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Monday, March 31, 2008

The Yuppie and the Hippie: An Introduction



With all of this recapping of Spring Break, I haven't been able to tell you guys what's really been going on in my life since I've been back, which is FREAKING THE FUCK OUT ABOUT GETTING A JOB.

I think I've seriously applied to every job in New York. You'd think it would be easy, what with those "fantastic" job search services like Yahoo HotJobs, Monster, and CareerBuilder that email you daily with job openings that meet the job criteria you specify. Yeah, everything's wonderful getting daily emails from Monster with listings for a Loading Dock Supervisor in Japan, or as a movie extra for $300 a day. My criteria was “editorial assistant” in “New York,” so I don’t know how Monster came up with these crappy job listings, but not only do they piss me off, they lead me to believe that there is absolutely no hope in getting a job any time soon, or ever for that matter.


I want to die.

In addition to the anxiety about finding a job, there's more anxiety surrounding finding an apartment in New York. Finding an apartment in New York City has been described by various experts and smart asses as the hardest thing you can possibly do. It's like the song. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. It's up to you. New York, New York.


Wait.


It's up to ME?

FUCK.


In less than two months, I will be living with this girl:





Her name is Abi. One time, Abi told me she was going to get the words "peace," "love," and "energy" tattooed on her torso in Sanskrit and I told her that she should just get "cliche" tattooed in Sanskrit on her torso. She was rightfully mad. Then there was that other time that Abi told me that she wanted to move to Africa to work with elephants. I told her Africa wasn't really like the Lion King, it has more AIDS and war-like ethnic skirmishes. She called me an asshole.

The funny thing is is that somehow we just realized after a year of knowing each other that we are EXACT opposites. We are so opposite that I programmed her ringtone into my phone as the theme song from The Odd Couple. I'M NOT JOKING.


I realized that the months following graduation will be completely and totally crazypants when Abi told me that before we move into our new apartment we'll have to do a sage burning ritual that will rid the apartment of evil spirits and negative energy.

I believe my response to this was "are you fucking kidding me?" Really, Abi. Why don't we just burn the place down? I mean, we want to make sure that ALL of the negativity and "bad vibes" are gone, right? And hey- as various friends have pointed out, you're living with ME. If you want to really get the negativity out you'll have to kill me.

When discussing our decorating likes and dislikes, we found that while Abi likes earth tones and would probably want a couch made out of bamboo, I like bright colors, lots of black, and really contemporary design. I see us getting kicked out of Ikea in the future after a shouting match ensues.

If anything, it will be HYSTERICAL. And maybe I have low standards, but really all I want in a roomate is a rent check and the assurance that she won't murder me. Although I'm not really sure if Abi promised that she wouldn't use physical violence against me. Whatever.

Look out for more new posts on the new odd couple as the months progress.

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Saturday, March 29, 2008

Massage in a Bottle



Yes, I'm still talking about Jamaica. A lot happened in one week, okay? Anyway, this is the last one.

When we arrived at the hotel, along with a fruit basket, we were given two complimentary massages for being much-loved repeat customers. The last time my parents stayed there, they received the same vouchers for free massages but didn't use them. I wasn't about to let this happen again.


For the record, I've never had a professional massage until now, mainly because they're mad expensive and because I'm not really keen on people touching me (ask any of my friends, I give the most awkward hugs in the world). That said, if some high-end spa wants to offer me a massage for free, I am all over that. I dragged my mother with me, and I figured that it would just be a quick back massage so it wouldn't be that big of a deal.


Apparently, it was a full-body massage.


Well, not a full-body massage like you see on Dateline, but arms, legs, back, shoulders, face, and scalp. When my massage lady (or therapist) told me this, I laughed, because I thought of my mother, whose even worse about people touching her than I am, getting the same news in the adjacent room.
This is the point where I shake my head and laugh at myself, because there are certain times where I will obsess and over-analyze things until I've driven both myself and everyone associated with me crazy, and then there are times like these, where I don't give something a second thought. Like, hey- a stranger is going to have their hands all over your body, so you might want to shave your legs and wear nice underwear. Luckily, I did wear nice underwear, but that was totally by mistake, of course.

A few thoughts on a massage: even though she made a point of letting me know that she and no one else at the spa gives a frontal massage, it's not like I expected it. Do I look like someone who would like a large Jamaica lady/stranger exploring my hinderlands (don't answer that)? Despite the disclaimer, she massaged my ENTIRE legs, which includes my upper thighs and upper ass, which was kind of awkward for all involved, but whatever. Also, when she was massaging my scalp, I realized why cats and dogs like that so much. Mainly, because it feels AWESOME. From here on out, I am demanding that everyone greet me as they would a cat or dog- by massaging my scalp. Anyone in? No? Fine.


All in all, it was really relaxing, and I smelled like eucalyptus afterwards. The only REALLY awkward part (aside from the ass-massaging) was when I tipped her afterwards. There was no dresser to leave the money on, so what was I supposed to do?

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Friday, March 28, 2008

Port Antonio BLOWS



I believe there's a fundamental difference between taking a vacation and taking a trip. A vacation usually involves sleeping until noon, laying around, and doing very little throughout the entire time you have off. Taking a trip, as a rule, involves decidedly more activity. I share with my father the innate inability to relax. We both always feel like we have to be doing something, which is why when he takes time off from work he makes big plans to paint the garage (a project which I feel is completely unnecessary) or make sure all of the grass blades in the yard are of equal height.

When we actually go somewhere on vacation, he plans a bunch of activities. For example, this time, he planned sailing, horseback riding, parasailing, and river rafting in some far away town. Usually, I'm all for the little adventures, because I personally can only take so much laying around.

Whenever we come to Jamaica, we hire the same guy to drive us around on our little excursions. When my father said to him that he wanted to go river rafting in Port Antonio, the driver said about five times that it was a long drive and that he wanted to make sure we were up for it. According to my father, we were ALL up for it.

Now, let me give you all a little geography lesson which would have been useful for me before we started out on this ridiculous oddessy.


I am pointing to Montego Bay, where we stayed, and my brother is pointing to Port Antonio. As you'll gather from the photo, Port Antonio is ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FREAKING COUNTRY. Despite this fact, my father maintained that it would only take three hours to drive there.

We began our journey at 7am. After two hours, any semblance of what we Americans would consider a road vanished. We passed the promised three-hour mark and hey, we still weren't there. I'm known to get car sick, and not wanting to puke everywhere, I opted to lie in the fetal position in the back seat. As we were careening down the crater-filled dirt roads, I caught some serious air. My body was literally lifted a good six inches off of the seat on every bump we hit. On the way back down, I was thrown into the seat in front of me, and then bounced back into my original position. At around this point, I began to wonder if I could get shaken baby syndrome as an adult.

Any complaints I had were met with "well, you'll have lots to write about, won't you?" So annoying. From the back seat, I would scream, "I HAVE NO WORDS!" (Obviously, I've found them).

What really would have helped was if our driver knew where he was going, because he stopped and asked for directions every 10 minutes. When we got into the general area of Port Antonio, some locals came up to the van and told us that they will take us rafting, but they had to come into the car.

At first, our driver said no, drives away, saying "they stink of ganja" and "you can't trust anyone nowadays." Twenty minutes later, we're still lost and we run into the same ganja-smelling hoodlums from before. Our driver throws his caution to the wind and lets the one guy in, mainly because he knows damn well that he's never going to find this stupid rafting place on his own.

As this weird local is leading us further and further from the town and into the desolate jungle, I have visions of getting cut with a machete and my iPod being taken from me (in the vision, I would say "you can disfigure me all you want, but don't take my iPod- I just got it!"). Apparently, my paranoia and general distrust for people was unfounded for once, as the guy actually did take us on the rafting ride. Of course, by the time we got to this God-forsaken place, it was 1:00. Yes, we had spent SIX HOURS in the car.

And while the river ride was cool, the thing is, we did the EXACT SAME THING two years ago on a different river that was 45 minutes from our hotel. By the time we were finished with the ride, it was 3:30. We hadn't eaten all day and we had six hours in the car facing us until we got back to the hotel. At this point, we had no lunch, no prospect of dinner (since we were likely to miss our reservations), and the goldfish crackers my mother had brought in her purse were gone because my father though it would be a good idea to give away our only form of sustenence to our rafting capatains like he was the mayor of freakin' Port Antonio.

Back in the fetal position in the back of the van, I wanted to cry when our driver expressed concern for driving at night (apparently, they'll set up road blocks, stop your car, rob, and kill you- what fun!) and continued to ask "does this look familiar?" over and over again. On hour three of the trip, my brother and I decided to pass the time by playing some games:

20 Questions:

Hint: action
Answer: SUICIDE

I Spy:

I spy with my little eye something below the poverty line
Answer: EVERYTHING

We got back to the hotel by 9:00 and we decided to try and still have dinner, so mission go back to the room and change your clothes as fast as you can was implemented. Too bad for us there had been some high winds at the resort and the power in our room was out. WONDERFUL.

Somehow, we made it to the restaurant, and to get back at my father for this terrible, terrible day, I ordered about a thousand drinks, including two at once. In the van on the way back from dinner, I drunkenly relayed the days event's to people in the van with us. I believe I referred to my father as a "genius."

Everyone says you can chalk it up to memories, but I think I'd rather have memories of laying on the beach than curled up the back seat of some rickety old van, silently willing myself not to barf.

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Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Jamaica Me Crazy 2008: A Continued Update



Jamaican Me Lesbo

Despite the fact that Jamaica, as a nation, hates gay people, our hotel room suite got Showtime, which means that I could legitimately watch The L Word for once instead of watching illegally downloaded episodes on YouTube. In preparation for the lesbo-extravaganza, I told my brother to either close his eyes and put on his headphones, or leave the room because The L Word masquerades as a regular show and then all of a sudden has a full-frontal sex scene, making it entirely impossible to gauge when they will happen. This is why I watch the episodes when my roommate isn't aroud, with headphones on. For the record, The L Word has about as much nudity as Nip/Tuck does, but instead of seeing Julian McMahon's asshole, you see scary-skinny Kate Moennig's virtually non-existent "breasts" and rib bones. Sexyyyy.

Pool Games

Kids were splashing by the main pool, making a ton of noise and carrying on. In general, I hate the sound of laughter unless it's coming from me or my loved ones (preferably because of a joke I told), so I insisted that we walk further to a more secluded pool. And by "secluded," I mean "private." Well- let me explain.

The hotel we stayed at is not your typical high-rise, rather, the entire property is peppered with various cottages and villas. It's nice, because virtually every cottage/villa has it's own part of the beach right in front of their door.


The further from the lobby the villas get, the more posh they get. I mean, Prince Charles doesn't want to be anywhere near my beer-swilling, daiquiri-slamming, trash-talking, foul mouth. Thus, the private pools. The really nice villas have their own private pools, but the Royal Suites (a step up from the ones we were staying in) all share two pools, which are more or less side by side. The one pool had a sign saying it was for Royal Suite guests only, but the pool next to it had no such sign, which indicated to me that I could swim in it.


My brother and I got in and the old man sleeping in his lounge chair snapped to attention. Fotr the 20 minutes that we were in the pool, he was staring us down.

Let me say that he would have had every right to be pissed if we were reprising the dunking contest we had the day before or if we were loudly and idiotically playing Marco Polo. We were not. Although it was killing us, we were being very respectful. But apparently, our very presence in the pool bothered him even though he WASN'T EVEN IN IT. Eventually, I realized that I had inadvertently entered a staring contest with an old, arrogant asshole.

Jesus. What is the problem? It's not like I'm Cletus, the slack-jawed yokel, pulling up my truckload of kids and telling them to get in the pool for bathtime. Dude, do you really think you're better than me because you're staying in the ROYAL SUITES? Well, if that's the case, I'm SORRY, YOUR MAJESTY.

I hate to admit this, but Mr.-Stick-Up-His-Ass won the staring contest because my love of alcohol won over my desire to silently fight with a stranger. In other words, the bar was calling my name. As we left the pool, he continued to stare, so I decided to meet him at his level as we were walking away. Not with the middle finger he deserved, but with something less crass that conveyed the same message.

Yes, an elegant wave would do the trick, just like Princess Diana would have given.

Have fun at your Royal Suite, jackass.

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Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Shop 'til You Drop



On day three of our week in paradise, we went shopping, and I ended up suggesting that we all get matching t-shirts to further emphasize our theme, which was, in case you haven't gotten it by now, "Jamaica Me Crazy 2008."


Minutes later, we walked out of the store proud owners of four neon, ugly, embroidered t-shirts emblazoned with our vacation slogan. Eventually, over the course of our shopping, I spotted a street vendor selling really cute necklaces. He wanted $30 for one. I don't think so.

Him: Okay, Miss, $25 for one, but only because you're so beautiful.

Me: Oh, please.

Him: Okay, I'll throw in these [ugly] earrings. Earrings and necklace- special deal- $25.
Me: I'll take two necklaces for $40.
Him: But the earrings and necklace are beautiful together.

Me: I don't want the earrings (I take off my sunglasses to show him that I mean business. Big mistake).
Him: You have beautiful blue eyes and these earrings will look so good with them.

Me: I'm walking away.


The next minute, I am the proud owner of two lovely necklaces for $40. I'll have to remember this little scenario when I'm negotiating my salary requirements. Oh, who am I kidding? The salary negotiations I'll be having will likely go something like this:


Employer: I will pay you $20,000 a year.
Me: Okay.

Anyway, we break from shopping to go for lunch. You should know that the second day were were there, I developed a gorgeous rash on my lower arms and hands. That added to the fact that my bathing suit doesn't provide the chest support that it should translates loosely into the undeniable fact that I was the hottest girl on the beach. So much so that the waiter at the restaurant was so concerned with my rash that he went and found an aloe vera plant and cut some off for me. Everyone is so helpful there.


Eventually, we wound up in a jewelry store because my father wanted to buy me a watch for my graduation present. After we pick out a watch, out of curiousity's sake, we have the watch my grandfather left my brother appraised. Apparently, the watch is worth $10,000. My 14-year-old brother, the one who is so clutsy that he can barely walk down the street without tripping is wearing a $10,000 watch. I question aloud what exactly Grandpa left me besides his legendary bad attitude and general disdain for stupidity.


Back at the hotel room, my brother refuses to put my new watch into the safe along with his because it will make his watch "depreciate in value." The trash talking continues, as my brother declares, "Hey, Amanda, I
heard my watch laugh when I put your watch next to it." I end up comparing my $800 Movado to a Timex.

I am the epitome of spoiled (but my brother's worse).

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Saturday, March 22, 2008

Andddddddddd she's back!



I'm baaaaaaaaaaack, muthafuckaaaaaaaaaas. After seven glorious days in Jamaica, I'm back in freezing cold NY and already hating my life. Okay, I'm being dramatic. I have a decent tan (for once) and enough lobster in my stomach to last me for at least a year or so. My brother, who has always been equal parts mischevious and annoying likes to keep track of how much we drink, mostly because he can't drink himself and he needs something to do while we're slamming cocktails. Imagine how my parents must have felt when, upon returning to school from our last trip to Jamaica two years ago, my brother secretly collected the beer caps and swizzle sticks from all of our drinks and showed them to all of his teachers and classmates. This time, he was no longer collecting, but counting. According to his tabulations, I've had 20 beers, 18 strawberry daiquiris, and 9 bloody marys. Frankly, I'm disappointed in myself.


That aside, we had a great time. Of course, over seven days, a lot of ridiculous things went on, so I guess I'll just break them down into stories. Here are a few, and there are more in the works.

And hey- before I begin, I leave for a week and THE WORLD FALLS APART? New York now has a BLIND governor? My roommate went to high school with Elliot Spitzer's call girl? Obama's pastor went completely nuts? There are massive storms hitting the entire country? Daaaaaaaamn, America. Let's get it together.

I digress:

Leaving on a Jet Plane:

We had a 6am flight out of Buffalo, which meant that we had to leave the house at 3am because my father is paranoid about getting through security. Of course, we got through security in under ten minutes, so we had lots of time to kill before our flight. Regardless, all went well and we had a layover in Atlanta before boarding our flight to Jamaica. There's no better way to talk about the horrendous flight than to describe it in real time:

9:25am: Oh good, there's a crying baby in front of me.
9:27am: Oh good, there's a crying baby across from me.
9:39am: Oh good, there's a giant group of young judgemental Christians a few rows up, spending their spring break building houses in Jamaica and pushing their views on everyone.
9:45am: One Christian boy talks about his door-to-door evangelism trip to Vietnam. I'm reminded of Maude Flanders going to bible camp to "learn how to be more judgemental."
9:52am: The baby will not stop crying.
9:54am: Beer #1
10:07am: The baby is STILL crying.
10:14am: Bloody Mary #1
10:36am: Bloody Mary #2
11:01am: Someone gave the baby a sedative, finally, there is peace and quiet.
11:18am: The stewardess announces that she has a limited number of customs forms, thus she'll be charging $5 per form.
11:19am: I am having sexual fantasies about the stewardess. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a woman with a sense of humor.

We land in Jamaica around 12:30pm and in the shuttle from the airport, the driver tells us that we just missed Prince Charles- he checked out yesterday. Later, while waiting in the lobby for the van to take us to dinner, we see Emmett Smith. I love this place.

Beach Reading:

My parents are really cool for being, well, my parents, and while they drive me crazy like everyone else's family drives them crazy, I usually have a good time whenever I hang out with them. That said, they are Republicans. This explains why their beach reading included "Faith of Our Fathers" by John McCain and why the TV in our room was trained on FoxNews all week. My brother, indoctrined by their conservativism was reading a book titled "FDR and his Enemies." I asked if chapter one was titled "Stairs."

Meanwhile, I was reading
Bitter is the New Black by Jen Lancaster, which was simply hysterical. I had already read her most recent book, "Bright Lights, Big Ass" so I back-tracked and read her first one. It's a memoir, detailing how she went from a rich, arrogant tyrant/powerhouse to being laid off after 9/11 and not being able to find a job because she was wholly overqualified for every job she applied to. She's sardonic, sarcastic, and just flat out funny. If you're not sold by now, the tagline of the book is "why you shouldn't wear your Prada bag to the unemployment office." Genius. Also, as I became aware while reading the book, Jen is a Republican. I guess I can't get away from 'em. Whateverrrrrrr.

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Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Jamaica Me Crazy: Spring Breakdown 08



Hey kids, so the long and short of it is that I'm going to Jamaica on Spring Break and I won't be back until 3/22. I know you're thinking, "but Amanda, how can I go on without your daily witty, hilarious musings on life?" I know it'll be painful. I'd suggest just removing contact with the internet altogether to ease the pain. Let's all unplug. I'll see you back here in nine days. Until then, this is where I'll be:


And this is what I'll be doing:


-drinking insane amounts of Red Stripe and
assorted fruity daiquiris
-eating lobster constantly
-laying on the beach
-participating in various tropical-related activities
-RELAXING. Really.


Farewell, friendz.

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Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Apparently- I am a clown



I've been meaning to post this little gem for awhile now, but I've been really busy, running around, trying to get everything together for Spring Break. It doesn't help that midterms coincide with this, as well as my internship. When I'm not busy doing work, haphazardly throwing things into a suitcase, or commuting back and forth to my internship, I'm fielding phone calls from my mother, asking me for the FIFTH TIME "have you packed extra contacts?" Yes, mom. I've packed extra contacts. I told you this FIVE TIMES. I know she's just trying to help and I try to control my temper, but really. If I forget to pack anything, it's my fault, and I have to live with it. End of story. Comedienne Laura Kightlinger once said "My mom plays this really twisted, sick game with me sometimes. Yeah, she calls me on the phone." It's true, God help me, but it's true.

Anyway, on with the post:

I've mentioned before my general disdain for
adjunct professors, and I've also mentioned that one of my current adjunct professors also works as a club promoter for the cast members of MTV shows such as The Real World, Road Roads, Tila Tequila, and That's Amore. When he's not ending the class with mini advertisements for his business ventures (ie: "Come to the Loft on Saturday, _______ from The Real World will be there!"), he's teaching us via episodes of The Gauntlet that we're required to watch every week and write an analysis on. To be fair, he tries to teach by making it entertaining, and it is, but I feel like constantly analyzing the communication styles of degenerates from The Real World isn't really a good way to teach by example. After all, it's reality television. Half of the stuff that happens on those shows happens because they're on TV, and I'm willing to bet that most of the people on there wouldn't just go off and scream at someone for something insignificant if it weren't for the camera pointed at them. I express this opinion often in class, and I don't hide my disdain for his profession and his "friends" from the shows. Essentially, I make fun of him, out loud, ever since the time he stopped class to take a call from Bobby from Tila Tequila.

So in a class exercise, he put us in groups where we were supposed to act out assigned roles that he gave to us. Here's the role description he gave me:

CLOWN: You are a disruptive character. You will goof off, crack inappropriate jokes, make frequent comments, and side track the group.

Good. I guess in trying to make fun of a guy for not being serious, I was forced to realize that I'm NEVER serious, either.

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Sunday, March 09, 2008

Weekend Recap



When I give tours, people always ask if sports are really big at Marist. I want to tell them that the fact that Marist isn't a sports school is one of the reasons why I w
ent to Marist instead of Syracuse. That said, Marist men's basketball is a pretty big deal around here, especially last year when we still had Jared Jordan. Jared graduated and went on to get drafted by the NBA, and with him gone and a number of the other great players graduating as well, the team hasn't been as good and the games haven't been as exciting. In short, I haven't gone to any of the games this season.

My friend Gabe, however, is a Marist basketball fanatic and when my friend Tim, who is originally from Albany where the MAAC tournaments are played, offered up his childhood home as housing, we decided to make a weekend of it. Despite my lack of interest in Marist basketball this season, I suggested that we go all out and paint our faces and buy red wigs. Basically, I'm like Homer Simpson and how he feels about the Springfield Isotopes (ie: "WOOHOOOO 'TOPES RULEEEEEEEE!! What?! They lost?! U
GH 'TOPES SUCK!") Basically, I just wanted to be as obnoxious as possible. The pint beers I drank also helped with that.


As we were in line for beer, some very drunk, 40-something snaggle-toothed fans of Siena, our rival, started heckling us. They were chanting "Bill O'Reilly Sucks." Yes, Bill O'Reilly did go to Marist. And yes, Bill O'Reilly does suck. What's your point? LAME.

It was a really close game, and it was a nail-biter until the final seconds, but we ended up winning and I ended up getting plenty drunk. It was a great weekend. This was right after we won, obviously.

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Thursday, March 06, 2008

The Creepy Saga of the Mail Room Guy Continues...



Things with the mail room guy have reached creepy new heights. To make a long story short, yesterday, while I was at my internship, he called me at my desk and asked me on a date. Let's keep in mind that this guy is like 30 years older than me and MARRIED. Ooook.

Note to self: when a creepy old man asks you if you have a boyfriend, say YES. For the love of God, say yes.

Also, since the company I work for seems to not require any sexual harassment training, I figured I'd come up with a few basic rules that everyone, especially creepy mail room guys should follow:

1. Do not whisper in intern's ear
2. Do not ask interns out for drinks
3. Do not ask interns to go out for smoothies
4. STAY AWAY FROM THE INTERNS

Daaaaaaaaamn, I'm not even getting paid to deal with all of this creepy shit. What I have going for me is that the office is like 95% female and they all know that he's a creepster. They told me it'd be taken care of. I told them that I was going to jump out the window.

Wonderful. I can't wait for Monday.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Props from Ani D!



So I've mentioned that I work at Righteous Babe Records before, and that I created and maintain the Ani DiFranco MySpace page for them. It started out as an internship and then they kept me on as a freelancer and I do it from here, there, and everywhere. Hell, when I was in Paris on Spring Break last year, I was adding friend requests.

So the publicity lady over at RBR sent me an excerpt from an interview Ani gave in the new issue of Bitch Magazine:

"Twenty years ago, when you started, there were few structures by which independent artists could get their music out cheaply and easily. Now we’ve got MySpace. Do you see that as a huge change?

Now that the music industry is more consolidated in its power and money, there’s not much development of young artists or bands. The handful of top companies pour ridiculous amounts of money into old dinosaur superstars and everyone else is out in the cold. So it is really cool that we have places to come in to and connect with each other.

I’ve had a gas learning how to use recording gear in the studio and trying to become more technologically independent. I’ve experimented and interacted with all kinds of different technology: lo-fi and reel-to-reel tape machines, and now Pro Tools, computer-geeking out. Some of it I don’t have space for in my consciousness. So we have different young people working independently; like the chick who runs the [Ani DiFranco] MySpace page. She’s totally on her own. She knows my music up and down and is out there chatting with people and doing whatever she feels like, which I think is cool."

Oh, Ani. <3333

When I told my dad I got a mention in Bitch Magazine he said, "so you're a bitch? Tell me something I don't know."

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A Day in the Life of Amanda



7am: Alarm goes off, "Why God Why is muttered."
7:15am: I am ready to walk out the door. You might not believe it from how beautiful I always look, but I am VERY low maintenence.
7:30am: There is no parking at the train station again. I take a left down Sketch Street and end up parking down Crack Alley. Good thing I get back late at night and walk by myself.
8:05am: The train begins its 1 hour and 40 minute commute- I am doing the homework I put off all weekend.
8:20am: We stop and some weirdo gets on and sits behind me. His laughter is loud and disturbing. Disturbing because a.) he's by himself with no form of entertainment that could cause him to laugh out loud b.) it is the kind of deranged laughter that is reserved for mental patients and serial killers.
8:22am: The laughter continues.
8:25am: I am in a different seat.
9:40am: The train arrives in Grand Central.
10:00am: I arrive at the office and am greeted by my fellow intern who tells me she has boyfriend troubles.
10:15am: They made cake in the test kitchen. I commence eating cake for breakfast.
10:30am: I am discussing this past weekend's graffiti party with an editorial assistant. She tells me that one time she and her friends had a Germany party where they partitioned off the room, dividing the party into East and West Germany.
10:31am: I ask if the east side of the party was economically deficient because it didn't have the financial backing of the US.
10:32am: Apparently not.
10:45am: "Hey Amanda, I have a project for you. It involves calling 30 companies and asking for them to send us products."
10:55am: I realize that 90% of company websites only have customer service numbers.
11:15am: No, I would not like to check on the status of my order.
11:40am: Apparently Target doesn't have a PR department.
12:50pm: Ace Hardware has me on hold.
1:12pm: I am still on hold.
1:20pm: Ace Hardware needs better hold music.
1:22pm: "Hold On" by Wilson Philips would be appropriate.
2:17pm: I am on hold with Coleman.
2:30pm: Apparently, I want the west coast office. I am transferred.
2:34pm: Apparently, I want the east coast office. I am transferred.
2:37pm: Apparently, I want the west coast office. I am transferred.
2:39pm: I explain that I don't like these bicoastal shenanigans and that I just want to speak with someone in Media Relations.
2:41pm: I get a voicemail. The voicemail I leave is cheerful. I am not.
2:50pm: Situations like this continue with every company I call.
5:15pm: The last person I need to get back to me does. I have made contact with everyone. I rule.
6:00pm: I am out the door.
6:15pm: I am on the train going back to Poughkeepsie.
8:04pm: The train arrives in Poughkeepsie. I begin my walk to Crack Alley.
8:15pm: I am home and eating leftover quesadillas from Chili's for dinner.
8:34pm: Beer #1
8:42pm: I receive an email from a member from my group for my online class who hasn't responded to any of the emails I have sent her all week regarding a project we have to do.
8:43pm: Apparently, "people have lives outside of Marist College" and that's why she didn't respond to my emails.
8:44pm: I'm pretty sure this girl doesn't usually work 8 hour days plus 4 hour commutes, plus a freelance job, plus a job as a tour guide, plus being the president of a campus club, plus having a full course load. Yeah, you are sooo busy.
9:02pm: Kari comes over.
9:03pm: We drink Bartles & Jaymes Strawberry Daiquiris and bitch about life.
10:00pm: Gabe picks us up and we're on the way to the bar.
10:10pm: We arrive at the bar and immediately place our orders for wings and pitchers.
10:20pm: Kari and I are splittling pitcher #1.
10:22pm: I realize that I left the house without my keys. I text my roommate to put a sign on the front door that will let all 7 of my housemates know to keep the door unlocked for me.
10:30pm: Where are our wings?
10:35pm: Why haven't we gotten our wings?
10:40pm: We're eating wings.
10:52pm: Kari and I are splitting pitcher #2.
11:02pm: Kari convinces PJ the DJ to move us up on the list.
11:04pm: We are singing "I've Had the Time of My Life" from the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack.
11:10pm: Some guy we don't know is singing "Wherever You Will Go" by The Calling. We crash the song, and ruin it, because the guy had a pretty decent voice.
11:32pm: Gabe and Tim are singing "Copa Cabana" by Barry Manilow. Kari and I refuse to sing out of pride.
11:40pm: Kari and I are splitting pitcher #3.
11:45pm: Kari and I sign up to sing "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" by Celine Dion.
11:46pm: We immediately regret this decision.
11:57pm: We are singing "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" and it's a hit. The whole bar sings along.
11:59pm: BABY BABY BABY IF YOU TOUCH ME LIKE THIS...
12:01am: THERE WERE THINGS I'D NEVER DO AGAIN BUT THEN THEY'D ALWAYS SEEM RIGHT
12:20am: Gabe is sober, and we recognize that we should probably head home.
12:22am: I am in the back seat of the car, playing with an air pump for some reason.
12:34am: Kari and I our hugging outside of our houses.
12:35am: I go inside to find the following note posted on the back of our front door:



12:38am: I am in my room and yelling at a sleeping Christine for the note.
12:41am: All aboard the sleepy train.

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Monday, March 03, 2008

Disgrace at Chili's



I am never going to Chili's again.

Not because I don't want to, but because I can't.
First, you should read a back entry I wrote about the time Christine and I went to Chili's, ordered a gigantic meal, and then realized that neither of us had any money. Basically, I sat at the table for a half an hour watching Christine's ice cream melt as she drove like a maniac back to our apartment to get money to cover the check. You think if I had any sense of shame, I'd never go back, but the bottomless chips and salsa keeps me coming back for more.

So my friend Gabe and I went to Chili's last night for dinner. In the car on the way there, he explained that he had to do a profile with someone who works in Poughkeepsie. Since it was due on Monday and this was Sunday night, he was running out of options and decided to interview our waitress.

Not only did he have to interview her, he had to record it, and take pictures of her. I knew this whole situation would make for a sufficiently awkward dining experience. During the interview, apparently the Chili's general manager caught wind of the interview and accused us of being spies. She told us that if we wanted to take a picture of her, we'd have to go outside.

I can NEVER go to Chili's again. EVER.

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Sunday, March 02, 2008

Dateline: Got Kids? They Gonna Die




I have a love-hate relationship with Dateline. I love Dateline because it quells my voyeur craving and perfectly couples that with my love for true crime stories. I hate Dateline because it freaks my mother out and then I have to deal with it. Dateline's tag line should be "Got Kids? They Gonna Die." Between the ridiculous fear segments on college drinking to the creeptacular To Catch a Predator specials, basically what Dateline teaches America is that no one is safe. EVER.

So this Friday, my mother calls me up and she tells me that she watched a recent episode of Dateline where a college girl went out with her friends for her birthday, got really drunk and died in her sleep. Her parents are suing all of her friends for negligent homicide. "Please don't drink too much," she said.

First of all, "don't drink too much" is not in my, or quite honestly, any college student's vocabulary. If I'm drinking, I'm DRUNK, otherwise, I'm sober. I don't see the point of just casually drinking, mainly because I love soda and if I'm not going to get drunk, I'd rather have that soda over a beer or liquor.

Dateline is where my mother picked up the phrase "binge drinking" and uses it as a weapon against me. I told her that if I die and she can't sue my friends.

Negligent homicide. I can't believe that charge is sticking. It's not like it was a hazing situation where the girl's friends forced a handle of vodka down her throat. They were all out, they were all drinking, and as callous as it sounds, sometimes these things happen. I'm sure there was nothing malicious going on, and the friends probably feel bad enough.

After doing a power hour, a bunch of us called my mother and all of them got on the phone with her and begged her not to sue them. She begged me not to die. I said I'd do my best.

I'm sure I've made myself look sufficiently like a drunk, but really I'm not. It's just the college culture. Drink often and drink a lot. And I realize the irony that one of my favorite genres of books are addiction memoirs. I'm reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, and I count Leaving Dirty Jersey by James Salant and Smashed by Koren Zailckas among my favorite books.

So fuck Dateline and let's get drunnnnnnnnnnnnk.

Incidentally, we had a graffiti party at my house last night, so look for a post on that with ridiculous photos to accompany it soon.

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