March 25, 2005

Off to the Starbucks Website,

Filed under: Kvetch! Kvetch! Kvetch! — Twin C @ 12:24 pm

where I get to order 152 $25 Starbucks gift cards for everyone in my department, including myself. Reverend Billy (and everyone else), please forgive me.

Here’s why. I just spent a glorious 25 minutes on the phone with my manager, who is working from her home office today. I do like my manager for the most part, but she is, shall we say, intense. She is a major control freak, and also is really good at putting people on the defensive when they don’t really have any reason to be. For example, she totally freaked me out on the phone, when I told her that I had sent over user ID information (which is somewhat confidential, but pretty easy for LOTS of people to look up) to someone who was arranging for people in our department to be signed up for mandatory corporate training. She got VERY accusatory - “User IDs? What user IDs?” which flustered the shit out of me, and there was NO reason I should have felt guilty about it - if anything, I was facilitating the process and making everyone’s life easier. But as it turned out, my manager only wanted to know if it was our “territory codes” that I had given out, because we’re trying to stop using territory codes for ID purposes. (We somehow have three different IDs - our SS#s, our territory codes, and some other corporate code that goes on our paychecks and doesn’t ever seem to get used for anything else. )

My manager also likes to tell me to call someone and set up a meeting and give me all the information about the meeting. However, she could have saved herself a lot of time (and me, usually, a lot of grief, and not sounding like an idiot) if she just called the person herself! Why do people do that? For example, she asked me to call this woman, who’s last name she doesn’t even have, and set up a meeting regarding user IDs vs. territory codes and drug screens (stupid drug screens!!!!). She had the woman’s number - why didn’t she just call her herself and ask? It doesn’t make sense. And, I have to order all these Starbucks cards as rewards for the department “working so hard” on fixing information in our online system. If they had entered it properly in the first place, they wouldn’t have had to work so hard.

Someday I hope to have a job that is at least vaguely fulfilling. Actually, someday I hope to never work again. I either need to finally land that movie contract, or win the World Series of Poker. I’m working on it.

I have to go call Starbucks now. Venti Tazo Chai Latte, anyone?

March 24, 2005

Quiet Day.

Filed under: Uncategorized — Twin C @ 4:23 pm

It will be more exciting later, out drinking with the sweetie and her friends. Three out of four Polenbergs will be there. Can we rope in the ellusive Twin D? B and D have sworn up and down that they will post soon. They obviously don’t understand the therapeutic value. Or just how fun it is!

Last night, Twin A and I were hanging out upstairs after The Moth’s show at Crash Mansion. Now, Crash Mansion sure is pretty, and sure has the suckiest service ever! The bartenders ignore you for as long as possible downstairs, and upstairs, the waitresses ignore you even longer. Instead of gnawing off my leg (and I’m not even on a fast like some people), Twin A and I took to threatening each other (and everyone else) with chopsticks held like sai while yelling “GYOZA!” It has become our new battlecry. I may start shouting it at the people in my way on the subway platforms.

We will be boozing it up tonight at the Botanica Bar on Houston from 8 p.m. on. If you are reading this, you were probably invited, and even if you weren’t, you should come by anyway. . .

Happy Birthday Sweetie!

Filed under: Burns — Twin C @ 10:34 am

It is my girlfriend’s birthday today. Hooray!

I love you, Princess Sugar Britches! Thanks for putting up with Twin Cranky! I’m glad you like your presents.

See you later!

March 23, 2005

It’s Lawsuit Time!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Twin A @ 4:19 pm

Holy shit! Some bunch of fuckers has taken my name and turned it into what must be an incredibly shitty band. They even have a ’street team’. I am at work, so I cannot listen to it yet, but I will get back to you on how colossally heinous they must be.

Crankiness Unleashed!!!

Filed under: Kvetch! Kvetch! Kvetch! — Twin C @ 4:02 pm

I managed to escape the fembots only partially disemboweled. This was perhaps the most painful meeting I’ve had to go to yet. Why do administrative assistants need goals? “I will answer my supervisor’s phone, every time it rings, before the third ring, every day!” “I will sort all of our team mail, all four times it comes in a day, as soon as it comes in, into the proper team members’ mail slots!” “I will stab EVERY ONE OF MY COWORKERS IN THE HEAD WITH MY LETTER OPENER!” Maybe not all of them. Just the horrible ones.

Now, as for the 7 train. My morning and evening commutes are filled with three types of people: the first are the people who don’t bother me, becuase they, for some reason, understand and follow basic subway ettiquette. The other two types, however, should spontaneously combust. The ones who stand right in front of the doorway, in droves, pushing their way onto the train as you are trying to get off so you can make your transfer across the platform. Or maybe not even pushing their way on, but standing right in the way, not moving while you try to get by. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???? GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!!!! YOUR train just got here. MINE is about to leave, and I can’t get to it if you’re in my fucking way!!!! The other ones are the people getting on the train with you, who, instead of moving into the center of the train (assuming there’s room - if there’s not, they are excused. For the time being.) step onto the train, and stop. In the doorway. Making it that much more difficult for me and everyone else to get on. Step all the way in, or DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!!!!!!!! Just for the record, I also hate those fuckers who lean on every possible square inch of subway pole when it is crowded.

I have an invention that I’d like to use for these people. It is a jacket with large sharp retractable spikes. I would be kinda like a pufferfish, you know, looking all cute, and then I’d try to get off the train and all the people would be in the way and I’d press a button and WHAMMO!!!! Dead dead assholes everywhere within a three foot radius. That would be awesome.

I think I need to listen to some Barry to calm my nerves. “When I wanted you, I needed you, and I still can’t bring myself to say I’m over you. . . when I gave you time, to make up your mind, you turned your back on me and now I’m turning mine back on you. . .” (NOTE: done without a lyric search. I think I’m pretty accurate. Can’t remember the verse to that one, though.)

Ranting About Something Intelligent: Barry Manilow (What Gave?)

Filed under: Uncategorized — Twin A @ 1:21 pm

OK. Instead of telling incredibly long stories about things like the time I drove to Milwaukee to hand over a package of baby Wookies to the LSD distributor who desperately needed baby Wookie hair to purify his LSD distillation process, I think I am going to post random Rants About Things Intelligent, in honor of Twin C, or at least to make him forget that he is trapped in a room with twenty robotgirl admin assistants with retractable adamantine Lee Press-On Nails that could disembowl him for no reason on a moment’s notice, reducing the Polenberg clan’s chance of passing on genetic material by at least 25%, depending on who you ask.

So, today: Barry Manilow, (What Gave?)

So, when I’m not ideating apocalyptic fantasies about hydroponic farming in Maine, I often wonder how America became the way it is. And while my glimpse of America is usually a polyglot, heterogenous urban style-America espied on the subways, I have been to Branson, I have seen Yakov! with it’s gigantic Yakov Smirnoff head gazing out into the periphery, I have been called a fag on a roadside in Indiana while Jon Zerolnick’s windshield was repaired, and moreover, the Polenberg Twins were raised in Poughkeepsie, a land of little culture, and many split-level houses with formica. This is where we were introduced to, and raised on, Barry.

For those of you who don’t know Barry, think of maybe the cheesiest whitebread-soulful pop piano imaginable, with an often langorous vaguely showtuney-Jewwy male baritone over it. Barry ranged from the cheesily upbeat (Jump Shout Boogie) to the almost unbelievably cloying (Weekend In New England). He was all over the map, if the map only included Westchester and the Upper West Side. I remember a particularly ghastly live recording that the Polenberg Progenitors listened to repeatedly on long car trips that included Barry singing commercial jingles as earnestly as possible. At the moment that I type this, I cannot get “Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there….” out of my fucking head. It is good that we are a travel agency and not a firearms dealer.

One day while Twin C and I were trapped at our respective jobs, we decided to play a game where one of us would call the other and start singing a Barry Manilow song. It turned out that we remembered almost all the lyrics to at least 10 of them. This game was fun until my co-workers called me (I was behind the Hide The Server partition at a small office) and asked what the fuck I was doing.

So I ask: What gave? And I guess the answer is that pop music has always been bad, but there’s still something weird about someone who is so Jewish (born Barry Alan Pincus, oy!) and so profoundly closeted (and yet, so gay, and so commited to heteronormativity in his lyrics) busting out #1 hit after #1 hit (the late 70s were really good for Barry, or so says while everyone else was listening to Foreigner or Floyd. Maybe Adult Contemporary is the true Underground — passing entirely under the cultural radar of the elite, who scorn it, while it has a profound sopohorific effect on the entire suburban population of America, lulling them into a deadlier sleep than usual. And the songs clearly had a profound effect on our young and developing brains — I just got “Jump Shout Boogie” stuck in my head and it won’t leave. And I don’t think I’ve heard the song in 20 years. I imagine that entire sections of my cerebral cortex actually grew neurons to this shit.

And for those of you who are wondering if he’s dead yet (as my co-worker just wondered): NO! He sang “Let Freedom Ring” at the Super Bowl pre-game show 2002. And that goes to show you, The Terrorists Have Won.

Front CoverBack Cover

Corporate Training

Filed under: Uncategorized — Twin C @ 10:01 am

I have four hours of administrative training that I am making myself late for by typing this. Needless to say, I’d rather poke my eyes out than sit in that room for four hours with “the girls” (most of the other administrative assistants are women. The two other guys are temps. They can only come have lunch with us - this training is VERY important and top secret). So think of me while I suffer. I’ll be back later with a great post about how I hate everyone on the 7 train, especially the fuckers who transfer to the N at Queens Plaza.

March 22, 2005

Time to pee your pants.

Filed under: Uncategorized — Twin C @ 3:19 pm

I just added David Rees’ site to the links on the side, but allow me to send you directly to the latest Get Your War on:

I was lucky enough to see David Rees read/perform at the Aspen Comedy Festival this past February - he is absolutely brilliant.

Shafted by the Entertainment Industry, Again

Filed under: Kvetch! Kvetch! Kvetch! — Twin C @ 11:18 am

Alack and alas. Twin C still isn’t rich and famous.

Two weeks ago, at 11:40 p.m., I get a call for an audition. As if that’s not ridiculous enough (who calls you that late for an audition???), the audition is for the next morning! But it is a paid gig, and I am a whore, so I go. And I get a callback, on the spot! And it’s for what I’m sure is going to be a hit, if not a smash. The play is called “Orgasms” and it’s about sex and relationships and it’s a little hokey and unsophisticated (and clearly written by someone who did not speak English as their first language) but very cute and sort of funny. Mid-west America will eat it up. The woman who auditions me says “We’re going to make you a star!” which is very sweet of her, but unless you’re going to give me the part on the spot, don’t blow smoke up my ass. I also go to the show’s website, where I see pictures of the guy who I’m supposed to be playing, and they’ve cast, for lack of better terms, a beefcake. Now, funny I am, and cute, certainly, but a beefcake I am NOT. Which makes me wonder why she called me back - are they looking for someone who’s more “New Yorky” for the role here in New York, or is this just some cruel way of making me excited about something that I have no chance of getting? Anyway, I get three scenes to prepare for the 21st (yesterday) and I get two of them memorized and the third down pretty well, I bring in the sock I’m supposed to use as a puppet to symbolize my penis, so I can have conversations with it (”Hey, I’m ready!” “Oh no you’re not, we just started. You need to wait a bit longer.” “Longer? Don’t use that word, I’m stretched to the max as it is!”), and yesterday afternoon I go in and do my thing. The woman who auditioned me still loves me, but the guy (who wrote it and is the director) is lukewarm at best. And as I hand him another copy of my headshot and resume, I see the big pile of beefcake pictures on the table, and realize I’m doomed. They tell me they’ll call within two hours (as the show opens in three weeks!), and the woman says “You’ll hear from us, you’re very good.” But of course, no phone call. So I’m disappointed, of course, but more pissed off. Why waste my time, and get me excited, if you know you’re not going to use me? Fuck off.

Twin A, rant about something intelligent.

Twin B is working again, but I yelled at him last night and he’s going to post soon.

Twin D is lame. Lame lame lame.

March 21, 2005

Best Spam Title Ever

Filed under: Uncategorized — Twin A @ 12:00 pm

Have a sensation of living in cloud - land! Present - day mode of losing flesh.

I thought it was going to be for DMT, or something. No such luck. Just some fat-burning action.

I was thinking about writing a huge rant about libertarianism and how “free markets” are either nothing but, or completely propped up by the kinds of governmental interventions that libertarians kvetch about, and even in an absolutely free libertarian paradise, they’d still be really mean, but now I’m at work and don’t know how they’ll feel about me blogging for hours at a time. I was pondering this on the subway, perhaps in response to looking at more NYC2012 propaganda (I hate that shit!) or looking at Williamsburg rezoning/gentrifying propaganda (I hate that shit too!).

But instead I’ll just say that Twin C was so drunk on Saturday night, he wouldn’t stop singing “Marion The Librarian” at Maid Marian, who gave me guff about the slide projections being blurry at LH’s talk on Thursday, when in fact the slides were out of focus. Curse you, Burning Man hoi polloi! Where’s my art grant? Where’s Twin B?


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