Damn. The Man.

Okay, so it was my fault AT&T shut off my internet. I’m willing to at least accept culpability for not paying the bill. Or, for not having the money to pay it. I guess that is my fault. Mostly. The thing is, I paid the bill eventually. I still didn’t really have the money for the bill plus late fees and ‘you’re-a-piece-of-shit’ surcharges, but it had been a painful two days with my internet held ransom – I mean, no facebook in bed? What the fuck. I’m not a caveman. So I paid the amount, and was eagerly awaiting the return of mornings with Perez and Huff Post as I was on hold with my fifth incompetent operator, two and a half hours deep into the labyrinthine quagmire that is their customer service line. So many things had gone wrong with this call that I was more well -versed in their operating system than the people who worked there.

"AT & T."

“Hi. So, my internet got shut off, and I paid the bill, and I just need –“

“What’s your social security number?”

“I just gave it to the other girl.” Really? Every temp working the call center in Battle Creek needs my social and mother’s maiden name? I’m just supposed to be okay with that? But fine. I give it to her.

“Anyway, I need my internet back on, and apparently you guys switched internet types over the two days that mine was shut off, so your new internet isn’t compatible with my old modem, so I need a new modem, and the only way to do that is to buy it in a bundle with my phone, but my work order has already been submitted with the phone and internet separate, so I just need you to cancel those orders and submit it as a bundle.” See? I knew my shit. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, though. I just wanted to get on with my day. I had other stuff to put off doing.
“Oh. I see. Yeah. It looks like you need to pay the fee.”
“No. I already paid the fee. I –“
“There’s a new fee. Hold on. Let me transfer you to the fee department.”

And that - was when I lost it. I was the customer. Uh, The Customer of ‘The Customer is always right’ fame? I didn’t have to put up with this! I could easily pack my bags and head over to Time Warner. I’m sure they would treat me…well, probably a little worse. I’d actually had Time Warner before, and they were at least as bad as AT & T. In fact, I recalled one incident wherein I spent five hours explaining to them that I never lived at an address where they accused me of having a past due bill. When I asked for information about what I could only assume was a fraudulent account, they said they couldn’t release anything because I had just told them it wasn’t my account. Why is dealing with these people such a goddamn M.C. Escher painting?!

Ugh. So, no, I couldn’t switch companies. I would just have to hunker down with AT & T, who’s cornered the market by being imperceptibly less horrendous than their competition. Because choosing a company to patronize in this country is like being forced to choose a husband in a White Power bar. Ultimately, you have to chug a stiff drink and just go with the one with the most teeth.

I’m not even sure I get to choose who I give my money to at all. I need AT &T, T-Mobile, and B of A much more than they will ever need me. My life without internet, cell phone, a place to deposit my checks, is an inconvenient uphill shit show. Their lives without me? Exactly the same. They could lose me, or thousands of me’s, tens of thousands of me’s and their bottom line would be effectively unchanged. So what am I supposed to do when I’m thwarted, abused, and extorted by them? Threaten to take my often past due balance elsewhere? Hold up my three figure bank balance like a floozy past her prime, and shake it in B of A’s face as I leave, taunting ‘You could have had aaaaaaall this!’ They would laugh. They would chuckle like the villains they are and remind themselves that they own entire countries.

Even the White Power bar isn’t that cocky. He has to hope there’s another girl with low self esteem waiting to be demeaned by him. I mean, there usually is, but still.

And this is why everywhere sucks. Because they can. Because the fundamental principle behind a free market - that entities who have to compete for consumer dollars will naturally have to keep their prices reasonable and their service decent – is null and void, and bull shit. Because inherent in that principle is the idea that the company relies on the consumer, and I for one am way too addicted to convenience, technology, and coffee on every corner for it to be reasonably construed that I am the one calling the shots. I’m not. I’m at peace with it. I get it. I lose, they win. Again. So if anyone needs me this week, I’ll be spending most of it with AT &T, phone to my ear, hands around my ankles, which, let’s face it, is the best way to welcome home the internet.

Who's The Boss?

"Never put off until tomorrow what you could do the day after tomorrow just as well." - Mark Twain
"I was supposed to write a blog based on this quote three weeks ago." - Me

I have a hard time getting out of bed sometimes. Every morning. And the problem is not my cavernous studio, nor my deaf ear, nor my love for PBR on a Wednesday. Rather, it is the interloping sea gull of an alarm that comes squawking into my subconscious, a vicious reminder of everything that seems futile about the day that lies ahead of me - an insipid attack on my delicious sleep, one that I feel I must defend myself against with the help of an adorable little button who goes by the name 'Snooze.'
MAH MAH MAH SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY.
Snooze!
Five minutes of bliss, then -
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND SAME SHIT MEANS OPEN FINAL DRAFT WRITE A SENTENCE STARE AT THE WALL PICK A SCAB WONDER IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN.
Snooze! Snooze!
Oh. Thank God. Five more delicious min--
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND WONDERING IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN MEANS GETTING DEPRESSED AND MAKING YOURSELF FEEL BETTER BY GOING TO THE STORE WHICH MEANS BUYING PUDDING CHIPS AND SALSA BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO SHOP LIKE A GODDAMN ADULT.
Snooze! For the love of Pete! Snooze! Damn it! Who's the asshole that set this thing anyway?!
That asshole is, of course, me.
Because I'm self employed (or unemployed, for those of you who live outside of Los Angeles) which means that everyday I work for a boss who is so critical and micromanaging that I constantly feel compelled to defy her by slacking off behind her back.
She's such a stress case. She acts like the work we do is ridiculously important, and is always on my ass about why I haven't finished a project on time. She's borderline abusive - calls me lazy, unproductive, slow, and I just want to tell her "Lady, calm down. This isn't the E.R. We're writing jokes about the Kardashians here."
And nothing I ever do is good enough. Every premise I write is met with an eye roll, every set we listen to with groans of displeasure.
Frankly, I'm sick of her shit, and I've started doing something about it.
This juvenile work we do is comically close to her heart, so I sabotage it every chance I get. Pilot idea she's been dying to outline? Punchline she needs to streamline? I replace these stimulating, gratifying projects with the most mundane activities imaginable. Entire afternoons are spent tweezing toe hairs or looking for Hypercolor shirts on ebay as she stews over why we haven't heard back from that Lit Agent.
Just like most bosses, she's better at giving orders than executing them. Half the time she's barking demands at me, I find her 'brainstorming' on Facebook or 'taking a five' to jerk off. It's laughable that she even considers herself a real writer.
I know it sounds like I'm in a terrible work environment, but she's not awful 100% of the time.
She understands that I am a 'non-traditional worker' and can actually be pretty accommodating. She'll let me get 'a little high' sometimes in the morning, if I promise it will help with my writing, and our office dress code is simply 'pantsless casual.'
We have far fewer of those annoying midday work birthday parties than most folks. You'll only see a sheet cake around these parts a couple times a year: once, when it's her birthday, and her family sends one, and once when we have our annual 'Congratulations, Tess. You've Tricked Yourself Out of Being Successful, So Eat Up!' party -- which is actually pretty fun, because there's always lots of booze at that one.

Notes from a Butthead

I wish I could quit non-smoking.

I know I have it in me. I’ve done it before. There was a whole two-year spell in college where I was doing really well. I was focused then, committed. I would go days without skipping a cigarette – sometimes even hours. I’m not saying this was easy – far from it, actually. This was college, after all, and I was as broke as I was into Amnesty International. However, I was not going to let my financial status break my will. I took a part time job where I got paid in cash, and every night after work, I would head to 7-11 and spend my earnings on something I could feel good about: a nice fresh box of Camel Lights. Sure, I could have squandered my money on something ridiculous, like food or shampoo, but like I said, I was committed.

And my discipline paid off.

That was the healthiest I have ever been. Socially. I would walk into groups of strangers – a smoldering scum stick my ticket to butting into a conversation on emo music or experimental film. Any time I felt an awkward silence at bars or parties, I would gracefully excuse myself to go outside and join my brethren addicts – sucking down carbon dioxide in sub zero weather to avoid the uncomfortable conversation inside. I forged many a lasting friendship on balconies, in alleys, near stoops, reveling in the delightful crackle of laughter and chronic bronchitis.

Like many people, I started non-smoking socially. More and more of my friends started experimenting with breathing correctly, and I found myself joining them inside while ‘my people’ behaved like responsible smokers and religiously puffed away at their American Spirits (the cigarette of choice for smokers who cannot quit and thus punish themselves with a lifetime of foul tasting smokes.) I avoided the judgmental gaze of my smoking friends when I turned down a post-drink puff, telling everyone that ‘This was just a phase. Just something I do when I want to let loose and not hack up a lung.’

But then I stopped buying my own pack. Soon, I was non-smoking everywhere: the car, my apartment, even at bars, once my carbon monoxide wonderlands. It’s true what they say, too. A non-smoker is tough to be around. You constantly reek of smugness, and you cough up moral superiority everywhere you go. I know it’s a dirty habit and that it’s not good for me - I know it makes me unattractive to rock stars and former drug addicts, and I am constantly aware of the amazing conversations that are being held over ashed cigarettes and flicked Bics all across this great nation. Now, when I’m at a show or a party I have nothing to break the ice but my own awkward giggle and perhaps an anecdote about how my car battery died last week – and let’s face it, that’s just not lady like.

Every once in a while if I’ve had a really bad day or a really stiff drink, I’ll overcome my craving to not fill my mouth with the taste of exhaust and old asphalt, and bum one, but sure enough, I’ll break and put it out before I’ve finished the job. I just don’t think I can quit non-smoking. I don’t have that kind of will power.

A Lady Blog Ga!

Guys, I don't have bad taste in music...all the time. I listen to college radio, I know what Jack White's latest side project is, I've been to The Echo.

I also play 'Bad Romance' and 'Womanizer' daily. Five times.

Because all the burned CD's, suggestions from friends, and time spent in Los Feliz will not change the fact that I am a gay man trapped in a woman's body, and I panic for a bitch. I friend of mine recently described himself as having a gay boner for Barbara Streisand, and while Babs doesn't quite make me put a metaphorical notebook in front of my pants, I know what he's talking about - when a bitch is so awestrickingly awesome that the very thought of her elicits a reverent rush of enthusiasm so intense that it's almost sexual, but it isn't, but it is, but it isn't.

My inner gay is straight for Lady Gaga.

The facts are these:

1. While most artists spend years rising to stardom, Lady Gaga showed up at our doorsteps pre-packaged as a super star. One minute, the world was existing as we know it, and the next, a platinum blonde piece of performance art was taking the world by storm.

2. Old girl knows how to hide a problem area. Namely, her face. Forget X-Tina reminding us that 'I am beautiful,' Lady Gaga has inspired the millions in this country who have a face for radio by making it socially acceptable to hit the town with all or most of one's face obscured. Ladies, have an Adrian Brody nose? Next time you're going to a party, slap a giant light up sparkly star on your face, and call it a night.

3. Let me begin by saying that I acknowledge how disgusting, obnoxious, and well-trod upon the word is, but bottom line, everything she does is un-be-fucking-lievably fierce. Everything. She bats a hundred. If she's existing, she's unzipping a faceless dress to accept an award by 'thanking God and the Gays,' writhing on stage lamenting that what she 'hates more than money is the truth,' or otherwise making us all glad that we live in a time when such a hot, fierce bitch exists, while simultaneously reminding us that we are not said bitch.

And now onto my other wife, my 'starter wife,' if you will.

I think we can all agree that Britney Spears is the first time that white trash has become famous and stayed exactly as trashy as she always was. Having such a public specimen gave middle America a chance to see what white trash was really about - it's not all sunshine and PBR. True 'country' means bare foot trips to the Chevron, public spats with your significant other, and melodramatic cries for help in the form of pill binges, manic shopping sprees, or head shavings. Also, they really like Doritos and frappucinos.

Because Britney offered such a fascinating glimpse into this other world, we became maniacally obsessed with her, and sicked a running-of- the- bulls style gaggle of paparazzi on the girl, sacrificing a human life so that everyone would have something good to read while we got our nails did.

We all know how that shit show ended - with an all bets off, piece de resistance known as the Circus Tour, wherein the Britney we all love - fake tanned, hair extensions, and sequined bra and panties that are a smidge too small, came flying from the ceiling of convention centers across the country, appointed herself the ringleader of the circus that her life had become, and reminded the world that 'It's Britney, Bitch!'

I was lucky enough to see her at the Staples center, and the second she hit the stage, whip in hand, two thousand girls in the audience lost it, and never got it back... not when she did 'Piece of Me' writhing around in the gilded cage we'd all created for her, not when she hopped around to 'Baby One More Time' and busted out original choreography, not when she lip synched 'Every Time' while suspended from the ceiling on a giant glitter umbrella.

And yes, I knew she was going to lip synch. Anyone who points out that she does not really sing is completely missing the point. You don't see her because of her voice. We all know 'Britney's voice' is a computer somewhere in Sherman Oaks. You see Britney because you want to see the bitch pretend to dance, whip her dancer boys as she makes them do push ups, and maybe, just maybe catch an earful of her complaining off stage that her 'pussy is hanging out.'

The best thing about Britney is that the worse she gets, the better she gets. The more trite, slutty, and ignorant she becomes, the more unique, untouchable, and brilliant she is. She is still legitimately hot in any of her several lingerie ensembles, but we all know what a treat it is to catch a glimpse of overalls, glasses, and no make up Britney.

There's no wrong way to spot a Britney.

And so, next time you get in my car, and Kiis FM is blasting, before you bash my taste in music, remind yourself that I can't help myself. It's who I am. I was born this way. I am biologically predisposed to panic for a bitch.

My Resume 'The Deleted Scenes'

Hey guys, what do you think of this res/cover letter?

xoT

Dear Sir or Madam:

Thank you for looking at my resume.

Below, please find my other resume. 'My resume, the deleted scenes,’ if you will. I look forward to your thoughts.

TESS BARKER

Shitty Job Resume

WORK EXPERIENCE

Waitress on and off for some time

(Multiple Establishments Existing in Varying Degrees of Squalor)

-learned to discriminate against old people, people with children, and various minorities.

-utilized various tools to steal fries off customer’s plate before delivery to table.

-became acutely aware that tips should be 20% unless something is seriously wrong. Trust me on this.

-developed an excellent tolerance to cockroaches, germs, and sexual harassment

Senior Citizen’s Aerobics Teacher two years. i know.

(An Adult School. The Kind That Have Pamphlets at the Library)

-piloted aerobics program based on absolutely no knowledge of aerobics.

-attended various “class parties” that were thrown by students in the middle of a weekday afternoon in the back yards of Beverly Hills estates, wherein belly dancing and potlucking would ensue.

- attempted to improvise hour long chair aerobics routine, and quit after five minutes.

Retail Associate short periods of insanity

(Multiple Retail Establishments at Outlet and Otherwise Heinous Malls)

-donned a variety of humiliating stickers, basketball jersey’s, and mannish visors, all of which served to increase sense of shame by 52% in one year alone.

-developed intense hatred for weekends, holidays, and any other time intended for fun.

-abused employee discount in the name of ‘pay back,’

Temp (intentionally and unintentionally)

(Buildings That Required Key Cards and had Free Coffee)

-mastered fake ‘professional voice’ for incoming calls

-solidified understanding and appreciation of Mike Judge’s “Office Space”

-used ‘that one responsible looking button up’ and extra perfume to cover up late night antics and give impression of a functioning adult.

-expanded useless knowledge by ten fold, via the internet

-mastered watching of clock count down starting at 4:53 daily

Regular Substitute Teacher too long

(Yep. 90210)

--read all sections of newspaper whilst students texted and talked loudly about blow jobs in the back of the room.

-relearned long division, and remembered how good Dorritos are at ten a.m.

-regularly referred to as ‘the shit,’ ‘my favorite,’ and ‘you blaze it, huh?’ by students

Odd Jobs moments of intense despair

(Locations of Ill Repute)

-exercised wide range of skills including: ‘background work’ on UPN comedy, contributing to focus groups, babysitting, selling books online, fliering door knobs, event planning, P.A.ing, putting up signs for AIDS Walk, legal assisting, reviewing spiritual books, and attempting unsuccessfully to be hired on by the Census (despite receiving perfect score on standardized test), and ghost writing essays

SKILLS

Faking minor surgeries to call out sick, Limited ability to tolerate general population, Limited ability to feign enthusiasm for patronizing corporate mottos, Well thought out stories upon abrupt resignations

*References not available. Thank you for understanding.