Frantik Girl
Friday, February 27, 2004
A Little Knowledge Too Late
My current temp assignment is at the reception desk of a Children's Clinic. The woman whom I share this job with, takes an inordinate amount of interest in my lunch. What did I bring, where will I eat out, did I enjoy my lunch... I realize this is just simple friendliness, but I find it disconcerting.
Today, I brought no lunch and was considering the greasy, sticky sweet muck available at the local Magic Dragon, when she suggested a small Vietnamese place just down the street called The Moonlight Restaurant. Aparently this place is all the rage in this office, so I figured I'd try it. The neighborhood's most prominent feature is a Wonderbread Factory, which I immediately took as a bad sign; nevertheless, I went in and took a misanthropic table in the back, far from the silent karaoke stage and any other patrons.
A flustered little woman in pink came to take my order. She poured my tea and spilled almost as much on the table as she got in my cup. When I mentioned the large spreading stain on the tablecloth, she said something unintelligable in heavily accented english and scampered away. I figured it was her tablecloth, so I didn't much care.
I stared out the window waiting for my five spice chicken. I felt inclined to be patient, because once I was finished there, I had only the second half of my work day to look forward to. Nevertheless, the wait did become extraordinarily long, and although I wasn't wearing a watch, I did begin to worry about the time. I had to get back to the clinic and open the window, otherwise the little, little children couldn't get thier low-cost healthcare. I noticed that other people were being served, albeit slowly and with many apologies. The pink woman gave a hurried excuse, but it was, like the rest of her english, unintelligable. I began to think that they had only one cook, and perhaps this one cook had died and the pink woman was running the place by herself. I might have considered it a tragedy, had I not grown increasingly hungry and cranky as a result of the wait.
My food did arive. I found the limp pile of iceberg lettuce and whiteish tomato slices to be inauspicious; however the rice was nicely done and the chicken was flavorful, if a bit greasy. I finished it handily, considering it almost worth the wait. As I scooted the last of the rice around my plate, I saw a man enter the restaurant and sit down. The pink woman rushed up to him and told him that they were closed, he couldn't be served. This was the height of the lunch hour, or what was left of it, and I was a bit perplexed. Perhaps my assumption about the death of the cook wasn't so far off.
I walked to the front counter and handed the pink woman my credit card. She apologized a few more times, although she was unspecific about the cause. Near the door to the kitchen, three people stood talking. The couple, a man and a woman both carried clipboards, wore baseball caps and ill fitting blue jackets which made them look like people masquerading as ATF agents. They were talking at a small Asian woman who seemed to bear thier presence like an old horse bears the whip. The clipboard woman became louder and more animated, until her voice bounced off the walls.
"We're shutting you down... you can't serve food here anymore. We've told you this before and every day you're open we're going to fine you five-hundred and sixty seven dollars... five-hundred and sixty seven dollars, understand? If you don't close your doors we're going to call the police and they'll come here and shut the doors for you..."
The food in my stomach felt heavy and unstable, like I'd just swallowed a bowl of greased ball bearings. The Health Department was closing this place down... right now. They were obviously concerned with the well being of the public, saving people from food-borne illnesses and unsanitary practices. They did not, however, see fit the warn the poor fools currently eating the fucking food. I imagined rat hair, rotting meats and a cavalier disregard for the "Employees Must Wash Hands After Use" signs. I began to wonder, a chill running down my spine, what were the symptoms of Hepetits A... so I knew what to look for.
Numbly I gave them a $1 tip, accidently writing the total on the signature line instead. I gave the pink woman the paper and then walked to the door. It was locked, but the employees had left the keys in the lock so that I could escape. I walked out, past the innocuous Health Department vehicle, into an unknown, frightening future.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Another Thought About 30
In Logan's Run, everyone had red crystals in thier hands. When they turned 29, the crystals would start to blink. When you turned 30, it would turn black and the super computer that controlled your life forced you to put on a red and white unitard and a mask that kind of made you look like an Imperial Stormtrooper. Then they'd send you to Carousel... a big arena where you would get levitated into the air and then blown up while massive crowds of 20-somethings ate popcorn and cheered. Your other choice was running for your life... but most likely Michael York would catch you and shoot you with his flashlight-gun-thingy. If you were lucky enough to escape Michael York, you still had to get past the insane ice robot...
As depressed as I am about being 30, I'm glad I don't live in Logan's Run.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Meanwhile, in the Secret Underground Headquarters of Fox...
A network executive pitched a new show:
He smiled and stood up from his chair, his hair shining in the fluorescent light, his Armani suit immaculately pressed. "This show is called The Littlest Groom... it's just like The Bachelor, but with MIDGETS. Cause midgets are FUNNY."
Even as the word 'funny' passed his lips, the room began to tremble, autographed posters fell from the walls and the lights began to swing wildly. From beneath the executive's feet, came a sound of rending stone, and cries of agony. Suddenly, a great red fissure opened up, the concrete parted like rotted teeth, the stench of putrescence and offal filled the room. The executive screamed as blistered, grotesque hands reached from the Earth and grasped at his now soiled pants. As they touched him, his suit melted into his skin and his hair burst into flame. He cried for mercy, but the hands dragged him down into the fissure, which quickly closed behind him leaving only the faint scent of brimstone behind.
The President of Programming sipped at his latte, staring absently at the place where the executive had disappeared.
"Sounds great... we'll make it a mid-season replacement."
Monday, February 09, 2004
30
I’m 30. And I’m thinking of what that actually means in the context of the human lifespan.
Two centuries ago, when the average lifespan was 60, I would be middle aged. However, given a steady advance in medical technology over the course of my lifetime, I can reasonably expect to live to 90… I am therefore only one third of the way through my life. Perhaps medical advancements will be even greater, and assuming I am rich enough to afford life-prolonging techniques, I may even live to be 120… I am therefore merely one quarter done with this mortal coil. Or entering the realm of science fiction: nano-bio-chemo-lubricants are invented a few decades from now, allowing me to live 300 years… I am therefore barely a child, one tenth of my lifespan behind me.
But lets be realistic. Forget the Geritol commercials and the fluff pieces on local television about swingin’ seniors who run marathons and are in better health than youngsters half their age, the fact of the matter is that for most people, there is a serious decline in their quality of life after the age of 60. As Mark Renton said in Trainspotting “We all get old an we cannae hack it anymore…” Artistically, people do their best work while young, and after middle age, they’re resting on their laurels, treading water… as an artist, I am therefore middle aged… again.
In all these calculations thus far, I could do worse. Without exception, I have over half, or more than half my life yet to live. However:
I have never been in love, and as we all know, the chances of finding someone after forty are slim to none. I have additional disadvantages as well. My romantic lifespan is three-fourths over, and not looking too spry.
If I were to have a child, the prime years would be my thirties. My procreative life is also three-fourths over and given my lack of money, love, and viable biology… looks like I’ll be raising cats for the bottom two-thirds of my life.
Economists tell us that a middle class adult should make one thousand dollars for every year of life. I should therefore make 30,000 a year. I made 15k in 2003. There’s no life clock calculation here… I just think it’s a sad fact.
Many people tell me that the thirties are the best decade of their lives, and I hope to say the same someday. But however the next ten years turn out, I am painfully aware that my life will end, and very little of it will matter to anyone.
