I find it disturbing that marketing people either don't notice, or actively approve certain medical product names. For example, the anti-sinus stuffiness nosespray called...FloNase. Yes. As in...Flow...Nase(l). Makes you want to sniff just thinking about it, doesn't it?
That's certainly not the worst one. What were these people thinking? Was there a marketing meeting about it? Were there people sitting around a shiny table slowly muttering things to themselves like, "okay... it's a medication that helps you enjoy life more....happy... good times...celebrations....cele...CELEBREX!" Or... "Alright....it's a cream that heals hemmroids...it disolves onto your butt...umm...'Ass-pacify?' 'Bootycool?' Or maybe...Anus..ol? ANUSOL! Yeah!"
The boy commented that it makes him worry a bit that there's a tooth medication called Anbusol, or something along those lines. One of these days someone's just going to grab the wrong tube.
It reminds me of the Energizer commercial from years ago with the cowboy leaping from a balcony onto his horse's back. He winces in pain, remarking that he should have used "Sittagin," a hemmroid cream. Then the Energizer rabbit pounds through etc...
Sir Elton John can kiss my Anbusol. Not that I'm a die-hard Idol fan, but if he had a lick of sense in his fancy little head, he wouldn't have made that "American Idol racist" comment. Does he realize that American Idol is not just an enigmatic entity that independantly puts its foot down weekly and kicks another contestant off? Does he realize that he's calling ALL OF AMERICA racist? Has he been watching the show? Does he realize the "TOP three" up until this point has pretty consistantly been made of at least 2 African Americans? The main thing though, is that there were three contestants all offering the same "product"--soulful black diva singing. Good stuff, that. Everyone else fits into their own little niche. There's soulful black diva niche, rat-pack crooner niche, pop-girl niche, whatever the heck Diana is niche, and the rich, raspy, mellow niche. The three divas were splitting the votes of the entire "soulful black diva" segment of the population. It was inevitable that one of them would end up gone. I guarantee that had there only been two of them, they both would have been in the top three. Just ask Ralph Nader. He knows about vote splitting. um... or maybe he doesn't.
I visited a friend in the hospital yesterday--after nine long months of puking and hormones and paralyzing contractions, she finally had her tonsils out.
OF COURSE NOT. She had the baby. Of course, he didn't agree to come out until she had sat for 2 days with a needle in her arm, trying to be induced. Glad he finally made it though. It's nice to see him. Such a little person. I feel a bit guilty that I wasn't able to visit at the hospital again today. M will probably be bored out of her mind by the time they let her go home. I'll try to visit tomorrow, so she's not lonely. I will come bearing flowers--just not roses, which, I think she's allergic to?
It was amusing though-- M and J's personalities summed up in a little exchange while I was hanging with them in the hospital a few hours after the baby was born.
J (videotaping everything, excited and dreamy): Birth and life is so amazing and wonderful! I saved the placenta. I'm going to plant a tree in the yard, and bury the placenta beneath its outstretched branches.
M (hooks the baby expertly onto her breast. Looks thoughtful.): Yeah...and the dog across the street will come over, dig it up, and eat it.
Congratulations, you two! I'm excited to see what this baby will be like in 15 years. Hopefully the perfect cross-section of both of his parents - an excellent musician who is actually really great at math!
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Saturday, April 10, 2004
I have to admit it.... I have a crush on Hellboy. He's so endearingly....big and red. Ask me why I don't have a crush on the Kool-aid Man. The big question though, is whether I have a crush on Hellboy, or Ron Perlman. I loved the man in City of Lost Children (a gem that you must see NOW if you have not yet). I think playing gentle, hulking weirdos becomes him.
Watched Intolerable Cruelty tonight. Brilliantly written, and without the blood I sometimes associate with Cohen Bros films. "Ah!--" you might say, "But 'O' Brother Where Art Thou' was not a bloody film!" To which I would reply, "THE COWS." (Gore can be as unsettling being heard, but not seen. Anyone who's watched 'Shallow Grave' can attest to that.) In any case, I enjoyed it. It reminded me in some ways of Down With Love. All the snappy dialogues, without the kitch.
The new job is hard to comment on. Part of the reason is that people who read this blog are associated with it. Part of it is that I deal with people's personal medical information every day. Ok. Most of the reason is that. I'm not a bookseller anymore. I'm someone who buys books, or would, if I had the money. The delightful part is that I can feel free to comment on the ignorance and audacity of other customers if I so choose. I... I haven't actually commented, uh, aloud yet, but darn it, I'm free to! For the first time in years, there is no part of my life governed by the rules of customer service. I am content to hide in a basement office behind a computer and communicate with the people I need to solely by email. I'm not the "face" of anything but myself. I don't have to conduct myself on behalf of an organization. Actually, that's not exactly true. The emails I write for work are unnecessarily cheery and friendly. I suppose that counts as putting a friendly face on my company.
The sad thing about the way my life goes because of this job is that, though I make a bit more money than I did selling books, I'm left with as little, since I'm now tied to putting the same percentage toward debt. I don't have debt because I'm a shopaholic. I have it because the car broke down enormously, then I was incapacitated for four months and still had to pay bills, then the other car broke, we bought a house, and the car broke down again, etc etc etc...
It's scary not to have a cushion of emergency credit. But it's the only way I'm every going to get out of this. It also means that I can't take a week off work unless I save up enough banked hours to cover it, or I've been there a year.
Listening to Guster right now, and thinking about the book I'm reading currently - _Future Noir: The Making of Bladerunner_ by Paul Sammon. I enjoy the insights he provides, having been present during much of the filming process and having written more about the film that probably any journalist... BUT... (there's always one.) I get the feeling I got reading _The Man Who Could Taste Shapes_. The feeling is that, deep down, secretly, the books were written as an exciting expose of the author's coolness. Names are dropped like...like flies(?) and certain phrases make me kind of wrinkle my nose. Paul Sammon insists that "this humble writer was not worthy of being in all thse cool places and talking casually to all kinds of huge people you'll never meet in real life," just a little too often. The author doth protest too much. By the same token though, the book is very interesting. Who knew that Dustin Hoffman was almost Deckard? Don't answer that. Especially if you knew.
To bed we go, to bed we go, and Easter will be in the morning.
Which reminds me... I will miss the sad, lardy, milk-chocolate bunnies my dad used to hide under our beds every year. The eyes were the only good part. I'll never forget the year though, when dad bought the bunnies early, and left them in his trunk a little long on a sunny day. As a result, my neatly boxed "hollow milk-chocolate Cottontail Jim" looked as though he'd gone suddenly from zero gravity to the bottom of the Marianis Trench without any protective gear. I only found one eye. The other was probably in the massive melty dent that was his tummy.
Best Easter bunny ever.
Watched Intolerable Cruelty tonight. Brilliantly written, and without the blood I sometimes associate with Cohen Bros films. "Ah!--" you might say, "But 'O' Brother Where Art Thou' was not a bloody film!" To which I would reply, "THE COWS." (Gore can be as unsettling being heard, but not seen. Anyone who's watched 'Shallow Grave' can attest to that.) In any case, I enjoyed it. It reminded me in some ways of Down With Love. All the snappy dialogues, without the kitch.
The new job is hard to comment on. Part of the reason is that people who read this blog are associated with it. Part of it is that I deal with people's personal medical information every day. Ok. Most of the reason is that. I'm not a bookseller anymore. I'm someone who buys books, or would, if I had the money. The delightful part is that I can feel free to comment on the ignorance and audacity of other customers if I so choose. I... I haven't actually commented, uh, aloud yet, but darn it, I'm free to! For the first time in years, there is no part of my life governed by the rules of customer service. I am content to hide in a basement office behind a computer and communicate with the people I need to solely by email. I'm not the "face" of anything but myself. I don't have to conduct myself on behalf of an organization. Actually, that's not exactly true. The emails I write for work are unnecessarily cheery and friendly. I suppose that counts as putting a friendly face on my company.
The sad thing about the way my life goes because of this job is that, though I make a bit more money than I did selling books, I'm left with as little, since I'm now tied to putting the same percentage toward debt. I don't have debt because I'm a shopaholic. I have it because the car broke down enormously, then I was incapacitated for four months and still had to pay bills, then the other car broke, we bought a house, and the car broke down again, etc etc etc...
It's scary not to have a cushion of emergency credit. But it's the only way I'm every going to get out of this. It also means that I can't take a week off work unless I save up enough banked hours to cover it, or I've been there a year.
Listening to Guster right now, and thinking about the book I'm reading currently - _Future Noir: The Making of Bladerunner_ by Paul Sammon. I enjoy the insights he provides, having been present during much of the filming process and having written more about the film that probably any journalist... BUT... (there's always one.) I get the feeling I got reading _The Man Who Could Taste Shapes_. The feeling is that, deep down, secretly, the books were written as an exciting expose of the author's coolness. Names are dropped like...like flies(?) and certain phrases make me kind of wrinkle my nose. Paul Sammon insists that "this humble writer was not worthy of being in all thse cool places and talking casually to all kinds of huge people you'll never meet in real life," just a little too often. The author doth protest too much. By the same token though, the book is very interesting. Who knew that Dustin Hoffman was almost Deckard? Don't answer that. Especially if you knew.
To bed we go, to bed we go, and Easter will be in the morning.
Which reminds me... I will miss the sad, lardy, milk-chocolate bunnies my dad used to hide under our beds every year. The eyes were the only good part. I'll never forget the year though, when dad bought the bunnies early, and left them in his trunk a little long on a sunny day. As a result, my neatly boxed "hollow milk-chocolate Cottontail Jim" looked as though he'd gone suddenly from zero gravity to the bottom of the Marianis Trench without any protective gear. I only found one eye. The other was probably in the massive melty dent that was his tummy.
Best Easter bunny ever.
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