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Monthly Archives: May 2010

Me and rejection sailing together. That's me on the left.

Ahoy. Let me first say that I’m not looking for any pity here. Read this with a hint of derision in your mind’s voice. This is me trying to do something I’m very bad at, incidentally something that should have been included in the Parade of Stupidity (see previous blog): turning negative experiences into positives. Blah, blah. Oh boy.

This is going to be contemptuous and silly and dopey, but it makes me happy. Plus, I don’t have anything better to do. And, yes, perhaps I should keep these things to myself. But what’s the good of having a blog if you can’t subject people to your every self-pitying whimsy. Let the voyage begin.

Raise the mainsail and waggle the jib. Tie the halyard with a double mummy Oprah knot and take two shimmies on the rudder. Make sure the stanchion is bubbling and turn the wheel to a heading of east-northsouth at a speed of 8 million knots. Very soon I’ll make the jump to hyper speed. Set your sextants to stun.

I’m sailing a majestic boat. I’m wearing a pair of Top-siders without socks. I’m sporting sunglasses with Croakies and on this trip I’ll develop the most bodacious tan on this side of the Tropic of Capricorn–which is saying a lot because I usually go straight from whitey white to daddy-please-don’t-hit-me-with-the-belt-again red. This voyage will almost certainly be awesome. I’ll keep a journal, a memoir of my journey because that’s what you do. Should my mechanical pencil run out of lead I will slay a mighty squid and use its ink. I will not, however, write in my own blood because I get queasy around needles.

A double mummy Oprah knot. Just in case you were wondering.

Day 3: Navigated successfully through the Straight of WeRegretToInformYou. It looked a lot friendlier than it actually was. Once between its canine-shaped rocks I experienced a what I’d thought, until that moment, to be a fictional feature of the S.W.R.I.Y.: pockets of halitosis gas bubbling from the sea floor.

Day 25: Running out of freshwater faster than I anticipated. Could have something to do with the long shower I took after being pooped on by an entire flock of ThankButNoThanks Birds. They came out of nowhere while I was eating cheese and crackers on the deck. Ruined the rest of the day. After my long shower I sat in a dark corner chewing on a toothpick.

Day 49: Been doing repairs after I threw my knife at a small WeLikedItBut Nymph last night. Some people say they don’t exist, but I saw it clear as could be. Doesn’t matter that after I tried to attack it the darn thing disappeared and my knife gashed the jib. All I have is a needle and thread to repair the hole. Hoping it will hold.

Day 72: So thirsty. Thought I saw fresh water on the deck, but it only turned out to be a puddle of WeGaveYourStoryaSecondReadingHowever. Didn’t realize it until I was getting splinters in my tongue.

Day 99: Get it? I’m sailing in a sea of rejection. I’m tired of this metaphor.

I’m getting rejected a lot lately. It’s kind of a daily thing. Job opportunities, writing submissions… it doesn’t matter. I know rejection is part of the deal considering my interests and career (?) path, but it’s still not that fun. So I’m looking for ideas. I’m not quite sure what to do with all of them. Unfortunately almost all of them have been delivered via e-mail. If they were printed I could use them to make some lovely wallpaper. As it is, though, I just catalogue them in my psyche.

What else to do? I could always write the infamous writer-writing-trying-to-overcome-rejections story, but that’s just a big cliche. Besides, I’ve already written a silly blog about it. Maybe there’s some sort of business opportunity to be had. Maybe I could be a rejection consultant. Start some kind of service where I counsel people on how to compose more humane rejections. Businesses could use it: Thank you for applying, but we’ve decided to go in a different direction. It may not be the right direction, just a different one. Heck, it may just be the wrong direction. We don’t even have a map! Not hiring you may be the biggest mistake we’ve ever made! You don’t want to work here anyway. There’s asbestos in the walls and all our male employees have mustaches.

Fed-up girlfriends could use it too: Dear Kenny. Don’t think of this as a break-up. It’s an opportunity. I’m giving you the time necessary to become the professional Xbox player that you so long to be. I’m only holding you back from realizing your dreams. I don’t deserve someone with your digital dexterity. You’re welcome. I will love you always and watch you from afar. Yours, Mona.

Realize the dream, Kenny.

Insurance companies: Dear Mrs. Huffington. Unfortunately we must deny your claim for medical services rendered on January 15, 2010. But please take solace in the fact that we didn’t even review your claim. It’s nothing personal. Furthermore, your money will be a vital part of helping one of our lucky executives to realize his dream of owning his very own sail boat. Ahoy.

Ahoy.

That’s good stuff. Rejection still sucks.

-MC JLight

P.S. I’ve gone to the dark side. Follow me on Twitter @THEoriginalJLO.

For a nothing-doer I’ve been awfully stressed lately. When I get stressed I get cranky and there’s only one thing I can do went I get cranky: rant. It’s about to happen. Don’t judge me. I hope you’ll keep reading.

Without further ado, I present to you my first annual List of Things that Might be Stupid or The 2010 Parade of Stupidity.

Humidity. Humidity, I’m pretty sure, is stupid. Think about this: I’ve walked outside my apartment during the summer and my glasses have fogged up. I’ve had to flip on my car’s defrost because of the humidity… DURING THE SUMMER. So stupid. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing a wetsuit and hanging out inside a giant mouth. It’s disgusting. Things get sticky. I chaff in certain places that I don’t like to talk about.

People Who Don’t Know When It’s Appropriate To Have A Loud Cell Phone Conversation. On a bus, in a quiet restaurant, at a golf tournament, in a doctor’s office, in a movie theater, in a napping lion’s enclosure, while you’re in the pool, when you’re in line somewhere, in a public restroom, at your arraignment, in a movie theater, in a movie theater. This is a short and very incomplete list of places and situations in which people do not need to start yelling into their cell phones. But without fail, someone always does and doing so is very, very stupid. Quite stupid. Sure, things come up, but not that often. Please don’t interrupt my bus ride by screeching into your cell phone about the totally hot guy you met at the party even though you were totally hammered, the guy who totally held your hair back while you puked and who’s so totally sweet. I don’t care. To deal with you he must have been totally hammered too and totally doesn’t remember you and totally lost your phone number and he totally wouldn’t call you anyway because you’re a total loser. Shut up.

Shut your trap, Buddy. No one cares.

Here’s the underlying problem: The convenience of cell phones has slowly conditioned us to believe that because they can be used anywhere, they should be. No, no, no. Save some conversations for the house.

My Hair. It’s always been a little stupid, but I don’t realize it until it gets longer than usual. That’s when I remember why I always cut it so short. I have what you might call a puffy problem. And the humidity (see above) doesn’t help anything. The longer it gets the closer I get to being able to safely ride a bike without a helmet.

The NBA. Overwhelmingly stupid and frustrating. Where do I begin with this one? How about with the officials who don’t really enforce rules anymore. Instead, they kind of, sort of call certain fouls on certain players, but only if the foul is really obvious or really imperceptible depending, of course, on the player committing the foul or receiving the foul and they bend certain, but not all of the rules to favor certain players and often they forget the rules completely to ensure that the game is exciting and they always look good doing it, making sure that they gesticulate wildly so as to show everyone how athletic they are and how, if they wanted, they could be playing basketball too and, most importantly, they ensure that at the end of the game the viewers know their names even though it’s ludicrous to know any official’s name in any sport. There’s no other sport in which the casual fan can notice and name so many officials. Officials are an apparatus of the game for God’s sake. We shouldn’t know anything about them. What’s next? Are the commentators going to start talking about the baskets before the game? Maybe discuss where the iron’s origin. Or, better yet, let’s make every one different so that the players have no idea how big it is. Maybe they can’t even get the ball through it. And they can also change rims after each quarter to really keep the players on their toes.

I’ve become so angry that this doesn’t even make sense.

I love basketball. That’s why I love the college game. The NBA, however, isn’t basketball anymore. It’s a player popularity contest and a showcase for officials who are given way too much leeway.

Soggy Apples. Nothing worse than being eager to sink your chompers into a nice crunchy apple only to find that the stupid thing is actually filled with apple sauce. Mealy texture, apple flesh falling apart before you can even chew. When this happens I sometimes pretend it’s a pear just to make myself feel better. This, however, does not take away from the stupidity of the situation.

Get after it, Pal.

Golf. Usually stupid. How else do you describe the act of trying to hit a little ball into a little cup? Twain was right, golf is a good walk spoiled. I’d like to go further by saying that golf is a good walk that quickly becomes an angry, obscenity-laden slog. Even more stupid, I continue to play it.

There are way too many good angry golfer pictures to choose from.

Parents Who Refuse to Recognize the Messes Generated by Their Children. Let me begin this rant by saying that I love ankle-biters; I am by no means anti-child and I understand that they specialize in making messes. But, parents of the world, if you go to, say, a restaurant and your child makes a mess of cosmic proportions at least recognize that some else will be cleaning it up. A simple “Sorry about the mess” will do just fine. I’m not asking you to get on your hands and knees and coral all the Cheerios on the floor. Just say thanks to the person who does.

P.S.-This segment is brought to you by a family of four who I waited on last Sunday, the children of which made a colossal mess by throwing rocks all over our outdoor dining area while the parents simply enjoyed their mojitos then quickly scooted out the door after leaving me 10%. Truthfully, the tip doesn’t matter. What matters is that I spent thirty minutes sweeping rocks back into the garden. An oopsy-daisy would have made it all better.

Moving. S-t-u-p-i-d. People say that a good friend will help you move. I’d never do that to a good friend. I say you should only ask people who you really, really hate.

Moving. Is. Stupid.

Pat Robertson. He insinuated that the people of Haiti had it coming because they don’t share his religious beliefs. Enough said.

Rants. They don’t make you feel any better. They only get you more worked up about the things you dislike and make you notice other things you didn’t realize you disliked in the first place. Dammit.