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Watchin’ the Snow Bunnies.
I’m sitting at Caribou alongside a gaggle of six little girlies who I’m guessing just graduated High School. What’s funny is they range from the ultra-gorgeous to the “future Polish grandmother,” in a clockwise arrangement around their table. I’ll stop looking in their direction, as they probably don’t appreciate being observed.
Today is a possible snow day for our school, (are you f***ing kidding me!?) because we’re supposed to receive, get ready, and ENTIRE HALF INCH OF SNOW!?! Most Metro Atlanta districts have been preemptively closed. Pansies.
OOOH!… I bet the gaggle is just college freshmen (freshwomen?) who’s classes have been canceled.
And that folks, is how to form a hypothesis.
Yay- I’m back in college again!
This week, I’m visiting my cousin at Central Michigan University, currently pretending to be a student in her computer class. The TA is an Indian woman whom I can’t understand—thank God because she’s giving important-sounding lab exercise instructions.
Now the old professor is helping some kid behind me. I’m worried he’s going to see me blogging and not working on the exercise. Then my cover will be blow. Plus, the Indian woman is wandering, checking up on the students too. This in intense…
Just slap a huge pair of tits on the box, with a nice drop shadow of course.
I woke up this afternoon after umpteen dreams about ads or panel or whatever, to be greeted by my Angelina Jolie Wanted movie poster. The title’s kerning is obnoxious and hard to read.
I don’t like the headline “Celebrate your Tailgate” on the back of the Cheez-it box on my nightstand. The glowing halo around Jerry Rice is a distracting, shitty Photoshop job.
The package copy on the Smart Water also my nightstand doesn’t differentiate it enough from its competitors—it sounds like Desani or Aquafina.
Advertising is everywhere—I can’t stop thinking about it! Logos, layouts, headlines, package copy, benefits, strategies, foam core, ahhh! I’ll be at the airport in two days. I’m sure I’ll be looking at the moving walkways or baggage carousels, thinking of guerilla campaigns—way too first thoughtish though. If you want to see shitty ads, look at a SkyMall magazine, or whatever periodical the airlines provides you in the seat-back pocket.
A lesson in placement.
Comcast is retarded. Why would they stage a promotion for new internet on-the-go on Caribou’s patio—a place already offering customers free WiFi. Even worse, they have an antique wooden ‘throne’ to sit and surf a laptop on while getting your shoes shined. Ridiculous. I refused a pamphlet.
The only person talking to them is the homeless man who is always here. He just got his picture taken on the throne.
On a side note, the woman sitting kiddy-corner to me looks exactly like the female fishing boat captain from The Perfect Storm. Or Pam from the infamous Pam & Mar duo.
Five minutes at the Buckhead Caribou.
A homeless man slouches, relaxed under a saturated patio umbrella. He digs at his ear with a used match while sipping a Caribou coffee and monitoring the drive-thru traffic. He attends daily, consistently amiable. An untrimmed greying beard complements his faded maroon backpack, and cigarette smoke surely defines his odor. He divides his time pondering the Rooms to Go and the Hyatt, perhaps questioning his life choices. His ice water remains untouched.
A yellow lab readjusts its laying position in the rear of a Chevy Tahoe, while a foreign-looking young man in a Istanbul T-shirt greets the homeless man. The lab is now released to defecate.
After wandering the parking lot, an older man with an “Easy Street, Seattle” T-shirt returns to his workspace, typing vigorously on his white Mac, frequently checking his Blackberry. The rain has altered his plans today, and he dedicatedly attempts to form new ones.
The homeless man now caresses the lab as it defecates nearby. The man squats in the woodchips as if defecating himself, while the lab sniffs the shrubbery.
“Easy Street” man returns to the parking lot to discuss plans on his Blackberry. He wanders too close to the lab’s droppings and steps in the defecation pile. This amuses the homeless man with a front row seat to this situation.
Where can you go in Atlanta to get a $3 hot dog in Atlanta at 12:50 p.m.? Tattletales.
Time to cancel Shotime.
I awake this morning, sleepy and sad. There won’t be another new episode of Weeds for a year! Exactly one year ago, I was filled with the same sadness, and it’s scary how the last year few by. Even scarier is thinking about the next time I get to watch Weeds, and how fast it’ll come. Where the Hell will I be? Hopefully employed. Fuck.
Confession #10. I’m Afraid of Oven Mitts.
I’ll admit it. I’m afraid of oven mitts. Not afraid, just skeeved out. They get dingy and crusty when food residue hardens to the grabbing end. And Lord knows what’s in that hand hole! The fossilized remains of yesteryear’s Thanksgiving? Are you supposed to wash them in the dish washer or the washing machine? They’re covered with food like dishes, but soft like clothes. Hmm. Ponder that while I ponder Confession #9.