Deliver me from finicky clients. Seriously. Worky work stress blah, and that�s all I�m going to say about it. And anyway, even if my new assignment at work was to tap dance on a tightrope strung loosely between a pterodactyl nest and a man-eating tree, over a sea of magma at a shooting gallery, my stress levels would still be way, way down thanks to Anna�s late departure. It�s just nice to come back from lunch and not have literally 27 new e-mails, all of which came in over the last fifteen minutes, and half of which just say, "Got your message -- thanks!!!!" Would that I could rip one of those exclamation points from the computer screen, fly it out to the east coast, and stuff it down her craw.
At any rate, there are plenty of other things going on of which to speak, so I don�t need to dwell on the work situation to fill space. Tony, for example, is out today, as his wife is in labor. Or so he says! It may all be an elaborate excuse to take the day off. Like, he�s out of sick days, or something, so he�s calling in "baby-having". Boy will there be egg on his face when his wife goes into labor for real next week! He�ll be all, "Oh, shit, I guess it�s twins!" That�ll be priceless. Anyway, I�m really pleased for him and his wife, because that�s great news. For them, I mean. We�re pretty much ass-fucked at work without him, but I suppose we can cut him some slack, what with having a baby and all.
Babies are so selfish, though, you ever notice that? It�s all, "Me, me, me! Wah wah wah! I�m hungry! I�m tired! I crapped myself!" It�s like, get over it. Anybody can crap themselves. It doesn�t make you special.
I�ll tell you another thing that doesn�t make you special is working at a hair salon. Not that working at a salon makes you anti-special, or something (I mean, my job sure as hell doesn�t make me special, but then I never said it did), but have you seen Blow Out on Bravo? I mentioned it a little bit yesterday. It�s this new reality show that follows around Jonathan Antin (some grand hair poobah here in LA) and his flock of hairdressers as they open their location on Rodeo Drive. I paraphrase my comment from yesterday: those people are not to be believed.
The casual observer would seriously think that they were on the bomb squad or something, what with the constant parade of life-or-death histrionics and self-importance in which they indulge. Every thirty seconds or so, one of them rends the barrier between fantasy and reality, and this weird, neo-Cubist perspective bleeds into their emotional consciousness, causing these explosive freakouts to the most benign of stimuli. It�s like Botox for the soul as they inwardly transform into thirteen-year-olds and bury each other alive in an avalanche of condescension and superiority.
I can only watch about a minute of that show at a time before I have to change the channel. I mean, they cut hair, for crying out loud! Sure, they cut a lot of famous hair, but a lot of famous people are douchebags, you guys. They cut a lot of self-important, douchebag hair, and then get snippy with each other over who�s cool and who�s cooler and whose clients are whose, and who�s who, Who�s on first, and who gives a shit? I reiterate: anybody can crap themselves. It doesn�t make them special.
You know what is special, though? Cake. And today is the day we celebrate June birthdays here at Arts-Friendly. If you need me, I�ll be stuffing my face.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: why did Gwyneth Paltrow name her daughter Apple? I�m Watching: America�s [Last] Top Model some more, and it�s freaking brilliant. And: Reno 911!, which is also brilliant, but in a very different way.