Blurty for Madame X.
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| Tuesday, September 21st, 2004 |
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Before I forget, I feel it is most important that I treat Blurtyland to my namesake (yes, that's right, MY namesake), the painting "Madame X" by John Singer Sargent. This is a crapass scan of a beautiful painting, so perhaps someone reading this will take the opportunity to get their asses to the MET in New York and see it for themselves. |
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I am notorious, in the whorls of that mysterious contraption commonly referred to as my brain, for creating numerous online journals for various, seemingly unimportant purposes. For example, this one was created because I no longer have access at work to my online journal of choice, Livejournal. Within Livejournal I have at least three separate online blogs; one for regular use, one for private use, and one for noting down the songs stuck in my head - this last one contains nothing but song lyrics. Any song lyrics. From Placebo to Christian Death to Sir Mixalot, it is a veritable wasteland of music. Since I don't have access to this blog, I am going to treat Blurtyland to a song here and now. It's called "Like a Friend", and it was graciously birthed by none other than the fabulous Jarvis Cocker (of Pulp fame). --- Don't bother saying you're sorry Why don't you come in, smoke all my cigarettes again Every time, I get no further How long has it been? Come on in now, wipe your feet on my dreams You take up my time like some cheap magazine When I could have been learning something Oh well, you know what I mean Oh, I've done this before And I will do it again Come on and kill me, baby while you smile like a friend Oh, and I'll come running Just to do it again You are the last drink I never should have drunk You are the body hidden in the trunk You are the habit I can't seem to kick You are my secrets on the front page every week You are the car I never should have bought You are the dream I never should have caught You are the cut that makes me hide my face You are the party that makes me feel my age Like a car crash I can see, but I just can't avoid Like a plane I've been told I never should board Like a film that's so bad, but I've got to stay till the end Let me tell you now: it's lucky for you that we're friends |
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No one will probably ever see this except, perhaps, for my equally encumbered roommate. He works with me in the same office, located on prestigious Bleecker Street in prestigious New York City in the prestigious Lower East Side. The building is actually one of the most beautiful that I've seen here; it's a pearly off-white, and elaborately carved with flowers and angels in a rather art nouveau-type style. Unfortunately, this is about the only enjoyable thing about our job, and it's hardly enjoyable from inside our tiny cubicles. We spend our days wired to a computer, doomed to endlessly type smarmy customer service emails to the great unwashed of cyberspace. This is what it's like to work in the Online Division of Estee Lauder (and Companies) Customer Service. Every time an order is received damaged or without an ordered item, every time some old bat's favorite coral lipstick is discontinued, every time a bloody free sample isn't received, they come swarming to their dusty keyboards, plunking away on the keys, their fingers like chickens after so much caterpillar. As if that doesn't sound like enough excitement, poor David and I are also subject to a creature so vile, so stupid, so offensively incompetent that she can only be referred to as: Retard-O-Boss. Alright, alright - she can be referred to by a number of other, easily more accurate terms, but we'll stick with Retard-O-Boss for its simplicity and humor and, of course, its overall truth. There is a favorite childhood story of mine called The Phantom Tollbooth, and in it are creatures called the Demons, who live in the Mountains of Ignorance. One of these Demons is called the Terrible Trivium, and it is this Demon that I am most reminded of when I think of our dear Retard-O-Boss. As you may be able to guess by its name, the Terrible Trivium was a wretched Demon whose sole purpose was to distract you from getting on with anything important by heaping a mountain of useless, trivial tasks upon you until you were stuck forever filling a well with an eye-dropper, or moving a mountain from one place to another with only a pair of tweezers. (Sound familiar, David?) I suppose the job isn't all bad, what with being able to sit on our bums all day and earning twenty bucks an hour for it. Meaningless, true, but the American ideal of doing as little as possible for as much as possible has infected my brain with its lazy allure and its bedroom eyes. |
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Blurty for Madame X.
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