Danielle chose Reality make-over shows.
As with most MTV shows, the title Made sacrifices accuracy for brevity because, despite how it's marketed, Made does not help people achieve their dreams and instead it should be called
Teenage Identity Crisis
Or Teen Dilettantism depending on the contestant and his or her goals.
These are the two categories the episodes fall into.
If you are reminded of an 80s teen comedy, congratulations, you are watching a Teen Identity Crisis episode of Made.
These normally center around a high school outcast who aspires to be homecoming queen or a football player or football playing homecoming queen. These are Jan Bradies, and you just want to say, "Baby, we love you fine the way you are. You don't gotta be like that."
These episodes normally end with a big announcement before the student body and a lot of clapping and maybe crying.
If you find you are reminded of the South Park episode with the underpants gnomes, congratulations, you are watching a Teenage Dilettantism episode. These are the most fun.
In these episodes, there's this underlying condescension, or maybe it's not quite so mean-spirited. Maybe it's just unbelievable thoughtlessness. These contestants seem to pick something out of thin air to secretly admire or want to do and forget about minor steps like, oh, training. It's this blithe attitude that makes the contestants so laughable and the show so much fun to watch. They seem to assume they have a God-given talent at something they've never tried a day in their life. Instead of practicing, they imagine they are at press conference or on a talk-show sharing their tricks of the trade.
Let's take the ice-skating episode for an example. "The entire ice-skating profession has been waiting with baited breath for me to arrive on the scene and show em how it's done. All you guys have to do is skate and twirl. There's nothing to it."
"Of course," Bryan Boitano or Johnny Weir says, slapping his forehead. "Why didn't I think of that? I've wasted so much time practicing."
The ice-skater is really a lacrosse player and seems to be a decent player. So I'm not sure why he doesn't just take a class at the Y. Do they not have those in Made land? Or he can't he just watch ice-skating. That's fine. I like watching Lost, but I don't want to crash land anywhere.
It's like their thought-process goes:
Step 1: Realize you have a mild appreciation for ice-skating.
Step 2: ?
Step 3: Become a world-famous ice-skater. Hurray!
And I guess, with that thinking in mind, the contestants have their Made coach confused with their fairy god-mother. There's no magic wand, so you're going to have to work. Shut-up and practice.
I mean, really. It's just appalling, and you wonder how these kids made it to high school.
The ice-skater wannabe practices, which is novel for these episodes -- good for him, but practices without wearing socks.
After practicing, he asks some ice-skating regulars -- hoodlums, if you will -- why he has all these blisters now.
"Um.. cause you should really wear socks when you skate," and then they skated away laughing at him. Cause it's not like he catch up to them and tell them what for.
I knew that, and I don't skate, and I even knew socks -- probably a good idea. Possibly they are pivotal. I guess not so much in lacrosse.
I love the episode with the Ole Miss student who wants to be a Broadway dancer. I think she had a minimum of training. Maybe she danced in a church talent show. I forget. Her coach was hilarious. She dragged him to meet her family and would not shut up for the two hour drive. He looked at the camera and mimed shooting himself in the head.
I love it when the contestants fight with their Made coach and pitch a tantrum about the hard work they have to do.
I sympathize with the Made coaches, and I wonder how they're chosen. Did they think MTV exposure would help their career? Does it?
So many of them wind up yelling at the contestants, and I would too. They're just wasting an opportunity that a real ice-skater or whatever would appreciate.
Watching Made, I feel lucky that I at least know what I want to do with my life. I have Step 1 down.
But you know... I've always wanted to be a bullfighter. How hard could it be? Bulls are a big target. Just get out of their way while looking good. I bet I'd be great at it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
To Live Well Is The Best Revenge.
Rob F. threatened to throw me from the top of a building.
That might seem excessive, but then again, Rob was Newton High School's Star Student, and it's just that kind of above-average, over-achieving one would expect from such a luminary.
Rob was the Sports Editor for the RamPage, the high school newspaper -- guess what our mascot was? -- when I came in as a News staff writer that spring semester of 1997.
The RamPage and yearbook staffs attended a journalism conference at Columbia University, New York City that year, and, to avoid any John Hughes-high school-clique issue, roommates for the hotel rooms were drawn at random.
Apparently, weeks in advance of the trip and of the roommate drawing, Rob had said he would throw me from the top of our hotel building if he had to room with me.
It was never so much the threat of violence that bothered me. I guess I never really took it that seriously. But it seemed so extreme a reaction. You're going to throw me off the building? Me? Certainly, I was a sophomore, and sometimes I wonder if even I would like 16-year-old Will. But still. Me over Bryan? Me over the girl on the yearbook staff who once asked our AP English teacher, "Whose autobiography did he write?"
Since Rob's last name is the same one as a famous author, I would sometimes slip up and say "Rob F." instead of "William F." But then I would remember, "No no. Say what you will about the author -- his black characters are mammyish; he could be a jerk sometimes -- but he never threatened to throw me off a building. That's why I like him."
I don't know if there are a lot of these, but Newton High School has these myspace pages for various graduating classes. I've found mine, and I'm also a few links away from Rob's class and his own profile page, and it turns out we both live in Atlanta. How about that, huh? What a small, dangerous, life-threatening world it is!
Ever since I found his profile, I've become a little paranoid, mentally brought back to my sophomore year when pretty much the entire newspaper staff, and especially Rob, disliked me. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but then again, Rob felt confident enough to boast of his plans in front of everyone else -- as a joke?
Now, I look over my shoulder in case Rob's trying to sneak up on me and spirit me away to a tall building. And we both live in Atlanta. There are tons of tall buildings. He could have his pick.
I called Bryan, who graduated with Rob and who was the News Editor back then, and told him about it.
"Why did Rob want to throw you off a building?"
"I don't know. That's what I was about to ask you. I mean, was it because I'm gay?"
That seems a small thing to elicit such a silent-movie-villain reaction.
On the other hand, when we made it to New York, Rob just ingratiated himself into another room, and we sort of unofficially traded him for Brian G., making the final tally for my room three closeted gay men and the newspaper cartoonist, who wasn't all that popular either. I think the cartoonist opted to sleep on the floor.
But then why single me out? I wasn't even the most obviously gay. At best, Brian G. and I tied for that distinction.
Oh well. Who knows?
Things weren't any better once we came back from the conference. I made a concerted effort to avoid Rob if I could and to be as unobtrusive as possible if I couldn't.
Because Bryan and Mrs. Willard, our journalism advisor, are both horrible people, I was assigned to write about the Star Student that year, who happened to be Rob.
"I have his parents' number. You should really call his mom, and interview her for the article," Mrs. Willard said between giggles. "I'm sure she has some choice stories that Rob would just love to see in the paper."
oh hahahaha.
Rob hates me; it's hilarious.
I opted for a more subtle approach. Having read an unhealthy amount of Encyclopedia Brown books when I was in middle school and being devoted to the spy column in A Boy's Life, I was decently-versed in codes. Come to think of it, Rob is sort of like my Bugs Meaney. Anyway.
I arranged the text so that the first word of each line spelled out a plea for help.
Unfortunately, it proved rather difficult to work in the words I wanted. "Blood-thirsty maniac" or any of its more colorful synonyms would not fit in seamlessly, but a good writer always works within his limitations. I settled for "Rob intends to be just as vicious when he enrolls at [whatever unwitting school Rob had applied to] where he will murder tests with the same impunity he showed at our own Newton High School." Bryan and Mrs. Willard both struck through my contorting sentences and insisted I rewrite it, outing themselves as conspirators with Rob. We may not have been in New York City anymore, but there were plenty of tall buildings around. I glad they could sleep at night knowing the part they played.
Miraculously, I made it through high school without so much as one-storey fall. Rob and I didn't have much to do with each other the rest of that year, but I did see him again -- years later at a field party someone was hosting for my graduating class. I saw him from across the bonfire and thought there was no way it could be whom I thought it was.
Then, he motioned me over.
"Do you know who I am?" he slurred.
Oh shit. Didn't he graduate five years ago? What's he doing at a high school party? And why did there have to be a bonfire? "Yes. You're Rob __."
"No no no," he said, getting my hopes up. "I'm the Coolest Guy in Newton County. Say it."
Am in Dazed and Confused? Where's Parker Posey? What the hell's going on here?
"How are you, Rob?" Maybe I can just change the subject.
"Say it."
.... "You're the coolest person..."
"In Newton county."
"In Newton county."
"Tell me. Did you have. Any. Position of power on the RamPage?"
"Well, I was Editor-in-Chief this past year."
"Oh," his face fell. "You couldn't possibly have been as cool as I was as Sports Editor."
"Ok," I wandered off and spent the rest of the party making sure my friend Joe Lewis didn't try to jump over the bonfire.
I saw Rob one more time as I was leaving.
"Hey, who am I?" he called out to me.
".... You're Rob," I said.
"Man," he said. "Fuck you."
"The biggest loser in Newton County," I muttered under my breath.
That might seem excessive, but then again, Rob was Newton High School's Star Student, and it's just that kind of above-average, over-achieving one would expect from such a luminary.
Rob was the Sports Editor for the RamPage, the high school newspaper -- guess what our mascot was? -- when I came in as a News staff writer that spring semester of 1997.
The RamPage and yearbook staffs attended a journalism conference at Columbia University, New York City that year, and, to avoid any John Hughes-high school-clique issue, roommates for the hotel rooms were drawn at random.
Apparently, weeks in advance of the trip and of the roommate drawing, Rob had said he would throw me from the top of our hotel building if he had to room with me.
It was never so much the threat of violence that bothered me. I guess I never really took it that seriously. But it seemed so extreme a reaction. You're going to throw me off the building? Me? Certainly, I was a sophomore, and sometimes I wonder if even I would like 16-year-old Will. But still. Me over Bryan? Me over the girl on the yearbook staff who once asked our AP English teacher, "Whose autobiography did he write?"
Since Rob's last name is the same one as a famous author, I would sometimes slip up and say "Rob F." instead of "William F." But then I would remember, "No no. Say what you will about the author -- his black characters are mammyish; he could be a jerk sometimes -- but he never threatened to throw me off a building. That's why I like him."
I don't know if there are a lot of these, but Newton High School has these myspace pages for various graduating classes. I've found mine, and I'm also a few links away from Rob's class and his own profile page, and it turns out we both live in Atlanta. How about that, huh? What a small, dangerous, life-threatening world it is!
Ever since I found his profile, I've become a little paranoid, mentally brought back to my sophomore year when pretty much the entire newspaper staff, and especially Rob, disliked me. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but then again, Rob felt confident enough to boast of his plans in front of everyone else -- as a joke?
Now, I look over my shoulder in case Rob's trying to sneak up on me and spirit me away to a tall building. And we both live in Atlanta. There are tons of tall buildings. He could have his pick.
I called Bryan, who graduated with Rob and who was the News Editor back then, and told him about it.
"Why did Rob want to throw you off a building?"
"I don't know. That's what I was about to ask you. I mean, was it because I'm gay?"
That seems a small thing to elicit such a silent-movie-villain reaction.
On the other hand, when we made it to New York, Rob just ingratiated himself into another room, and we sort of unofficially traded him for Brian G., making the final tally for my room three closeted gay men and the newspaper cartoonist, who wasn't all that popular either. I think the cartoonist opted to sleep on the floor.
But then why single me out? I wasn't even the most obviously gay. At best, Brian G. and I tied for that distinction.
Oh well. Who knows?
Things weren't any better once we came back from the conference. I made a concerted effort to avoid Rob if I could and to be as unobtrusive as possible if I couldn't.
Because Bryan and Mrs. Willard, our journalism advisor, are both horrible people, I was assigned to write about the Star Student that year, who happened to be Rob.
"I have his parents' number. You should really call his mom, and interview her for the article," Mrs. Willard said between giggles. "I'm sure she has some choice stories that Rob would just love to see in the paper."
oh hahahaha.
Rob hates me; it's hilarious.
I opted for a more subtle approach. Having read an unhealthy amount of Encyclopedia Brown books when I was in middle school and being devoted to the spy column in A Boy's Life, I was decently-versed in codes. Come to think of it, Rob is sort of like my Bugs Meaney. Anyway.
I arranged the text so that the first word of each line spelled out a plea for help.
Unfortunately, it proved rather difficult to work in the words I wanted. "Blood-thirsty maniac" or any of its more colorful synonyms would not fit in seamlessly, but a good writer always works within his limitations. I settled for "Rob intends to be just as vicious when he enrolls at [whatever unwitting school Rob had applied to] where he will murder tests with the same impunity he showed at our own Newton High School." Bryan and Mrs. Willard both struck through my contorting sentences and insisted I rewrite it, outing themselves as conspirators with Rob. We may not have been in New York City anymore, but there were plenty of tall buildings around. I glad they could sleep at night knowing the part they played.
Miraculously, I made it through high school without so much as one-storey fall. Rob and I didn't have much to do with each other the rest of that year, but I did see him again -- years later at a field party someone was hosting for my graduating class. I saw him from across the bonfire and thought there was no way it could be whom I thought it was.
Then, he motioned me over.
"Do you know who I am?" he slurred.
Oh shit. Didn't he graduate five years ago? What's he doing at a high school party? And why did there have to be a bonfire? "Yes. You're Rob __."
"No no no," he said, getting my hopes up. "I'm the Coolest Guy in Newton County. Say it."
Am in Dazed and Confused? Where's Parker Posey? What the hell's going on here?
"How are you, Rob?" Maybe I can just change the subject.
"Say it."
.... "You're the coolest person..."
"In Newton county."
"In Newton county."
"Tell me. Did you have. Any. Position of power on the RamPage?"
"Well, I was Editor-in-Chief this past year."
"Oh," his face fell. "You couldn't possibly have been as cool as I was as Sports Editor."
"Ok," I wandered off and spent the rest of the party making sure my friend Joe Lewis didn't try to jump over the bonfire.
I saw Rob one more time as I was leaving.
"Hey, who am I?" he called out to me.
".... You're Rob," I said.
"Man," he said. "Fuck you."
"The biggest loser in Newton County," I muttered under my breath.
Friday, April 6, 2007
For Every Minute They Last, They Get Cash.
V chose guilty pleasures.
My guilty pleasure is that -- as much as I hate the people on the programs -- I will watch pretty much anything MTV puts on.
It would be easier to list the MTV programs I don't watch.
Yo Momma.
Laguna Beach.
The Hills.
And.... um.... that one where the best friend is monitoring the two dates via lie detectors?
I know it's wrong to like them, but I can't help it for some reason.
I love how painfully scripted these reality shows are.
I love the atrocious rhymes on Next that introduce each contestant, and the clearly fake character bios.
I love how even the guys who are supposed to be straight are pretty damn gay.
Oh! That reminds me of the first episode of Engaged and Underaged, which should have been called Oh My God, MTV, Help Me! I'm Clearly Engaged to a Gay Man.
Wordier, but more accurate.
Not many people seem to share my trashy weakness anymore. My mom's best friend, Miss Leigh, went to get her nails done and, when she came back, regaled us with Tales from The Beauty Salon television. She didn't know what she was describing, but I did.
Parental Control.
"People in California have too much time on their hands," Miss Leigh said. "They don't like who their kid's dating, so they pick someone else? Get a job."
I didn't say anything. I actually agree with Miss Leigh, and in fact, almost every show on MTV is shot and produced in California -- damn you, Reveille Studios -- and will make you long for the big earthquake to separate California from the mainland United States. And yet, I am mesmerized.
But really, I wouldn't expect Miss Leigh to understand. Whenever she happens upon a music station that is not CMT, she asks me if the singer's David Bowie. Sadly, no. It never is. So Miss Leigh is not very aware of what is on MTV or whether she should disdain it or not.
She is not the only one to scoff so at my weakness.
When I first met her, Linzy and I would talk about Road Rules and Real World and the Road Rules/Real World Challenges.
("I don't fucking wrestle; I fucking beat bitches up.")
I hung out at her apartment, and we watched an entire marathon.
And now, even Linzy has given up on the franchise.
"Oh my word! Linzy, there's a new Inferno starting."
"What are you talking about? What's that?"
Et tu, Linzy?
Even Television Without Pity, a website devoted to bad reality television, refuses to document the Real World or Road Rules anymore.
Other people pretend they don't know what I'm talking about when I reference something from the show.
I had roped Patryk into coming over for Bryan's housewarming party. We were all sitting around the pool while Bryan told a story about his dog needing surgery to flip some piece of bone behind an eye.
"So... Archie is like Danny from Real World Austin?" I said. Austin is one my least-favorite Real Worlds -- no gay people -- but it is fun to watch just for how stupid and creepy Wes is.
Patryk chuckled. "Oh my God," and then he said, "Fuck you, Will. How dare you trick me into revealing I know what you're talking about!"
He and Linzy are right to at least pretend they don't follow those shows anymore, and good for Miss Leigh for not even knowing of them.
All I can say by means of a flimsy defense is that I don't schedule my day around the shows. If I flip through the channels and see one on, I'll probably stop for a little bit. Still, I wish I had something with more dignity to confess like a secret collection of hobo figurines.
My guilty pleasure is that -- as much as I hate the people on the programs -- I will watch pretty much anything MTV puts on.
It would be easier to list the MTV programs I don't watch.
Yo Momma.
Laguna Beach.
The Hills.
And.... um.... that one where the best friend is monitoring the two dates via lie detectors?
I know it's wrong to like them, but I can't help it for some reason.
I love how painfully scripted these reality shows are.
I love the atrocious rhymes on Next that introduce each contestant, and the clearly fake character bios.
I love how even the guys who are supposed to be straight are pretty damn gay.
Oh! That reminds me of the first episode of Engaged and Underaged, which should have been called Oh My God, MTV, Help Me! I'm Clearly Engaged to a Gay Man.
Wordier, but more accurate.
Not many people seem to share my trashy weakness anymore. My mom's best friend, Miss Leigh, went to get her nails done and, when she came back, regaled us with Tales from The Beauty Salon television. She didn't know what she was describing, but I did.
Parental Control.
"People in California have too much time on their hands," Miss Leigh said. "They don't like who their kid's dating, so they pick someone else? Get a job."
I didn't say anything. I actually agree with Miss Leigh, and in fact, almost every show on MTV is shot and produced in California -- damn you, Reveille Studios -- and will make you long for the big earthquake to separate California from the mainland United States. And yet, I am mesmerized.
But really, I wouldn't expect Miss Leigh to understand. Whenever she happens upon a music station that is not CMT, she asks me if the singer's David Bowie. Sadly, no. It never is. So Miss Leigh is not very aware of what is on MTV or whether she should disdain it or not.
She is not the only one to scoff so at my weakness.
When I first met her, Linzy and I would talk about Road Rules and Real World and the Road Rules/Real World Challenges.
("I don't fucking wrestle; I fucking beat bitches up.")
I hung out at her apartment, and we watched an entire marathon.
And now, even Linzy has given up on the franchise.
"Oh my word! Linzy, there's a new Inferno starting."
"What are you talking about? What's that?"
Et tu, Linzy?
Even Television Without Pity, a website devoted to bad reality television, refuses to document the Real World or Road Rules anymore.
Other people pretend they don't know what I'm talking about when I reference something from the show.
I had roped Patryk into coming over for Bryan's housewarming party. We were all sitting around the pool while Bryan told a story about his dog needing surgery to flip some piece of bone behind an eye.
"So... Archie is like Danny from Real World Austin?" I said. Austin is one my least-favorite Real Worlds -- no gay people -- but it is fun to watch just for how stupid and creepy Wes is.
Patryk chuckled. "Oh my God," and then he said, "Fuck you, Will. How dare you trick me into revealing I know what you're talking about!"
He and Linzy are right to at least pretend they don't follow those shows anymore, and good for Miss Leigh for not even knowing of them.
All I can say by means of a flimsy defense is that I don't schedule my day around the shows. If I flip through the channels and see one on, I'll probably stop for a little bit. Still, I wish I had something with more dignity to confess like a secret collection of hobo figurines.
Oh, and another thing...
And now at this job, I'm a bit annoyed when people want me to make a copy of the divorce worksheet they've filled out.
I mean, it's a sheet with the person's name and address on it. Shouldn't they know that already?
Or maybe they like how it looks on the sheet?
"My name and address have never looked quite so... litigious and irreconcilable as they do now. I'd like my own copy to have framed."
I mean, it's a sheet with the person's name and address on it. Shouldn't they know that already?
Or maybe they like how it looks on the sheet?
"My name and address have never looked quite so... litigious and irreconcilable as they do now. I'd like my own copy to have framed."
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
That just burns me up! Doesn't that burn you up?
B chose pet peeves.
Ages and days ago, I worked for Ghetto Discount Pizza, and I developed an ardent loathing for gated communities. Or at least the gate itself.
The impenetrable fortress that is the gate, like all good fortifications, has several rings of defenses.
The first is the callbox.
The callbox allows you to scroll through a listing of everyone in the community until the screen displays the name of the desired party. A three digit number appears with the name, and all you have to do is dial the number, which is connected to the resident's phone, and the resident presses a button allowing the guest on to the premises. Nothing could be simpler or more inviting.
But that is merely a strategic ruse, a feint, designed to lull would-be encroachers into over-confidence.
In reality, the callbox is a stalling device designed to give screeners ample time to remember your suspicious features should you turn out to be a disreputable rapscallion. That cagey stare. The sloping brow that clearly marked you as one of the criminal classes.
The call box has three bottons: "A," "Z," and "Call," and a security camera to watch as you slowly spaz out before the machine. The former two numbers let you navigate through the list of names and to select a starting point, either the beginning or middle of the alphabet; however, the target name could be A. Aardvark, and there would still be a glut of names to scroll through allowing the men watching on the security camera a good look at you.
You might think, "Aha! I remember this person's call number. I am so clever. No gate will get the better of me."
But those screeners are one step ahead of you. They did not become gatekeeper/watchers just to waive riff-raff like you on the premises.
Dialling the call number directly never works.
And just for that, once you realize dialling the number won't work, and you begin closing in on the name you're looking for, the machine will spit you back to the beginning of the list. Who do you think you are, buddy? Awfully quick to get into this fancy gated community aren't you? Why don't you just cool your jets?
Somehow, possibly through sheer determination, you make it to the right name and get beeped in, you still must contend with the gate itself.
The physical gate is on wheels, but since they spent a lot of money on the state-of-art call box for this community, they had to skimp a bit on frills like wheels. The wheels come from every broken grocery store buggy in the area. The gate jerks, sometimes catching on cracks in the pavement or those quaint cobblestones. My this neighborhood is sophisticated! A gate and cobblestones? Am I in the Europe? Does Prince Rainier have an apartment here?
While the gate is slow and wobbly, possibly deliberately to give it that old world charm, the arm -- did I mention there's an arm, too? Well there is. Because only a gate would be lax. Ahem.
Anyway. The Arm is swift. It is like the hand of an irate bouncer saying, "NO! You may not get in here. Your name is not on the list. I don't care if Call Box and Gate let you in. I am their manager."
So between the gate and the arm, it's like one of this tricky parts of an old video game where you must skillfully time your attack. It requires precision.
Or just take your chances and follow someone's car after they've been beeped in. Although there is a strong possibility that the ass of your car will be slapped as the arm comes down.
If you have proven your mettle by advancing beyond the Call Box, the Gate, and the Arm, there is still the maze of identical buildings and road names before you reach your destination.
For all that trouble, the whole system seems to break down a great deal with the arm straight up and the gate already rolled back as though Mongul hordes have conquered this walled jewel of suburbia and, after pillaging anything of worth, have left it open in a humiliating gesture of defeat.
That the system is so prone to breakdown -- or that despite all their elaborate precautions nomads from the Gobi steppes can still overrun them -- galls me all the more when I think of the annoyance I had to go through, and I was getting paid to go there.
Ages and days ago, I worked for Ghetto Discount Pizza, and I developed an ardent loathing for gated communities. Or at least the gate itself.
The impenetrable fortress that is the gate, like all good fortifications, has several rings of defenses.
The first is the callbox.
The callbox allows you to scroll through a listing of everyone in the community until the screen displays the name of the desired party. A three digit number appears with the name, and all you have to do is dial the number, which is connected to the resident's phone, and the resident presses a button allowing the guest on to the premises. Nothing could be simpler or more inviting.
But that is merely a strategic ruse, a feint, designed to lull would-be encroachers into over-confidence.
In reality, the callbox is a stalling device designed to give screeners ample time to remember your suspicious features should you turn out to be a disreputable rapscallion. That cagey stare. The sloping brow that clearly marked you as one of the criminal classes.
The call box has three bottons: "A," "Z," and "Call," and a security camera to watch as you slowly spaz out before the machine. The former two numbers let you navigate through the list of names and to select a starting point, either the beginning or middle of the alphabet; however, the target name could be A. Aardvark, and there would still be a glut of names to scroll through allowing the men watching on the security camera a good look at you.
You might think, "Aha! I remember this person's call number. I am so clever. No gate will get the better of me."
But those screeners are one step ahead of you. They did not become gatekeeper/watchers just to waive riff-raff like you on the premises.
Dialling the call number directly never works.
And just for that, once you realize dialling the number won't work, and you begin closing in on the name you're looking for, the machine will spit you back to the beginning of the list. Who do you think you are, buddy? Awfully quick to get into this fancy gated community aren't you? Why don't you just cool your jets?
Somehow, possibly through sheer determination, you make it to the right name and get beeped in, you still must contend with the gate itself.
The physical gate is on wheels, but since they spent a lot of money on the state-of-art call box for this community, they had to skimp a bit on frills like wheels. The wheels come from every broken grocery store buggy in the area. The gate jerks, sometimes catching on cracks in the pavement or those quaint cobblestones. My this neighborhood is sophisticated! A gate and cobblestones? Am I in the Europe? Does Prince Rainier have an apartment here?
While the gate is slow and wobbly, possibly deliberately to give it that old world charm, the arm -- did I mention there's an arm, too? Well there is. Because only a gate would be lax. Ahem.
Anyway. The Arm is swift. It is like the hand of an irate bouncer saying, "NO! You may not get in here. Your name is not on the list. I don't care if Call Box and Gate let you in. I am their manager."
So between the gate and the arm, it's like one of this tricky parts of an old video game where you must skillfully time your attack. It requires precision.
Or just take your chances and follow someone's car after they've been beeped in. Although there is a strong possibility that the ass of your car will be slapped as the arm comes down.
If you have proven your mettle by advancing beyond the Call Box, the Gate, and the Arm, there is still the maze of identical buildings and road names before you reach your destination.
For all that trouble, the whole system seems to break down a great deal with the arm straight up and the gate already rolled back as though Mongul hordes have conquered this walled jewel of suburbia and, after pillaging anything of worth, have left it open in a humiliating gesture of defeat.
That the system is so prone to breakdown -- or that despite all their elaborate precautions nomads from the Gobi steppes can still overrun them -- galls me all the more when I think of the annoyance I had to go through, and I was getting paid to go there.
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