not know that his simile doesn't make any sense whatsoever? Does he walk around business conferences, airport terminals, and hotel bars and use that line to pick up clients, chicks, and hotel hookers (respectively)?
Has his wife left him already? If not, why the hell not?
He was really close, though. I think with a little rewording his bad analogy could actually work quite well. All he had to say was, "Data Management is like the weather: I am a douche bag." | | |
| Frito Layin'I was bored, so I ate three full-sized bags of heavily-salted potato chips and Doritos. That's almost three pounds of junk food, back to back. To back.
Am I going to die from heart disease?
If so, please tell my non-existent wife I loved her. And that I knew all along it was she who was secretly farting in my coffee mug.
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