Author Archive

Abby: In Transit part two

Posted: November 13, 2012 by Abby Kuhn in Comedy, Uncategorized

Post-graduation from the University of Oregon, Abby Kuhn’s series walks us through her life after college.

Here comes my favorite crystal-toting, gluten free set of married numb nuts. I love them. They talk with that intelligent drawls that is custom of condescending Californians. They tell me their “fave” Chinese restaurant is P.F. Changs. This means they probably think Foster’s really is Australian for beer. Their Zen lifestyle appears to have been bought out of a strip mall. A Claire’s was probably settled nicely near their dojo, but they buy a lot of cat shit so I have to just grin and bear it while I throw in free tissue paper and a pre-cut ribbon into their gift bag.

They languidly dissipate leaving an invisible trail of organic dollar signs and I’m left with my bio on brothels. My boss told me that my smut should be left at home, but I mentally remind her that my smut never stops. She’s married, what do I tell her? I still have sex? She’d snot sex out of her granny panties and into her sweater set. No can do, I adore shock-value, but even I have a sliver of mercy lining the empty space where my soul should be found. I’d probably lose my “job”

For the time being I have 9.5 hours left in my day and my hair is already de-poofing. I quickly lock the only valuable thing on this tin can (the laptop), in the super secure foil box and sprint to my favorite bathroom stall. I only use one stall, if it’s occupied I’ll wait, even if all other vestibules of shit are free I’ll wait. I come off as a nut-job both in appearance and practice. I like to really be honestly clear with people … unless I’m lying. The ratio of truth to farce is about 20/80 and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

If I told people everything that happened in my life I’d be exiled and revered as the biggest loon of all time. Think Adrien Brody in “The Village.” I’d end up in a hole skewered to death by sharp sticks. Then again, to die a Brody death would be my honor. Those of you who know me know how I love a good schnoz on a man.

In Transit: Part One

Posted: October 7, 2012 by Abby Kuhn in Journalism

Post-graduation from the University of Oregon, Abby Kuhn’s series walks us through her life after college.

It’s 10 a.m. and I’m sparking up my fourth cigarette of the day. The Four Loko I had for breakfast is being overpowered by the sobering effects of my extra shot latte, and my life comes into focus. I have four years and a thousand dollar piece of paper behind my back … and I work at a kiosk. A fucking kiosk, in a fucking mall, that is filled with more assholes than a porno could ever boast of. The place reeks of money and that point is driven home by the passing 12 year olds toting Fendi, Gucci, and Marc Jacobs handbags.

My eyes sleepily flutter open to review my retail. It’s cat shit, quite literally. Cats on pillows, earrings, scarves, notebooks, socks — you name it, I have it with a cat face on it. I know this time of day well, it’s returning hours. The hours when people who have actual lives return gifts and split-minute splurges. I have the solid thought in my head that nothing in this mall sells for less than 20 dollars. I mean, the hot dog vendor pulls in about 7 for every phallic weiner he fries up and people pay 15 dollars for a bookmark that I happen to sell.

I spot Mandy in our usual smoking spot and she shouts to me about her gay friend Norman who needs a date and requests I set him up. I like her. She’s almost as obnoxiously loud and nosey as I am. My feelings of loneliness fade quickly only to swell again after she departs back to the shoe store. I remain at my post of cat shit and wait for some middle-aged woman to faun over the Moroccan Mare collection of purses I hock. Mostly, however, I get asked where the bathrooms are, sometimes the Apple store.

Other than that I sit here, in my pool of misery, for ten hours a day. This is my life and I’m reminded of it every time I perch on this institutionalized, aluminum stool. Everything around me in fact is made of tin foil. The kiosk, the directory, the signs that blaze bright, talking of sales and discount memberships. It’s depressing in a very serious way, but here comes Hot Jason….

He’s tall, Hawaiian, tan and has a wolfish grin that makes me melt. When he passes by, all of the ladies who work here drool. He’s a pacific islander of an Adonis … just a little slow. I think if I just had one night with him I’d be satisfied. Just one night, just one hit of his sex and I’d be good. I’m not in the business of attaching myself to men so really I have my fingers crossed he doesn’t have a June wedding in mind. I don’t think he does, because even when he converses he’s more concerned with the matter of a dog shitting near Macy’s than me.

That is actually the biggest fear in this mall, dog shit. It’s funny because I sell cat shit, so a meeting in the middle is very apparent in my line of work. I use the term “work” loosely. A few guards have dubbed me “The Mayor”. It’s fitting, seeing as I know everything about everyone and am not afraid to use it. I have a sweet demeanor, but anyone who has talked with me for more than two minutes (which is rare, but it happens), knows that I’m very familiar with social homicide. In the words of 50 cent, “I run this mall.” I truthfully do, Concierge can suck it. I own this shit on the daily.

Honestly though, I love the people who work here. There’s the security team, Aiden, New Patrick, Old Patrick, Leon, Carla, Nathan, and a few others who pleasantly smile at me and joke about how my wares wouldn’t sell at an Egyptian flea market. Cat worship reference inserted here. Then there are the people who work directly in the mall. I love them too, so much so that I walked smack into a pole waving to them.

Forget texting and driving. Being the Mall Mayor and walking in your owned domain is way more of a precarious position. These thoughts in my head are all that keep me going. I have a place here, I have respect here, oh wait … no I have pity here. My bad.

Sometimes I think that the company of others distracts us from ourselves. It’s not a complete fault in personality, but those who fill their dance card of life purposefully and diligently may need to take it a little slower. If you’re never alone, then how will you recognize why you’re alone when you finally are?

Taking time alone seems to be rare at this point in the status of social media. I’m not saying that everyone should run off to Green Gulch and meditate in a yurt, but maybe a little more inner perspective would cut down on the morbidly high number of codependent people. After filtering through Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and all of the other Internet webbing, it truly is hard to find yourself by yourself. I can’t blame the use of these public tools, or the tools themselves, but I can blame the tools that use them. Back off and stop telling me about the sunshine in your window and how much you love garlic bread. Also, if I want to come to your ridiculous theme party I will find a way. No amount of comments on your event page and confirmed guests will really affect my attendance. Just take a deep breath and step away from the keyboard.

Speaking of parties, some of my favorite people are those who know when to leave. Being the sole survivor on a night of carousing does not give anyone a badge of honor. At one point or another, something must have gone awry. Whatever the reason, you probably had to stay because the night dealt you a bad hand. Just my two cents for the thought that nothing good happens after whatever time you were supposed to leave.

I once saw a book on my friend’s shelf that’s title was “Learning to be Alone”. I at first laughed and chastised her for being too much of a Borders self-help junkie. However, after I went home later I realized that some people really do need to learn how to be alone.

*I recently saw they’re filing for bankruptcy. I apologize if you are a fan of reading about how to live and was offended by my previous insult. Thinking about it, if you’re reading this right now and enjoying it, I’m probably adding to your problem by being yet another writer of preachy annoyances.

After seeing that I have grown up in such a society of technological interaction, I can tell you I don’t like it. Being with people, but also finding singularity is so hard to do nowadays.

So I never saw it, but a movie about Facebook? Too far, Hollywood, WAY too far. Now you’re just exploiting our addiction.

What happened to frivolous coming of age movies? The ones that had everything to do with having an experience and nothing to do about blowing your load on the Internet with a response to said experience? I admire overly watched teen movies of years past because, at least to me, they act as a rear view mirror addressing the problem of constant connectedness that’s taking over the world. Watch for example, American Graffiti or Dazed and Confused. Essentially the same movie, but both work as milestones of what the youth culture was up to in the decade. Is what we as a generation are doing now going to be assimilated to the dependence on outside and faceless Internet approval?

Not that I dread the future, but I do dread the future of popular culture. Thirty years from now, I don’t want to see The Social Network on AMC and have some ass talking about how representative of the time it was. My generation is more than a bunch of internet-addicted drones. Most of us know how to be ourselves by ourselves, but maybe we just need to remind each other every so often.

Just please do not use Twitter to do so.

This is why I’m Irish

Posted: February 14, 2011 by Abby Kuhn in Comedy

And here we are yet again! The coldest part of the year here in the Pacific Northwest and all we can think about is heating things up. This can either mean turning up your home’s thermostat, or your probably mundane sex life. In each respect , it is all most of us can shiver to think about. But before you throw a personal pity party now hear this:

Finding yourself being generalized as “attached” on not, as many ladies’ magazines like to declare, the category you fall into isn’t really important for any true self-respecting human being. So stop bitching about your relationship status on Facebook and get over yourself. While social media may be taking the world by the balls and shoving it up against a brick wall, we all have the same fear. What is even scarier however is the overwhelming amount of pink and red in this fucking month. Not only are we supposed to relish the forced merriment of love, we have to unload truckloads of our year-long aggression towards it and open our hearts to possible happiness.

Frankly, I find the whole procedure much like a wisdom tooth extraction. It cuts us up, sews us back together, and leaves gaping holes in our mouths wrought with nitrous. On top of all that, there are still chances for sharp bits of our former molars to stab our bloodied gums for weeks on end. I use the metaphor “molar” to align itself with “ex”.

The only light at the end of the tunnel is that some wronged lover will call us sobbing into their Bluetooth douche bag headset about what they once had with us. Personally, that is the moment I put my phone on speaker and silently laugh with all of my friends about how pathetic people can be. Call me vindictive, but I have fun with it.

Anyway, this month is lamented and reveled in for many a reason. I understand all of them, but I find most of them laughable. Why put yourself through such Hell on your own decision and then try and blame Hallmark? Being quite familiar with that excuse, I can only roll my eyes at the “revelations” people have every February about Valentine’s Day. All gripes include the overblown notions of how when we used to pull our own poignant sayings out of own tight asses, we have now allowed commercialism to do it for us. Truly, it’s probably better we leave it to them. Not a single person I have ever met retains sincerity on Valentines Day. I have to then ask, why is such a populace like our esteemed humanity so enraptured by it all?

It could be boredom, self-loathing, a need to feel appreciated, or any combination of the three. For any such of the listed cases there is only one remedy…and that is St. Patrick’s Day.

So for the rest of February remember the Irish. They had it right all along. Wear the color of envy on the third 17th of this fine year 2011 and drink until you see the world as lopsided as it really is. Let the saps drink their fine champagne on the lovers’ 14th. You can look forward to downing whiskey and green beer on the finest prime number March has to offer.

I’m Irish coz I’m fly. You ain’t coz you not.

When being sociable becomes a crime

Posted: February 8, 2011 by Abby Kuhn in Comedy
Tags: , , ,

By: Abby Gazlay

There are certain things people just need to be alone for.Bonding time really can’t be all of the time, but idle chit chat has it’s place.

What do you do when some people you meet in your life just don’t seem to have received that social memo?

I’ve realized it can happen to anyone, at anytime, and in any place you would dread to think of it happening. From the overly talkative shopkeeper to that friend who you thought was cool until they started treating your text inbox like a personal twitter account; these human landmines are surprisingly plentiful.

We’re all familiar with the signs of the degradation of the relationships we have with these sorts of people. It can take as little as minutes for the pity to run low and homicidal intentions to start to pick up. Running through the number of times I’ve had to swallow my dignity and listen to one random moron or another; I realize I’ve wasted not only much of my own time, but probably theirs as well.

Is it really helping the situation and these horrible people to just let them ramble? It’s not as if there is ever really a good time to slap a person with, “I DON’T FUCKING CARE ABOUT HOW YOUR CAT SLEEPS ON THE ROOF OF YOUR CAR. I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR CAT. BUT NOW I FEEL THAT IF I EVER DO, I WILL PUNT THEM INTO A SHARKTANK FULL OF ELECTRICALLY CHARGED SEA ANENOMES. DO YOU REALIZE WHAT DANGER YOU’VE PUT YOUR PRECIOUS PUSSY IN?”, but maybe advised more gently it would be a sort of community service. Parolees could do it on the weekends.

If there was a sort of flow chart for how to teach these people to shut the fuck up, they would have more friends, you would have more friends you actually enjoy talking with, and nobody would die in a plastic knife fight in the mall food court. I of course am referring to that time after shopping when someone gets the great idea to eat sugary snot food with bagged utensils, then while shoveling orange chicken chunks into their face they breathe only to talk about the price of each and every item they purchased and declare the percentage they saved in the most exciting sale of the millennium.

(As a note to everyone, that verbal information pamphlet is only interesting to the purchaser). All these problems would be solved if more of us just sacked up and said something helpful to the socially retarded.

I’m not saying I’ve ever mustered the courage to actually talk openly with some one about how much I hate it when they talk, but I’m just the messenger. It is up to all of us to take a true Captain Planet stand and end this madness. I know we can do it, but maybe somebody else should go first…I’ll just be typing hypocritical things about the matter into a blogspace.