The Sound of Silence

The first time I saw this apartment was the day we moved in.  Circumstances were such that once the boyfriend found it, there wasn't time for me to drive down from Bumfuck to check it out, so I had to give my blessing based only on the images online.  I didn't know at the time about the dollhouse proportions, but there was one thing that gave me pause... It was located across the street from a high school.

It wasn't so much the traffic and noise I was concerned about.  It was...

Band.

More specifically, Marching Band.

I know of what I speak having spent fours years blaring a trumpet in one myself.  I remember the early morning practices, and evenings and weekends too.  I remember the constant repetition of badly arranged pop tunes, over and over and over again.  I had visions of being blasted awake by "Call Me Maybe" all in brass.

We moved here in March, well past the football season.  Last month as I saw the high school gearing up for the new year I girded for the worst.

And then... nothing.

School has been in session for weeks now, and yet, no band.

I know they have one.  There's a ginormous fifth wheel trailer emblazoned with the band insignia parked across the street.

Maybe they practice elsewhere?  That would explain the trailer but seems like a logistical nightmare.  Not to mention a not particularly wise use of tax dollars.

And then, yesterday morning, I was walking the dogs.  We were taking our time since I had nowhere to be and nothing to do, other than look for work.  And as we descended down the hill towards the street and school, I saw a half dozen golden Sousaphone bells gliding silently over the fence of the athletic field.  Looking closer, through an open gate, I could see the entire band, instruments raised, flanked by flag girls and rifle twirlers, all performing  intricate looking formations.

In silence.

I strained to hear and could just barely make out the sound of one snare drum, quietly banging out a staccato cadence, marking time.

WTF?

"Silent Marching Band"?  How the hell does that work?  I wouldn't think that would make for a memorable half-time show.

Do they just lip-synch?  Maybe the times have changes and they just march around with prop instruments to pre-recorded tracks?  If so, then I think we owe a collective apology to the surviving half of Milli Vanilli.

On further reflection it occurred to me that this has got to be one of the quietest high schools in the world.  You never hear anything.  No bells, no announcements, no pep rallies, no nothing.

If I had to guess I'd probably blame it on the neighbors.  I think it's a case of NIMBY-ism run amuck.  They move right next door to a high school and them raise a stink about the noise... of a high school.  Probably threaten to sue every time they hear a glockenspiel.

Even I have to admit that's kind of sad.

Not that I'm complaining

Women and Children First

And so it ends, my so-called job.  Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Honestly, the writing was on the wall months ago.  Things had grown so bitter that the only question was whether it would end by being fired or with a nasty resignation.  In the end, it came down to the root of all evil... money.  As in, there wasn't any.

I'd actually worked for the company for over a year as a freelance consultant, back when it was a fly-by-night virtual operation.  It was already a somewhat fraught relationship when it ended up being purchased in March (for between $5 and $10 MILLION, if one is to believe the New York Times, and really, why wouldn't one?) by a multinational holding company.  With it came an infusion of cash and an offer for a full-time job.

The first problem was the matter of logistics.  Our new corporate overlords insisted the high flying company be grounded, and grounded in office space they already leased in a nearly inaccessible corner of West L.A.  A full-time job would require four hours a day stuck in traffic.

The second, and more concerning problem was the salary, which was laughably low.  It actually would've been a pay cut.  "But you'll have major medical" my boss protested.  Yes, and a $1000 gas bill each month.

We struck a compromise.

I would sign a short term contract for three months.  By that time the company would be am internet sensation and the cash would be rolling in and then they could offer a more big boy salary.

Never happened.

And I can't say I'm surprised.  One of my chief functions was creating the new business pitches and over the past three months I had done dozens of them.  Not a single one led to any new work.   And after watching my boss in action during one of the pitch meetings a couple of weeks ago, the reason why became clear...

My boss was a dick.

Arrogant, condescending and a pants-on-fire liar.  It was a huckster performance of epic proportions. If I was a potential client, I wouldn't let him park my car, let alone have access to my advertising budget.  We still had some existing clients, but there was no way those billings could cover the vastly increased overhead.  And so, with the money running low,  the decision was made to just let my contract expire.  The decision had been made that my position was expendable, at least until last week when they suddenly seemed to realize what it was I actually did.  That resulted in one final week-long flurry of stupidity, which is why I was missing in action from the blog.

I'm actually a little relieved.  I feel like I got the first lifeboat off the Costa Concordia (Titanic references are so 20th Century).  All the same, it's a little scary be unemployed.  Again.

Once more into the breach...

Park Place

Little did we know when we moved here we'd have to pay for parking.

Not technically.  We have a two car garage.  The only problem is it currently only fits one car.

While we downsized our lives moving here to Tinytown, we weren't able to downsize our stuff.  We tried, selling off whole rooms of furniture before the move.  And yet, it wasn't enough.  As the movers pulled away and we barely had room to move about the condo, the garage was still half full of boxes.  We assumed this would be a temporary situation.

Over the past six months, we've tried to clear out the garage, to the point that every square inch of the condo now resembles a Russian nesting doll, with things within things within things.  Still, not enough.

Initially I parked nearby in "guest parking".  After a few days of that I walked out to my car to find a parking ticket.  Not a real one.  A ticket from the rent-a-cop who patrols the complex after hours, the man who has become my arch-nemesis...

"Officer Jacobson".

After the first ticket I wrote a very nice note, explaining that we had just moved in and were trying to rectify the situation and left it under my windshield wiper.  The next day I walked up to the car and saw another ticket.  Again from Officer Jacobson.  Only this time he had violently circled the portion saying that after three tickets the car would be towed.

And so began a game of cat-and-mouse with me and Officer Jacobson.  I'd park in guest parking for a day or two until I received another ticket and then went and parked my car on the street for a few days.  Which is a pain in the ass.  The nearest street parking is blocks away.  After giving Officer Jacobson a few days to cool off, I'd resume parking in guest parking and we'd start another round.

Until last month.

I had only parked in guest parking for one night when I went out and discovered my car was gone.

Towed.

By Officer Jacobson.

Without even giving me the customary fake ticket.  Asshole.

It cost $286 to get my car back and another $40 for the cab ride to the tow yard.  Cabs in OC are worse than New York!

Since then I've decided not to take any more chances with Officer Jacobson.  I've been parking on the street now for weeks and schlepping everything clear across the complex.  The only problem now is I'm still getting tickets.

And these ones are real!

Really...."street sweeping"?  I got my third one last week.  At $40 a pop.  For some reason I've got a mental block when it comes to Tuesday street sweeping.

I finally figured out a solution.  I usually have lunch at least once a week with my folks so I've just scheduled it now for Tuesdays to make sure I get my car off the street.  The only problem is I need to park the car in guest parking until 5, when "street sweeping" officially ends.  I'm afraid if I forget I'm parked there, I'll walk out the next morning to discover Officer Jacobson has struck again.

At this rate, parking is going to cost me $1000 a year.

Medium Rare

The boyfriend and I have become fans of the "Long Island Medium",  the suburban New York woman who talks to the dead.

I wonder if she could contact my career?

It's apparently "crossed over" and I have a few questions.

Sell Baby, Sell

Call me old-fashioned, but when I first entered the advertising business the goal was fairly simple and straightforward...

Sell people more crap.

Maybe we did it with stunning visuals, maybe with a too-clever-by-half commercial, maybe with a jaunty little jingle or a celebrity spokesman or maybe we just bludgeoned people over the head with an offer they couldn't refuse.  Whichever path we chose, the hoped for result was always the same...

Sell people more crap.

I was summoned up to LA yesterday for one of our horrible, terrible, not very good marketing meetings, this one with a potential new client.

The meeting was scheduled for 9am, so of course I left at... 7am.

I was still an hour late.

And that very may well have saved my life because had I actually sat through the entire meeting I probably would've driven my thumbs through my own eardrums.

The meeting went on for many hours (with a break for lunch).  There were PowerPoints and four separate whiteboards which by the end of the day were covered with lists and diagrams and indecipherable marketing acronyms.  My boss didn't really listen much to the client, but in his defense, the client didn't much listen to him.  While one was speaking, you could see the other formulating their next barrage of marketing babble.  It was an endless buffet of word salad.

By the end of the day, a consensus had been reached.  We would move forward by:

"Reaching out to our core constituencies and engage the relevant communities in a proactive conversation that would leverage brand equity via all media channels to provide for a uplifting user experience that would result in positive outcomes."

In other words, we're going to try and sell people more crap.

How?

We didn't address that.

In fact, the "how" is increasingly seeming beside the point.  These marketing meetings are apparently an end all unto themselves.  I've yet to see one result in more work.  And this one certainly won't either.  Dropped halfway through the day as almost a throwaway line, the client offhandedly said "the ad campaign we launched last year has proven very effective so the plan is to carry it through all of 2013."

Oh.   OK.  Good to know.

Would've been better to know FIVE HOURS AGO.

But there 'ya go.  The Magic of Modern Marketing.

We are well and truly fucked.  But at least the hours were billable.

On Love

And  to think I owe it all to the Ex.

Throughout half of the 90's I was in a dysfunctional relationship.  The wheels finally flew off and the whole thing imploded in 1997.  It was bitter at first, but soon we were civil to each other.  It was the relationship that was bad, not him, and within a few years we were friends again, which was easier to do since he had moved to Northern California and there was zero chance of running into each other.

For the next five years he burned through a succession of new boyfriends while I remained single.  Not necessarily by choice.  Somewhere along the line I had become a freak magnet and my dating life was a disaster.  Ultimately I just threw in the towel.  I think the final straw was Mark, the "Adult Baby".  That date seemed to be going so well up until he asked me to diaper him.  After that I was pretty much resigned to a life alone, and to be honest I was actually OK with it.


So flash forward to Labor Day weekend, 2002.

Most of my plans had fallen through with the exception of a Saturday pool party in the Hollywood Hills.  That proved to be a demoralizing experience being probably the oldest person there, surrounded by impossibly beautiful 20somethings.  I left early and got home around 6 and the phone rang.

It was the Ex.

He and his boyfriend of the moment and about a half dozen friends were out in Palm Springs for the weekend.  One of the friends had cancelled at the last moment, but the room was already paid for, so he extended an invitation to come out and join them.

So I went.

They were staying in one of the many small gay resorts in Palm Springs.  It would never be mistaken for a Ritz Carlton,  that's for sure.  Or even a Motel 8.  But what it lacked in amenities it more than made up for in, how shall we say... opportunities.

So there I was, on a lovely Sunday afternoon, September 1st, minding my own business when I ran into... the boyfriend.

In the jacuzzi.

I was smitten immediately and I hoped he was too.  We hung out for most of the rest of the weekend.  I gave him my business card as I was packing to leave, never thinking for a second he would actually call me.  So imagine my surprise when he did the following day.  We planned our first date for that Friday.  He was living, ironically enough, in OC.  I was living in LA.  He drove up that Friday for dinner.

And basically, he never left.

And here we are, ten years later.

I love him now more than ever.  I can't imagine my life without him.  And I miss him desperately.

Happy anniversary honey...  I love you.