- When a dog barks, is it just barking the same word over and over and over again? Because I hear no real inflection or variance in a dog bark (all right, maybe a little). So in terms of dogspeak, is it possible that a canine is programmed with one word and one word only? Like: one dog can only bark, "Apple! Apple! Apple!" while another can only bark back, "Sunsets! Sunsets! Sunsets!" If this is even close to being the case, how do dogs communicate with each other? (Disclaimer: I live near a dog park.)
- Why don't crazier things happen in public more often, such as people melting down, sobbing, throwing tantrums or simply making loud noises? Why is man generally behaved?
- Given the abundance of distractions in our world, coupled with a person's capacity to act like a downright idiot sometimes, why don't car accidents happen more frequently, right in front of our eyes? Talking about witnessing them on a daily basis here. Same goes for people tripping, falling down, bumping into each other, dropping things, etcetera, etcetera.
- Why were General Mills cereals like Franken Berry not more popular?
- Why were General Mills cereals like Wheaties ever popular?
- Do bugs have feelings and personalities like we do? Think: spiders.
- Why are mom and dad so behind the curve with technology? They treat typing on a computer like keying on a typewriter; they don't go back to edit mistakes; they only forge ahead, their index fingers poking letters and numbers haphazardly, their noses inches from the keyboard; their attempted e-mails are always laden with typos and at times completely indecipherable. They have cell phones, but use them like tin cans and string; they only turn them on to make calls, then they shut them off; they're practically unreachable, but when I'm unreachable I return to my phone to see 16 missed calls, zero voicemails; I call them back and their phones are off; they also don't program people's numbers into their phones, but rather dial them from memory each time they want to call someone; at one point dad had a small paper list of phone numbers that he'd carry with him and fish out of his pocket whenever he needed to place a call. And then there's the time mom called me to ask if their home computer "has Google."
Here's What I Wonder About...
For the Nth Time: Pigeons
I've already written too much about pigeons, but I must write about them some more. I've simply learned that much over the past month. Things you should know:
- Studies (my studies) show that pigeons have a short-term memory of, on average, six seconds. While this does not sound like a long time, it, yeah, turns out it's really not that long of a time at all. To show this one pigeon just how stubborn I can be, I scared him (going to assume they're all male here) from my windowsill approximately 20 times in a two-minute span. Each time he acted all, "What?", like he had never seen me before. It went something like this: Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!
- I have refined my scare-off tactics based on pigeon response. Today, I lock eyes with the offending pigeon, crouch and slowly spread out my arms like an attacking predator might, or like I might if I had wings. If the windows are open and I feel like throwing in a little somethin' extra, I will also hiss, like my pet cat might if she were a puma. Nine times out of 10 this works. But then they come back. (See No. 1)
- If I remain at the window after I've scared them off, I can clearly see the pigeons poking their heads out from the rooftop, craning their fat, little necks to see if I am still there. It takes them a really long time to notice I am standing in the same place, right in front of the window, but when they realize it they pull away like lightning - almost as if those past 10 seconds of us making eye contact never even happened.
- Within this particular flock of pigeons that nests in/on/around my apartment, I know which are the smartest, and which are the dumbest. I recognize them on an individual basis, and could pick one out of a lineup if I needed to (and I might, have to). I could even recommend which ones need a bath the most. God, some of them are so dirty it's ridiculous. When they're not partying at my place they've got to be hanging out at Jiffy Lube or something.
- Outside of Clarence, I have not given any of the pigeons names.
- I have stared deep into a pigeon's eyes, and I can tell you there is nothing there. This is officially the world's dumbest animal, folks.
- In a fit of rage, I once burned through an entire tray of ice cubes on a pair of pigeons that wouldn't scram.
- My landlord actually recommended I fill a spray bottle with bleach to, "See how they like that? Not so much, eh?"
- I have not tried No. 8, yet.
- I have interacted with pigeons for a long, long time now, and I still cannot list a single benefit they bring to this earth. Is there one? Because if there is it's lost on me. Unless it's screwing with people and getting them to spend time writing about pigeons. They're pretty good at that.
Oh, Whoops. More Things
And now for some things that have happened:
- I was on a train and there was a fly trapped inside our crowded car. The thing really took to this one particular guy and it made his entire ride a living hell. It showed no interest for any other person, and all of our eyes followed the fly as it buzzed around this guy's bald head. So he's harumphing and shooing his poor arm off and finally he just snaps and starts rolling up the newspaper he's been trying to read. He sets down his bag and goes, "I'm gonna hit 'im!" You know, giving people fair warning to get the hell out of the way. So he's got his tube of newspaper and sees the fly land on the window. He winds up baseball style, his elbows near people's chins, pretty good form actually, and explodes this juicy bug all over the door. He was sweating and concluded with a big, "Thanks!" The rest of us went back to thinking about other things.
- One night I turned on my bedroom lamp to see the biggest centipede I've ever seen. The thing was the size of a goddamn kielbasa, not including its legs. Pretty gross. Had it not been so close to my bed I might've let it live. Might've. So I quietly got out the vacuum and connected the hose attachment. I wondered if the centipede could see what I was doing, or if it even had eyes for that matter. I got the hose right next to what I believed to be its head and hit the switch. The hose started sucking in air loudly, but not quickly enough to unglue the centipede from the wall. The ugly thing really had that much mass. So I had to guide him in, sort of using the hose to slurp him up. It was a pathetic death. He didn't even try to fight me or at the very least run away. I went to bed feeling superior.
- While my neighbors were moving out of our apartment building I heard them talking about me in the hallway. I got to wondering: Is this eavesdropping, or talking behind someone's back?
- I asked my landlord to fix my leaky bathroom sink, and came home to find my kitchen covered in a film of sawdust. The floors, the counters, the sink, my cat's food - all of it dressed in wood shavings. I opened the back door and saw part of the staircase had been rebuilt, and concluded he used my kitchen as his personal wood shop for the day. Guy didn't even try to clean up. Obliviousness, or DGAF-ness? Not sure. He did fix the sink though.
- I didn't ask my landlord to fix anything, and came home to find a huge black streak running across my bedroom wall. It ran waist level around my bed, which is strange because there is less than a foot of space between my bed and the wall - and nothing on the other side of my bed. So what someone was doing shimmying around my mattress, to get closer to nothing, is both lost on me and concerning. Not to sound vain, but my logic was soon in the gutter and I started checking crevices for video cameras and audio equipment. It made me paranoid for a few days, but mostly I just reverted back to living my life as I did before. If they really, really want to, let 'em watch, y'know?
- This pair of pigeons moved into my apartment, into the small spaces on either side of my AC unit. I found sticks, feathers, pigeon crap and other bird belongings on the inside of my window sill, and my cat playing with it all. So I kicked them out. Sure enough the next day they were back, building and pooping in their new home simultaneously. I evicted them again! By the end of the week they would hear me come home and pretend to not be there. Right. Because that works. That's when I started going out onto my porch and throwing ice cubes at them, every night, for the subsequent week. At first you could tell they had no idea what an ice cube was, but then one of them got hit in the face. Now they don't come around anymore, and I can once again drink my drinks cold.
- This summer I went to my family's cottage in northern Michigan for eight days. There is a dining hall there, filled with families clad in Polo sweaters and whatever argyle accessories their country clubs had left in stock. They eat there three times a day, and by the end of my stay a young girl was openly flirting with my cousin and me in front of her parents - using milk as her calling card. Yes, she flirted with us via milk, taking multiple unnecessary trips to the dairy bar and consuming close to five glasses of milk per meal as she eyed us up from behind her tilted container. That's 15 glasses of milk a day. We thought of asking her if she had a calcium deficiency but agreed the odds of that actually being true were rather good, and plus we didn't want the flirting to stop. Ever. So we kept on watching her watch us as she worked on her bones.
My Crooked Digit
Recently I broke my left index finger during a company softball game. I caught a pop-fly to left field very, very sloppily, and God I wish this story was cooler. Anyhow, the thing swelled up over night and by morning it looked like I had a big, purple grape on the tip of my finger in terms of size, shape and color - my pointer-turned-fruity-finger-berry.
So I went to urgent care for X-rays and a splint, and was then referred to a hand specialist. The hand specialist took even more X-rays and made me a custom splint, one molded to fit and snugly encase my finger. Then they moved me to their physical-therapy ward. Physical therapy. For a finger! I went on my way and over the next few weeks diligently practiced the circuit of finger exercises the four women had taught me as they braced various parts of my hand and forearm and repeated statements of encouragement like, "You can do it, Dave!" and "One more. One more! Come on, push it."
Now, apparently I was supposed to take off the splint daily to clean and air out my finger. Either they forgot to tell me that part or I was not paying any attention when they explained it, because by the time my next appointment rolled around some 20 days later I hadn't removed the thing since they strapped it to my busted phalange. The implications of this didn't fully dawn on me until an (alarmingly) attractive hand specialist who was definitely not there the previous time was asking me to ditch the splint so she could check and see how my skin was healing, all in a tone one might use to get a madman to surrender a loaded weapon.
As I started unraveling the tape I got a small whiff of something big, something awful, and knew things were about to get pretty embarrassing for me. With each strand I removed the smell permeated higher and deeper into the small room we were sitting in, both of us staring at my crooked digit with expressions of profound curiosity. "How could this have gotten so disgustingly bad?" we asked ourselves. We both knew the answer. The odor had soul, breathing and growing like a healthy, living organism or ecosystem of sorts. It was a stench entity - its presence staggering, its weight a heavy one - and for some reason she kept getting closer to my finger and scrunching her nose, with the kind of fascination and caution paleontologists probably use while unearthing fossils. This made me even more nervous.
By the time the splint was off the entire room stunk like old tacos, or like I had unwrapped leftover Indian food I'd forgotten about in the back of my refrigerator for months. Woof freaking woof. My skin was warm and pigmentless and steaming, and at one point I thought I heard it hiss. All I could say was, "Jesus," and then started apologizing to her. I half asked, half asserted that surely she'd seen and smelled worse from patients, and she half asked herself the same question, half lied to me that she probably (probably!) had, with an unsettling question-mark-type-tone at the end. Not good. My finger didn't even look like it belonged to a living thing. It looked more like that of a zombie, or like I'd been hanging out in a graveyard and dug up a freshly buried body to de-finger out of spite. It was gray and sort of transparent-ish, and there was still plenty of purple in there, my good ol' grapes gettin' nice and ripe.
My next appointment is in two days. This time around I've cleaned my finger every single day, but over the weekend a bartender told me I was cute and "have good hair" and said he'd like to do a shot with me free of charge if I let him sign my splint. So it has the name Perry on it now.
So I went to urgent care for X-rays and a splint, and was then referred to a hand specialist. The hand specialist took even more X-rays and made me a custom splint, one molded to fit and snugly encase my finger. Then they moved me to their physical-therapy ward. Physical therapy. For a finger! I went on my way and over the next few weeks diligently practiced the circuit of finger exercises the four women had taught me as they braced various parts of my hand and forearm and repeated statements of encouragement like, "You can do it, Dave!" and "One more. One more! Come on, push it."
Now, apparently I was supposed to take off the splint daily to clean and air out my finger. Either they forgot to tell me that part or I was not paying any attention when they explained it, because by the time my next appointment rolled around some 20 days later I hadn't removed the thing since they strapped it to my busted phalange. The implications of this didn't fully dawn on me until an (alarmingly) attractive hand specialist who was definitely not there the previous time was asking me to ditch the splint so she could check and see how my skin was healing, all in a tone one might use to get a madman to surrender a loaded weapon.
As I started unraveling the tape I got a small whiff of something big, something awful, and knew things were about to get pretty embarrassing for me. With each strand I removed the smell permeated higher and deeper into the small room we were sitting in, both of us staring at my crooked digit with expressions of profound curiosity. "How could this have gotten so disgustingly bad?" we asked ourselves. We both knew the answer. The odor had soul, breathing and growing like a healthy, living organism or ecosystem of sorts. It was a stench entity - its presence staggering, its weight a heavy one - and for some reason she kept getting closer to my finger and scrunching her nose, with the kind of fascination and caution paleontologists probably use while unearthing fossils. This made me even more nervous.
By the time the splint was off the entire room stunk like old tacos, or like I had unwrapped leftover Indian food I'd forgotten about in the back of my refrigerator for months. Woof freaking woof. My skin was warm and pigmentless and steaming, and at one point I thought I heard it hiss. All I could say was, "Jesus," and then started apologizing to her. I half asked, half asserted that surely she'd seen and smelled worse from patients, and she half asked herself the same question, half lied to me that she probably (probably!) had, with an unsettling question-mark-type-tone at the end. Not good. My finger didn't even look like it belonged to a living thing. It looked more like that of a zombie, or like I'd been hanging out in a graveyard and dug up a freshly buried body to de-finger out of spite. It was gray and sort of transparent-ish, and there was still plenty of purple in there, my good ol' grapes gettin' nice and ripe.
My next appointment is in two days. This time around I've cleaned my finger every single day, but over the weekend a bartender told me I was cute and "have good hair" and said he'd like to do a shot with me free of charge if I let him sign my splint. So it has the name Perry on it now.
Here are Some Things
January? I really haven't posted anything since January? Boy am I ever disappointed in myself. If anyone still reads this old thing I apologize. I started some other writing projects that've grown into something larger and nastier than I originally anticipated. Plus I work during the day, but that one never seemed to get in the way before... Whatever.
Anyhow, here are some things:
Anyhow, here are some things:
- My car was recently towed because the new neighbors couldn't fit their couch between it and the vehicle parked in front of me when they were moving in. How this is legal I do not know (couch could've been really nice or something). But what I do know: I paid $15 for a cab ride to the impound on the outskirts of the city, $170 for the release of my "hazardously parked" car and $2.50 for a dozen eggs on my way home.
- If it's late at night or dark enough, nine times out of 10 I will go to the bathroom sitting down. Simply takes too much effort to aim or do otherwise. And I must say: you ladies are really on to something.
- I have met (several) people from the Internet. Some are cooler than others, but all are very real (people). I've played air instruments with just about every one of them, using props like tennis rackets, yardsticks, kitchen utensils, other people's limbs or sometimes no prop at all - perhaps the truest air instrument there ever was. We talk about it on the Internet afterward.
- Last year I received a huge, heavy package addressed to an old tenant, and after six months of unreturned phone calls from the kid I caved and opened it. It was a wooden media cabinet that required assembly. I felt the same disappointment as I did when as a youth on Christmas morning I unwrapped the last present in the corner and saw it was not a caged ferret.
- The couple behind me who owns that dog Margot or "Jenkins" or whoever fought this morning over a list of chores. Dude doesn't work, so when his girl stormed to the bus stop he ranted to ol' INSERT DOG'S NICKNAME OF THE DAY HERE about how she's a royal pain in the ass (he really used that word), is generally unappreciative of his contributions to the household (used that one, too), always makes him clean the goddamn (used it) toilet, etc. (did not use "etc."). I listened to all of this while clipping my fingernails.
- My cat's personality is even weaker and less interesting than my own, so we make for quite the pathetic pair. However, there is this: once while she was eating I made a sudden movement in the kitchen and scared the crap out of her. Literally. I wanted to yell at her but thought that might make her go again. I was forced to clean it up in silence. Do you see? Weaksauce. Zero to negative "wow."
- Most times I continue to consume milk way, way past its expiration date, so long as it passes a preliminary smell test. And when it does, I'll tell ya what: it's fiiine.
- In my cupboard I found a bag of unopened sugar that I purchased exactly one year ago this month. That thing passed a smell test and a taste test with flying colors, which is less impressive because Google tells me sugar has an "indefinite shelf life" or something. More noteworthy is the fact that in 365 days I had not one use for sugar.
- In addition to sheer laziness, a small oversight on my part prevented a pair of slacks from being included in one or two (approx./max.) trips to the laundromat. They fell off their hanger the other day but kept that neat, folded shape all on their own. They could've danced right across the floor. I added it up on my fingers and found that soap's felt the poor things but once in the six months I've owned them.
- To date, the biggest come-on I've ever received came from a transvestite prostitute (pre-op, clearly) while I was walking down the street in broad daylight. Yes I stopped to ask her/him what that even meant anyway; yes I turned down the proposition upon interpreting her/his motions; and yes it's so dirty I won't be drawing any diagrams or explaining it any further. Doesn't mean it didn't make me feel a little bit cool, just sayin'.
Margot?
So I've been working on some other personal writing projects and my friend Chris had to remind me that I still have a blog (thanks, Chris!).
Remember this post about Margot, the mutt next door whose owners coddle her like a newborn Homo sapien? Well it's been a little more than seven months since I wrote that and much of their silly, gag-me-with-a-spoon behavior has remained the same. That is, until yesterday.
Somehow, over night, all vocalized fanfare for Margot ceased and the next morning they cheered on the rising sun with much of the same verbal diarrhea - but for some dog called "Jenkins." No doubt this confused the hell out of me, and I actually became somewhat concerned about where oh where did our dear Margot go?
I think there are a couple possibilities here. First off, it's important you understand just how much I know about my neighbors without having ever interacted with them. In my worst moments when I am cold and alone and haven't eaten in days or whatever, the walls and floors that separate our two apartments become so thin that I feel like I'm actually living with this couple. Sounds and smells permeate our divide and it's as if we're one happy party of three (five if we include their dog and my cat). I can tell you that last night they made pasta with meatballs, Parmesan cheese and a dash of what smelled like Tabasco sauce. Ben must have wanted to try something new, which is odd since Beth doesn't really like spicy dishes all that much. "This has some kick!?" she borderline complained. Had I been able to see them, I'm sure Ben grinned at that very moment and shoved a huge forkful of volcanic pasta into his gourd. Maybe it was his way at getting back at her for when she told him to turn down that My Morning Jacket record he was blasting the other day. Poor guy had to turn it off right in the middle of my favorite song.
What I'm getting at here is that if I know all of the above, I'm confident I would know if Margot had died. Growing up, my family and I euthanized the equivalent of an entire zoo of animals, and I can assure you there's a period, however brief, where owners grieve a little bit after putting down their pets. So where does this leave us? I honestly think they just started calling Margot "Jenkins," which is so cruel and backward it almost doesn't make sense, for one because it connotes a doggie sex-change and for two because these two dolts practically worshiped every turd Margot laid. Something like that would be so grossly out of character for the pea-brains.
Then this happened: as I awoke today to more incessant cheering for "Jenkins," I got to the window just in time to see Ben and the beast walking to the nearby dog park. They were about 50 yards away, but even from that distance I could tell by the shadow, shape and gait of "Jenkins" that he is almost certainly a different dog. He is still very ugly, much like Margot was ugly, but he embodies the essence of ugliness in different, almost uglier ways - like where Margot's folds and crevices and snout resembled that of a prized pig, the stocky, teetering trot of "Jenkins" mimics that of a wild boar combing the forest floor for grubs. Boy, Beth and Ben sure know how to pick 'em.
Margot, where art thou?
Remember this post about Margot, the mutt next door whose owners coddle her like a newborn Homo sapien? Well it's been a little more than seven months since I wrote that and much of their silly, gag-me-with-a-spoon behavior has remained the same. That is, until yesterday.
Somehow, over night, all vocalized fanfare for Margot ceased and the next morning they cheered on the rising sun with much of the same verbal diarrhea - but for some dog called "Jenkins." No doubt this confused the hell out of me, and I actually became somewhat concerned about where oh where did our dear Margot go?
I think there are a couple possibilities here. First off, it's important you understand just how much I know about my neighbors without having ever interacted with them. In my worst moments when I am cold and alone and haven't eaten in days or whatever, the walls and floors that separate our two apartments become so thin that I feel like I'm actually living with this couple. Sounds and smells permeate our divide and it's as if we're one happy party of three (five if we include their dog and my cat). I can tell you that last night they made pasta with meatballs, Parmesan cheese and a dash of what smelled like Tabasco sauce. Ben must have wanted to try something new, which is odd since Beth doesn't really like spicy dishes all that much. "This has some kick!?" she borderline complained. Had I been able to see them, I'm sure Ben grinned at that very moment and shoved a huge forkful of volcanic pasta into his gourd. Maybe it was his way at getting back at her for when she told him to turn down that My Morning Jacket record he was blasting the other day. Poor guy had to turn it off right in the middle of my favorite song.
What I'm getting at here is that if I know all of the above, I'm confident I would know if Margot had died. Growing up, my family and I euthanized the equivalent of an entire zoo of animals, and I can assure you there's a period, however brief, where owners grieve a little bit after putting down their pets. So where does this leave us? I honestly think they just started calling Margot "Jenkins," which is so cruel and backward it almost doesn't make sense, for one because it connotes a doggie sex-change and for two because these two dolts practically worshiped every turd Margot laid. Something like that would be so grossly out of character for the pea-brains.
Then this happened: as I awoke today to more incessant cheering for "Jenkins," I got to the window just in time to see Ben and the beast walking to the nearby dog park. They were about 50 yards away, but even from that distance I could tell by the shadow, shape and gait of "Jenkins" that he is almost certainly a different dog. He is still very ugly, much like Margot was ugly, but he embodies the essence of ugliness in different, almost uglier ways - like where Margot's folds and crevices and snout resembled that of a prized pig, the stocky, teetering trot of "Jenkins" mimics that of a wild boar combing the forest floor for grubs. Boy, Beth and Ben sure know how to pick 'em.
Margot, where art thou?
Ziggy Played Guitar (Hero?)
Alright, dudes. Time to cut it out 'cause this is really getting pretty ridiculous. You're what, 28 now? 30? So stop playing Guitar Hero already. I come home from work exhausted, you're playing it. I wake up in the middle of the night and wipe the drool from my face, you're playing it. I eat cereal at dawn and my cat and I we look at each other there in the darkness, you're playing it. I play (real, actual) guitar, you're playing it. To the point where I know your high scores. To the point where I know when one of ya's botched a lick or two. And that ain't right. No one wants that. So just start taking (real) guitar lessons already (and man is this sad that I even have to differentiate between "real guitar" and "Guitar Hero," but so be it). Come up and jam with me, I don't care. Just start doing it right. Start doing it f'real.
Last night you had what sounded to be some sort of Guitar Hero party. How you ever coerced anyone into attending is beyond me. I think I even heard girls, too, so you'll have to share with me that bit of miracle-working as well (I mean, really, cut the crap and tell me: how?!). And it just sounded terrible, all of it. You've got guys standing in front of the TV, pushing the controller buttons that I hear clicking through the walls and the floor and I can just imagine the little plastic guitars strapped to your chests. Not that anything I do is cool, per se, but this is just pure, unfettered lameness. You've got people in the background screaming out as if they've just witnessed a car wreck every time you miss a note on the solos. Seriously? I think one of you is even a doctor. Oh God my head just exploded.
But I have to remind myself that this is likely your way of getting back at me for all those times I turned my amps up to 11 (every time) and the wood slats rattled beneath my feet as a couple of us played awful (but real, mind you) guitar. Yes, you were likely jealous or pissed that we were not, in fact, participating in digital video games, but in life!
As you clicked those final notes last night on "Ziggy Stardust," it reminded me that, while the song and album were written around the completely ridiculous premise that an extraterrestrial rock star has come to planet earth, in human form, to save mankind (right?), it is nonetheless about an extraterrestrial rock star who has come to planet earth, in human form, who plays guitar, not Guitar Hero. Even if Bowie had written this stuff yesterday, I'd like to think it still would have manifested itself in identical fashion, and not be about some guy who uses a joystick and controller to make young, feeble hearts melt. 'Cause that's not sexy, and sexiness is what Bowie has always strived for (obviously).
Last night you had what sounded to be some sort of Guitar Hero party. How you ever coerced anyone into attending is beyond me. I think I even heard girls, too, so you'll have to share with me that bit of miracle-working as well (I mean, really, cut the crap and tell me: how?!). And it just sounded terrible, all of it. You've got guys standing in front of the TV, pushing the controller buttons that I hear clicking through the walls and the floor and I can just imagine the little plastic guitars strapped to your chests. Not that anything I do is cool, per se, but this is just pure, unfettered lameness. You've got people in the background screaming out as if they've just witnessed a car wreck every time you miss a note on the solos. Seriously? I think one of you is even a doctor. Oh God my head just exploded.
But I have to remind myself that this is likely your way of getting back at me for all those times I turned my amps up to 11 (every time) and the wood slats rattled beneath my feet as a couple of us played awful (but real, mind you) guitar. Yes, you were likely jealous or pissed that we were not, in fact, participating in digital video games, but in life!
As you clicked those final notes last night on "Ziggy Stardust," it reminded me that, while the song and album were written around the completely ridiculous premise that an extraterrestrial rock star has come to planet earth, in human form, to save mankind (right?), it is nonetheless about an extraterrestrial rock star who has come to planet earth, in human form, who plays guitar, not Guitar Hero. Even if Bowie had written this stuff yesterday, I'd like to think it still would have manifested itself in identical fashion, and not be about some guy who uses a joystick and controller to make young, feeble hearts melt. 'Cause that's not sexy, and sexiness is what Bowie has always strived for (obviously).
Those Poor Drunk People
Sweet Jesus. So I haven't posted since October? Terribly sorry about that. Not that anyone reads this thing anyway. Yes, let's see here... yep, by the looks of things traffic has always been, and continues to be, a very definitive zero, which I guess means I'm neither ahead nor behind, just in a weird, non-living state of paralysis of sorts, so...
ANYWAY.
This morning it hit me, what is surely one of the greatest modern quandaries out there: what did all the drunk people do for emotional release before the advent of the telephone? Drunk-dialing seems so commonplace nowadays, even passé, dare I say, what with texting and any given impersonal communication flavor of the week, but what the heck did all those hoards of inebriates do when they were hanging out and getting wasted in saloons and neared that I-guess-I'm-feeling-vulnerable-enough-to-tell-her/him state in which they thought it prudent to contact some poor sober soul and spill their guts out to him/her, that apparent long-lost lover on the other side of town or the county or the country or whatever?
Did they break away from the barroom brawls and people swinging on chandeliers and other assorted tomfoolery to teeter-totter up to their room, or maybe through the tumbleweeds and down to the general store, and (I'm imagining this by candlelight) scrawl a poorly worded, mostly illegible letter and stumble it, in spurs, to the local post office or mailbox (if they even had those?)? Did they remember to get stamps along the way? OK no. Well wait a minute, what if they couldn't even read or write in the first place? Because that would obviously pose significant problems. What then, huh? Maybe they just grabbed the nearest person who knew how to read and write and straight-up verbalized - probably pretty passionately, with sweat dripping down their brow, with phlegm flying from their mouth that was in no way intended for a spittoon - what they wished to be emoted by ink and quill. But how awkward would that be for the scribe? Psh.
Maybe this is the whole Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs thing coming into play (clever bastard); you know, as you saunter home from the saloon and up your front lawn you're likely to care first and foremost about, say, making sure a wolf hasn't plowed through your whole lot of sheep while you were out hootin' and hollerin' with your drinking buddies before you decide to cruise Facebook at 3 a.m., haphazardly poking your crushes, and even complete strangers, in your e-warpath. It just kinda works that way.
So take all of this, got it?, k, and think now of all that bottled-up emotion - the pent-up sentiments and years of emotional solitude spread out over varying BAC levels (usually pretty high ones considering all of that moonshine and whiskey, or so I've read) - and what've you got? What you've got are barrels full of volatile little man hearts strapped with lit sticks of TNT, getting absolutely plastered in the proximity of women in bustiers and various corralled animals is what you've got. And that's pretty damn scary. Laws (the few that existed) were practically begging to be broken.
Or maybe there were just a lot more face-to-face confessions and confrontations, which would have rocked something fierce to witness. Can you imagine? I barely can, this tarnation. And just think: these people in these impaired hullabaloos were usually carrying guns. My God. Talk about being guilted into love. What if your assailant/lover-to-be was packing eyes full of tears, veins full of booze and a hip holster full of lead?
OK, OK! I'll marry you!
ANYWAY.
This morning it hit me, what is surely one of the greatest modern quandaries out there: what did all the drunk people do for emotional release before the advent of the telephone? Drunk-dialing seems so commonplace nowadays, even passé, dare I say, what with texting and any given impersonal communication flavor of the week, but what the heck did all those hoards of inebriates do when they were hanging out and getting wasted in saloons and neared that I-guess-I'm-feeling-vulnerable-enough-to-tell-her/him state in which they thought it prudent to contact some poor sober soul and spill their guts out to him/her, that apparent long-lost lover on the other side of town or the county or the country or whatever?
Did they break away from the barroom brawls and people swinging on chandeliers and other assorted tomfoolery to teeter-totter up to their room, or maybe through the tumbleweeds and down to the general store, and (I'm imagining this by candlelight) scrawl a poorly worded, mostly illegible letter and stumble it, in spurs, to the local post office or mailbox (if they even had those?)? Did they remember to get stamps along the way? OK no. Well wait a minute, what if they couldn't even read or write in the first place? Because that would obviously pose significant problems. What then, huh? Maybe they just grabbed the nearest person who knew how to read and write and straight-up verbalized - probably pretty passionately, with sweat dripping down their brow, with phlegm flying from their mouth that was in no way intended for a spittoon - what they wished to be emoted by ink and quill. But how awkward would that be for the scribe? Psh.
Maybe this is the whole Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs thing coming into play (clever bastard); you know, as you saunter home from the saloon and up your front lawn you're likely to care first and foremost about, say, making sure a wolf hasn't plowed through your whole lot of sheep while you were out hootin' and hollerin' with your drinking buddies before you decide to cruise Facebook at 3 a.m., haphazardly poking your crushes, and even complete strangers, in your e-warpath. It just kinda works that way.
So take all of this, got it?, k, and think now of all that bottled-up emotion - the pent-up sentiments and years of emotional solitude spread out over varying BAC levels (usually pretty high ones considering all of that moonshine and whiskey, or so I've read) - and what've you got? What you've got are barrels full of volatile little man hearts strapped with lit sticks of TNT, getting absolutely plastered in the proximity of women in bustiers and various corralled animals is what you've got. And that's pretty damn scary. Laws (the few that existed) were practically begging to be broken.
Or maybe there were just a lot more face-to-face confessions and confrontations, which would have rocked something fierce to witness. Can you imagine? I barely can, this tarnation. And just think: these people in these impaired hullabaloos were usually carrying guns. My God. Talk about being guilted into love. What if your assailant/lover-to-be was packing eyes full of tears, veins full of booze and a hip holster full of lead?
OK, OK! I'll marry you!
The Kid's Name was Jesus (or "Jesus B" or "El Otro Jesus")
So I used to work with a guy named Jesus. He was a huge Hispanic dude with jet-black hair. The only thing Jesus and I had in common was that we were both part of the lowly Wilson Hall cafeteria staff at Michigan State University. I knew nothing about him, but I was forced to read several (what I hear are, but don't know myself to be, because they bored me to sleep) acclaimed books about a man named Jesus growing up, so I felt like I somehow knew the person with the holy name whom I washed dishes next to on Wednesdays.
You'd be correct in assuming that Jesus is not a common name. I feel the same way. Especially not at MSU, ya know? Jesus was in fact the only dude named Jesus on the cafeteria-staff lineup. But, for inexplicable reasons, Jesus' name was never ever used without his last initial: B. Sort of like Susan B. Anthony, but with less Anthony and less Susan and a whole lot more Jesus. Jesus B. Perhaps even more confounding, though, was that no other staff member's name was used with their last initial. Nay. On our name tags we were Daves and Dans and Marys and Beths, and it was clear going down the daily task schedule...
- Dave: dishes
- Dan: condiments
- Mary: cereal
- Beth: buffet
- Frank: salad bar
- Ron: milk machine
- Jesus B.: waffle maker
Jesus B? What in the. Well thank heavens they specified, I thought they meant the other Jesus who works here - Jesus A is he?
So I ask you: why did management do this? Was it so they didn't frighten people into thinking that Jesus had risen from the dead and come back to planet earth in the living flesh not to walk on water or cure diseases or end wars - but only to work tiny little miracles of Belgian goodness on a waffle maker in East Lansing, Mich.? Because that's the only explanation I can come up with. A don't freak out he's not really Jesus type thing. Though I guess Jesus C(hrist) would follow our beloved Jesus B, right?
Overall, a good experience. This man basically led me to believe that whoever Jesus C was, he was probably an everyday person just like you and me - one who can wear hair nets and blue latex gloves with best of us.
You'd be correct in assuming that Jesus is not a common name. I feel the same way. Especially not at MSU, ya know? Jesus was in fact the only dude named Jesus on the cafeteria-staff lineup. But, for inexplicable reasons, Jesus' name was never ever used without his last initial: B. Sort of like Susan B. Anthony, but with less Anthony and less Susan and a whole lot more Jesus. Jesus B. Perhaps even more confounding, though, was that no other staff member's name was used with their last initial. Nay. On our name tags we were Daves and Dans and Marys and Beths, and it was clear going down the daily task schedule...
- Dave: dishes
- Dan: condiments
- Mary: cereal
- Beth: buffet
- Frank: salad bar
- Ron: milk machine
- Jesus B.: waffle maker
Jesus B? What in the. Well thank heavens they specified, I thought they meant the other Jesus who works here - Jesus A is he?
So I ask you: why did management do this? Was it so they didn't frighten people into thinking that Jesus had risen from the dead and come back to planet earth in the living flesh not to walk on water or cure diseases or end wars - but only to work tiny little miracles of Belgian goodness on a waffle maker in East Lansing, Mich.? Because that's the only explanation I can come up with. A don't freak out he's not really Jesus type thing. Though I guess Jesus C(hrist) would follow our beloved Jesus B, right?
Overall, a good experience. This man basically led me to believe that whoever Jesus C was, he was probably an everyday person just like you and me - one who can wear hair nets and blue latex gloves with best of us.
I Can See Clearly Now, My Hair is Gone!
I can see all obstacles in my way!
Except for obstacles that just aren't visible (aka invisible), of course. Bias; hatred; viruses; gale-force winds; glass ceilings impeding the upward mobility of long-haired, middle-aged men in the workplace. You know, obstacles of that nature. Can't exactly see those now, can I? But then again, neither can you. For the rest of 'em, all of those seeable obstructions out there, I will be aware of them miles in advance. This race of life has a new harbinger, folks.
God this rules.
Tonight I had my first haircut in something like nine months. I could have had a baby by now, if only I were a woman. But I'm a man, so I chose to grow my hair out over the span of nine months to pay homage to all of you new and expecting mothers out there. This was not nearly as glamours or rewarding or pretty as what you've all got cooking and going on up in there, but it made me feel sort of important. To myself, anyway. And that's pretty important to me.
Anyway, the woman who cut my hair was very nice and asked why I was even cutting my hair in the first place (!) - she actually liked it the way it was. All fluffy and mangy and uncontrollable and long and poking me in the eye and mouth like that. Apparently she was into that sorta thing. Ugh, just my luck. I almost up and left.
So she gets through cutting my hair and all that jazz, like five pounds of my head now sitting in my lap and on the floor, and I start to feel confident - in strange, unfamiliar ways - with my new do. So what did my new do and I do? Well, we figured we would "get the party started" with the new style we'll be sporting for my next approximate pregnancy, and I elected to ask this woman out on a date, outside of the salon, what with her being a hair dresser and me with my newly chopped hair and all (cut by the very same person I would be dating, mind you, which equals a cuteness factor of gag-me-with-a-spoon, according to leading market analysts). Yeah, seemed like a good idea at the time, but get this: she said no because she is a lesbian! I know, right?! I believe her exact words were, "No, I'm a lesbian." The humanity. Honestly.
Just kidding. Or am I?
My Little Reading Rainbow
What follows should not make much sense to you. At least I hope it doesn't. But today it dawned on me that I have only recently gotten into reading. On my own time. As a hobby. In just the past year or so, I have finally evolved into one of those semi-intelligent (looking) beings who has a book in his hand most of the time. And I think this is a good thing.
Here is why.
Once a discouraged, pigeonholed youth, I have known far too well the pain of scoring a lowly 18 on the reading section of the ACT exam, and the labels that come with such a poor performance. An 18, guys. For those of you not familiar with this standardized college-admissions test, each of the five parts - English, math, reading, science reasoning and writing - is scored out of 36 points. And for those of you who flunked the math portion - either out of sheer lack of numerical inclination or the fact that you forgot to bring a calculator on exam day - my reading score of 18 is equivalent to 50 percent. See: abysmal. See: beyond repair. See: half-broken. See: chance.
This was my problem: I was always the slowest reader in my grade, missing reading assignments and deadlines left and right. Regardless of the book or subject matter, I was usually stuck somewhere around page 13, re-reading several times over the 12 that came before it. And this took me days. It was frustrating to say the least. I would fall so far behind that I'd have to resort to relying on things like CliffsNotes, the early Web and simply what my friends and random passers-by told me happened in these acclaimed works. Little did they know they held such power, and every bit of my trust. They could have told me anything. They could have told me Holden Caulfield is a transgendered individual struggling in the wake of a botched sex change, coming to grips with his/her maritime responsibilities aboard the USS Mushroom Stamp. And lest I forget "The Catcher In The Rye" is an autobiographical memoir of J.D. Salinger's mixed-up prepubescence at sea. You see, I would have taken all of this at face value, and failed, miserably. By all accounts, I should probably still be in high school, repeating literature courses in dizzying, merry-go-round fashion.
It's not that I couldn't retain anything I read, my mind just tended to wander and think about other things while my eyes followed strings of words, left to right, down the page, only going through the physical motions, no further. I would catch myself doing this and have to re-read what I had just skimmed past, what I had failed to process. This was my problem, and it became rather apparent on the ACT, where would-be scholars are forced to read a series of passages and answer corresponding sets of questions. A tall order for yours truly, back then. This was the opening of the kimono, so to speak.
Perhaps most confounding about my test results (once my immediate family and I let go of our explanatory theories of miscalculation, results mix-up and severe damage to my temporal lobe) was that I did fairly well on the other sections, somehow managing a 32 for English. A 32! I wasn't sure what a 32 signified, but I knew it was a hell of a lot better than an 18. And I remember wanting to shave a couple points off that score and reallocate them to my valiant attempt at reading. My letters to the ACT board went unanswered, so I assumed this was not allowed.
Thank God the ACT averages your scores from all five areas for one composite score, or I may have never been accepted into a university. If there was no composite score, admissions departments would have just laughed at my applications, feeling bad enough to want to help me, but not bad enough to help me with their own education programs. So they would have sent me another program - complimentary copies of "Reading Rainbow" - instead. I would've felt insulted. I also would've watched all the episodes after getting over it. Every one of 'em. Because that was a good show.
Here is why.
Once a discouraged, pigeonholed youth, I have known far too well the pain of scoring a lowly 18 on the reading section of the ACT exam, and the labels that come with such a poor performance. An 18, guys. For those of you not familiar with this standardized college-admissions test, each of the five parts - English, math, reading, science reasoning and writing - is scored out of 36 points. And for those of you who flunked the math portion - either out of sheer lack of numerical inclination or the fact that you forgot to bring a calculator on exam day - my reading score of 18 is equivalent to 50 percent. See: abysmal. See: beyond repair. See: half-broken. See: chance.
This was my problem: I was always the slowest reader in my grade, missing reading assignments and deadlines left and right. Regardless of the book or subject matter, I was usually stuck somewhere around page 13, re-reading several times over the 12 that came before it. And this took me days. It was frustrating to say the least. I would fall so far behind that I'd have to resort to relying on things like CliffsNotes, the early Web and simply what my friends and random passers-by told me happened in these acclaimed works. Little did they know they held such power, and every bit of my trust. They could have told me anything. They could have told me Holden Caulfield is a transgendered individual struggling in the wake of a botched sex change, coming to grips with his/her maritime responsibilities aboard the USS Mushroom Stamp. And lest I forget "The Catcher In The Rye" is an autobiographical memoir of J.D. Salinger's mixed-up prepubescence at sea. You see, I would have taken all of this at face value, and failed, miserably. By all accounts, I should probably still be in high school, repeating literature courses in dizzying, merry-go-round fashion.
It's not that I couldn't retain anything I read, my mind just tended to wander and think about other things while my eyes followed strings of words, left to right, down the page, only going through the physical motions, no further. I would catch myself doing this and have to re-read what I had just skimmed past, what I had failed to process. This was my problem, and it became rather apparent on the ACT, where would-be scholars are forced to read a series of passages and answer corresponding sets of questions. A tall order for yours truly, back then. This was the opening of the kimono, so to speak.
Perhaps most confounding about my test results (once my immediate family and I let go of our explanatory theories of miscalculation, results mix-up and severe damage to my temporal lobe) was that I did fairly well on the other sections, somehow managing a 32 for English. A 32! I wasn't sure what a 32 signified, but I knew it was a hell of a lot better than an 18. And I remember wanting to shave a couple points off that score and reallocate them to my valiant attempt at reading. My letters to the ACT board went unanswered, so I assumed this was not allowed.
Thank God the ACT averages your scores from all five areas for one composite score, or I may have never been accepted into a university. If there was no composite score, admissions departments would have just laughed at my applications, feeling bad enough to want to help me, but not bad enough to help me with their own education programs. So they would have sent me another program - complimentary copies of "Reading Rainbow" - instead. I would've felt insulted. I also would've watched all the episodes after getting over it. Every one of 'em. Because that was a good show.
The Art of Listening
I posted this one over at Harold's Kids.
For those who missed it, yesterday’s Twebinar was all about the importance of listening in building, maintaining and further developing a brand. Which seems obvious, of course, but is certainly much harder to, well, do.
The Twebinar series has been great thus far. Once you get over some of the technical glitches and spotty audio/video, it’s refreshing to hear communications pros discuss the topics-at-hand. This week, the same general tenet was repackaged 70 different ways:
Yes, listening is important, and it’s something all companies, regardless of size, should be doing, what with the myriad new-media tools that are readily available to us (often for free, other times for a nominal fee, such as the one offered by Radian6, the organizer of the Twebinar series [shocker!]). Why? Well, for starters, considering all the avenues consumers have to voice their opinions online, it’s no longer a mystery what your customer thinks, feels, likes and dislikes about your brand, and it behooves you to monitor this dialogue that’s already happening, for it’s a dialogue that will continue to happen with or without you. So participate!
But it doesn’t end at listening. Nay, you should probably do something about all of this feedback, right? Wouldn’t want to look like you don’t care all that much about these folks, would you? So once you’ve monitored and processed the raw commentary that’s out there, take it to the marketing teams, take it to the product teams, take it to all of the decision makers and see what you can do to better provide what people want to buy! At the end of the day, people just want to feel like they’re being heard and valued in some way, shape or form anyway, so isn’t this your big chance? Your big break?! Unfettered access to all of this testimonial — it’s beautiful. After all, won’t that make your brand more successful, if you can provide exactly what your target buyer is looking for? Methinks.
But what do y’all think? I’m all ears…
iPoding, Together*
Hey, cool kids: want to be even cooler? Dweebs, dorks, doofuses: want to be cool? Boy, have I ever got the thing for you. Just the thing for all you cats.
What follows is quite possibly - no, is the best idea I've ever conceived. I'm rather proud of it, too. It's been my brainchild. My baby. My special little personal pet project that I've been piloting all across this country the past few years. Detroit, San Francisco, Chicago. Some town in Indiana. Most of northeastern Ohio. Unbeknownst to your city and its residents, you have all witnessed this incredible movement-in-the-making in one form or another.
Perplexed, law-abiding citizens could have sworn they saw an apparition take to the streets, amid a loud, amateur recitation of... London Calling? Sleepy souls have been shaken awake by obnoxious hollering in the alley - noise that was somewhat reminiscent of but not nearly as good as Born To Run. Some dude brushing his teeth, getting ready for the early shift at the steel mill, yeah he could've sworn he heard an a capella version of Let It Be last night. You know all those people in the restaurant? In the bar? What they saw those kids thrashing around and losing control of their limbs to was Separation Sunday. They weren't having corresponding seizures. The stomping on the roof? The breaking glass? Southern Rock Opera.
To some of you, namely my parents, this will only further solidify my place in this world as a social outcast. Three square meals a day, clean sheets, a roof over his head, a college education... all that for this?
To others, the below will seem like the most brilliant bit of brain juice ever spilled - the worthiest model ever devised, the most forthright social experiment ever carried out - and these people will burn with envy that they weren't the first to think of such a thing. And then they'll try it out for themselves. In public. And they will love it. It will be obvious. You will clearly see them loving it.
This is by no means a complex thing, so I'll spell it out in the simplest terms...
Grab someone who likes to rock out. This could be anyone. A friend. A friend of a friend. An acquaintance. Someone you don't even particularly care all that much for. A stranger, even. The bottom line is that this is the most important component of the plan, so whomever you choose, just be sure that you've seen him/her rock out, heard he/she likes to rock out, or get the vibe that he/she is capable of letting go of all inhibitions for one reason and one reason alone: the sake of rocking out. Got 'em? Great. (Secret: once you have mastered most everything in this post, you will come to view a companion as an enhancement - something that is not entirely necessary to execute and enjoy all of this, but rather a great add-on. Yes, you will come to learn how to do this alone, free of embarrassment, I swear.)
The next necessities are far from immaterial materials. They are requisites, and critical ones at that. Without these, you will just look even more stupid than you're already about to look. So make a list, check it twice. Two (2) iPods. Two (2) sets of headphones. One (1) good - and I mean really, really good - rock album. Any of the aforementioned albums are fine choices. Prime, credible choices, if I may say so myself. Lastly, one (1) public place. It can be anywhere. Just get out there.
You see where I'm headed with this, don't you? I told you it wasn't rocket science. In fact, it's really just a better version of those long car rides or first few dates where you were so bored or incredibly in love that it compelled you to share a musical experience with someone - with a lone music player and a single pair of headphones, one headphone in each of your ears. That poor person. That lucky person! How cheesy. How romantic! What could be worse? What could be greater?! It either meant nothing or everything. The other person either understood just how important the song was to you, or he/she crushed your hopes by not listening to the whole thing or deeming it "nice," or worse - "good." Perhaps that person didn't get the guitar solo coming out of their allotted headphone?
Now for the synchronization, which is just a really big word for the fact that you'll be listening to this crap at the same time. Though I've deemed all above components to be the most important component, this is seriously the most important component. You've got to hit "play" simultaneously. So, at this point, calmly hand both devices to the person with the steadiest hand. This may or may not be the most sane or sober individual, so screen with caution and choose wisely.
To reiterate: do all of this - every last bit of it - not in your own home. Do it out there, in public. The underlying premise here is acting a fool. Play your part. Step it up. Be a rock star. It feels great. Earth seems small, life seems manageable and you seem larger than anything that ever lived. I swear! Or at least that's what it does for me...
To give you an idea, I have done this seated at (nice-ish) restaurants, at bars, walking on sidewalks, running in streets, in alleys, atop roofs, on fire escapes, in deserted dead-ends - usually between the hours of 11:30 p.m. and 5 a.m., for effect, and 10 times out of 10 at max volume. Turn it up to 11, don't be shy. Pretty soon, you and your compadre will, or should, be screaming along with your favorite crooner and playing air instruments like it's nobody's goddamn business. The high hat and snare. The cymbal crash. Ripping those frets on the six-string as if your hand was a spider. Plucking those big, honking bass strings with bent-over tenacity. Throw in the occasional keys from the piano or sax for good measure and, of course, do not forget the flashy, "Diamond" Dave Lee Roth jump kicks and relentless head-banging. Also, run everywhere the night takes you. Don't walk. Be urgent about these things, please. Apply liberally, as necessary, and if done correctly, you should awake the next day with a sore neck from all the antics and whatnot.
You will garner stares. A whole mess of 'em. People will laugh (insecurely). Dogs will turn their heads, cock their ears and whimper. Couples will stop dead in their happy tracks to marvel at your collective, anti-social display of disheveled derelict-ness. At your exquisite exhibition of reckless abandonment, at your disregard for almost all set social norms. At all the excess going on in front of them. You are amazing. You are a novelty. You are practically anything you care to be...
And every last one of them will die a little inside (minus the dogs), wondering if they ever experienced such a feeling in their youth. 99 percent of the time that answer will be "no," and they will smile and look at each other to pacify the ounce of pain that's stirring inside them. Now, why in the name of Bowie didn't I do those things when I was young, agile and able to? For the love of freaking Freddie Mercury, at what point did my life become such a stinking pile of crap? You know, because you certainly can't be acting this way forever. 45-year-old wedded men shouldn't be trying this. They'd just look silly. Not that we don't or anything. I'm just saying. It usually comes to a crashing halt when you have those little things called children.
*Individual results may vary. Please do not consult your physician to determine if iPoding Together is right for you. It is (ridiculous) (for everyone). If carried out properly, with maximum humility, with minimum composure, iPoding Together will help you begin to view life, and the world in general, in vivid, bursting colors. In vast crescendos and arpeggios. In distortion and feedback. In the very stuff dreams are made of, where stuff = double kick drums. Due to the very nature of the iPoding Together ensemble, common side effects include, but are not limited to, heightened senses of: coolness, stardom, actual musicianship, self fanfare and other fleeting feelings, as well as non-fleeting feelings, such as broken shoes.
What follows is quite possibly - no, is the best idea I've ever conceived. I'm rather proud of it, too. It's been my brainchild. My baby. My special little personal pet project that I've been piloting all across this country the past few years. Detroit, San Francisco, Chicago. Some town in Indiana. Most of northeastern Ohio. Unbeknownst to your city and its residents, you have all witnessed this incredible movement-in-the-making in one form or another.
Perplexed, law-abiding citizens could have sworn they saw an apparition take to the streets, amid a loud, amateur recitation of... London Calling? Sleepy souls have been shaken awake by obnoxious hollering in the alley - noise that was somewhat reminiscent of but not nearly as good as Born To Run. Some dude brushing his teeth, getting ready for the early shift at the steel mill, yeah he could've sworn he heard an a capella version of Let It Be last night. You know all those people in the restaurant? In the bar? What they saw those kids thrashing around and losing control of their limbs to was Separation Sunday. They weren't having corresponding seizures. The stomping on the roof? The breaking glass? Southern Rock Opera.
To some of you, namely my parents, this will only further solidify my place in this world as a social outcast. Three square meals a day, clean sheets, a roof over his head, a college education... all that for this?
To others, the below will seem like the most brilliant bit of brain juice ever spilled - the worthiest model ever devised, the most forthright social experiment ever carried out - and these people will burn with envy that they weren't the first to think of such a thing. And then they'll try it out for themselves. In public. And they will love it. It will be obvious. You will clearly see them loving it.
This is by no means a complex thing, so I'll spell it out in the simplest terms...
Grab someone who likes to rock out. This could be anyone. A friend. A friend of a friend. An acquaintance. Someone you don't even particularly care all that much for. A stranger, even. The bottom line is that this is the most important component of the plan, so whomever you choose, just be sure that you've seen him/her rock out, heard he/she likes to rock out, or get the vibe that he/she is capable of letting go of all inhibitions for one reason and one reason alone: the sake of rocking out. Got 'em? Great. (Secret: once you have mastered most everything in this post, you will come to view a companion as an enhancement - something that is not entirely necessary to execute and enjoy all of this, but rather a great add-on. Yes, you will come to learn how to do this alone, free of embarrassment, I swear.)
The next necessities are far from immaterial materials. They are requisites, and critical ones at that. Without these, you will just look even more stupid than you're already about to look. So make a list, check it twice. Two (2) iPods. Two (2) sets of headphones. One (1) good - and I mean really, really good - rock album. Any of the aforementioned albums are fine choices. Prime, credible choices, if I may say so myself. Lastly, one (1) public place. It can be anywhere. Just get out there.
You see where I'm headed with this, don't you? I told you it wasn't rocket science. In fact, it's really just a better version of those long car rides or first few dates where you were so bored or incredibly in love that it compelled you to share a musical experience with someone - with a lone music player and a single pair of headphones, one headphone in each of your ears. That poor person. That lucky person! How cheesy. How romantic! What could be worse? What could be greater?! It either meant nothing or everything. The other person either understood just how important the song was to you, or he/she crushed your hopes by not listening to the whole thing or deeming it "nice," or worse - "good." Perhaps that person didn't get the guitar solo coming out of their allotted headphone?
Now for the synchronization, which is just a really big word for the fact that you'll be listening to this crap at the same time. Though I've deemed all above components to be the most important component, this is seriously the most important component. You've got to hit "play" simultaneously. So, at this point, calmly hand both devices to the person with the steadiest hand. This may or may not be the most sane or sober individual, so screen with caution and choose wisely.
To reiterate: do all of this - every last bit of it - not in your own home. Do it out there, in public. The underlying premise here is acting a fool. Play your part. Step it up. Be a rock star. It feels great. Earth seems small, life seems manageable and you seem larger than anything that ever lived. I swear! Or at least that's what it does for me...
To give you an idea, I have done this seated at (nice-ish) restaurants, at bars, walking on sidewalks, running in streets, in alleys, atop roofs, on fire escapes, in deserted dead-ends - usually between the hours of 11:30 p.m. and 5 a.m., for effect, and 10 times out of 10 at max volume. Turn it up to 11, don't be shy. Pretty soon, you and your compadre will, or should, be screaming along with your favorite crooner and playing air instruments like it's nobody's goddamn business. The high hat and snare. The cymbal crash. Ripping those frets on the six-string as if your hand was a spider. Plucking those big, honking bass strings with bent-over tenacity. Throw in the occasional keys from the piano or sax for good measure and, of course, do not forget the flashy, "Diamond" Dave Lee Roth jump kicks and relentless head-banging. Also, run everywhere the night takes you. Don't walk. Be urgent about these things, please. Apply liberally, as necessary, and if done correctly, you should awake the next day with a sore neck from all the antics and whatnot.
You will garner stares. A whole mess of 'em. People will laugh (insecurely). Dogs will turn their heads, cock their ears and whimper. Couples will stop dead in their happy tracks to marvel at your collective, anti-social display of disheveled derelict-ness. At your exquisite exhibition of reckless abandonment, at your disregard for almost all set social norms. At all the excess going on in front of them. You are amazing. You are a novelty. You are practically anything you care to be...
And every last one of them will die a little inside (minus the dogs), wondering if they ever experienced such a feeling in their youth. 99 percent of the time that answer will be "no," and they will smile and look at each other to pacify the ounce of pain that's stirring inside them. Now, why in the name of Bowie didn't I do those things when I was young, agile and able to? For the love of freaking Freddie Mercury, at what point did my life become such a stinking pile of crap? You know, because you certainly can't be acting this way forever. 45-year-old wedded men shouldn't be trying this. They'd just look silly. Not that we don't or anything. I'm just saying. It usually comes to a crashing halt when you have those little things called children.
*Individual results may vary. Please do not consult your physician to determine if iPoding Together is right for you. It is (ridiculous) (for everyone). If carried out properly, with maximum humility, with minimum composure, iPoding Together will help you begin to view life, and the world in general, in vivid, bursting colors. In vast crescendos and arpeggios. In distortion and feedback. In the very stuff dreams are made of, where stuff = double kick drums. Due to the very nature of the iPoding Together ensemble, common side effects include, but are not limited to, heightened senses of: coolness, stardom, actual musicianship, self fanfare and other fleeting feelings, as well as non-fleeting feelings, such as broken shoes.
The Escalator, or the World's Hardest-to-Repair Thing
As the late comedian Mitch Hedberg once theorized: "An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You should never see an 'Escalator Temporarily Out of Order' sign, just 'Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the Convenience.'..."
This small statement - one that used to make me laugh but now only mocks my every step - has more or less summed up the past four months of my existence. By observing repair persons not repair this cursed, perplexing device, it has become all too evident to me that the escalator is the motorized equivalent of a Rubik's Cube, be it an equivalent that's a whole lot less colorful and amusing. So a lesser equivalent, I guess. Or a non-equivalent. Whatever.
Repairing a conveyor-transport apparatus is apparently the ultimate task slash science experiment for mechanics in 2008. For one thing, it's impressive that there is actually a career track for escalator-repair persons. But what's even more impressive is that these trained persons do not seem to have the slightest clue as to what they're doing when faced with a lifeless escalator. These individuals break down themselves. "Experts" flock to 233 N Michigan Ave. in herds when ours is out of service, which, unfortunately, is rather often. I finally stopped counting the number of times the stupid thing has crapped out, as I usually count with my fingers and lost track when I ran out of fingers and hands to count on in just the third month. I tried carrying the count over to my toes and feet, but I can't see them while wearing shoes, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of physically tallying something and turns it all back into a mental game, which, again, I'm no good at. So that was that.
Anyway, yesterday I was greeted by eight professionals examining the miniature escalator in the lobby that carries us diligent workers no higher than 15 vertical feet. That's like the shortest escalator ever, people. It's also one of those narrow ones, with the tiny steps that can accommodate only one depressed, corporate-American soul. So if there were eight workers for roughly 15 vertical feet of moving stairs, at about two steps per vertical foot, that means there were enough of these brainiacs to focus on just three-and-some-change steps, each. Each! A cake walk. But for the lowly lives of these dolts, they can never figure the bloody thing out. Too much responsibility, perhaps. Instead, they stare at it like it's something they've not seen before, but have only heard second-hand accounts or seen amateur sketches of, like a mass murderer on the loose, or a cold, dead body - but unlike a cold, dead body in that these burly men look like they've certainly seen their fair share of cold, dead bodies in former, less-noble lines of work, such as mass murdering.
So wherein lies the problem? Shouldn't the one and only test for escalator-repair persons be just that: repairing a frigging escalator? "No," you say, Mr. Escalator Repair Person?! Let me see your syllabus and hall pass, I don't believe it.
This small statement - one that used to make me laugh but now only mocks my every step - has more or less summed up the past four months of my existence. By observing repair persons not repair this cursed, perplexing device, it has become all too evident to me that the escalator is the motorized equivalent of a Rubik's Cube, be it an equivalent that's a whole lot less colorful and amusing. So a lesser equivalent, I guess. Or a non-equivalent. Whatever.
Repairing a conveyor-transport apparatus is apparently the ultimate task slash science experiment for mechanics in 2008. For one thing, it's impressive that there is actually a career track for escalator-repair persons. But what's even more impressive is that these trained persons do not seem to have the slightest clue as to what they're doing when faced with a lifeless escalator. These individuals break down themselves. "Experts" flock to 233 N Michigan Ave. in herds when ours is out of service, which, unfortunately, is rather often. I finally stopped counting the number of times the stupid thing has crapped out, as I usually count with my fingers and lost track when I ran out of fingers and hands to count on in just the third month. I tried carrying the count over to my toes and feet, but I can't see them while wearing shoes, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of physically tallying something and turns it all back into a mental game, which, again, I'm no good at. So that was that.
Anyway, yesterday I was greeted by eight professionals examining the miniature escalator in the lobby that carries us diligent workers no higher than 15 vertical feet. That's like the shortest escalator ever, people. It's also one of those narrow ones, with the tiny steps that can accommodate only one depressed, corporate-American soul. So if there were eight workers for roughly 15 vertical feet of moving stairs, at about two steps per vertical foot, that means there were enough of these brainiacs to focus on just three-and-some-change steps, each. Each! A cake walk. But for the lowly lives of these dolts, they can never figure the bloody thing out. Too much responsibility, perhaps. Instead, they stare at it like it's something they've not seen before, but have only heard second-hand accounts or seen amateur sketches of, like a mass murderer on the loose, or a cold, dead body - but unlike a cold, dead body in that these burly men look like they've certainly seen their fair share of cold, dead bodies in former, less-noble lines of work, such as mass murdering.
So wherein lies the problem? Shouldn't the one and only test for escalator-repair persons be just that: repairing a frigging escalator? "No," you say, Mr. Escalator Repair Person?! Let me see your syllabus and hall pass, I don't believe it.
We Drove Each Other Nuts
In our formative years, our family came dangerously close to perfecting the art of hostility, becoming exceptionally proficient at the trade as we spent more and more time together cooped up in cars. Minivans, to be exact. We went through minivans like they were dental floss, or chewing gum, practically mutilating beyond all recognition a fleet of six of the stupid things before my brother and I were even out of high school. We tended to lose our composure in the wood-paneled walls of those Pretty Hate Machines, regularly testing both the outermost limits of our psyches and the human brain's capacity for loathing planet earth and its inhabitants in their entirety. It was our special little regimen, and our hijinks were often more reliable than the moving mechanical parts of the minivans themselves.
The (semi-) funny thing was that trip duration did not seem to affect our lack of cohesiveness in any noticeable way, which should definitely be considered abnormal. We were usually in shambles, and could set each other off just about anywhere - on a seemingly harmless jaunt to the gas station for a gallon of 2 percent milk, or on a non-stop trek from Michigan to Florida that was treated like an Olympic race yet called a "vacation." The odds were the same. The odds were pretty damn good.
Dad instigated a lot of it, he who never let anyone else drive anywhere. In his world, a man's place was on the road, behind the wheel, and a woman's place was, while not necessarily in front of a stove or a sink, it just... wasn't on the road. It was somewhere else. And he would drive them there, the women. On paper, it actually didn't seem like a half-bad idea when he first drew it up for my brother and me late one night at the dimly lit kitchen table. Bringing the chauvinistic plan that sat scrawled in lead in flow-chart form on a yellow legal pad to fruition, however, proved to be a bit more difficult and, obviously, downright shitty for mom.
The (semi-) funny thing was that trip duration did not seem to affect our lack of cohesiveness in any noticeable way, which should definitely be considered abnormal. We were usually in shambles, and could set each other off just about anywhere - on a seemingly harmless jaunt to the gas station for a gallon of 2 percent milk, or on a non-stop trek from Michigan to Florida that was treated like an Olympic race yet called a "vacation." The odds were the same. The odds were pretty damn good.
Dad instigated a lot of it, he who never let anyone else drive anywhere. In his world, a man's place was on the road, behind the wheel, and a woman's place was, while not necessarily in front of a stove or a sink, it just... wasn't on the road. It was somewhere else. And he would drive them there, the women. On paper, it actually didn't seem like a half-bad idea when he first drew it up for my brother and me late one night at the dimly lit kitchen table. Bringing the chauvinistic plan that sat scrawled in lead in flow-chart form on a yellow legal pad to fruition, however, proved to be a bit more difficult and, obviously, downright shitty for mom.
The only reasons mom still traveled with us were, one, because she needed to go places, and, two, for the off chance that dad would perform his series of habitual, verbal critiques of female drivers who obeyed posted speed limits; of female drivers who used their turn signals at any time other than the "best" time, or who neglected to use turn signals altogether; of female drivers who veered into other lanes while talking on cell phones or putting on makeup; of female drivers who cut us off or made the slightest movement that could be construed as a deliberate assault on our family; of female drivers who did not lend us a "courtesy wave"; of female drivers who drove ugly or unkempt vehicles... only to pass the car or approach a stoplight and discover that the driver was in fact a man. To say mom relished these moments would be a gross understatement. "A disgrace to our kind, boys," dad would say, shaking his head and clenching his jaw as he locked eyes with my brother and I through the rear-view mirror. The King's humiliation was not lost on us - we could sense our ilk decreasing in value in real-time. Mom would look out the passenger window, completely smitten with the revelation that dad was, for the umpteenth time, wrong. These were tiny moments of victory, or defeat, depending on the parental party.
But dad wasn't the only one to blame. Nay, we each contributed in some way to our own un-put-together-ness. The situation would then be escalated by mom in one of two forms: a retort based on the premise that dad should try listening to her on the road because she usually, despite popular family mind-share, actually knows what the hell she's talking about, or the exact statement, "You're setting a horrible example for the boys!" One of the two, and the inside of the minivan would grow so torrid that the air escaping between the windows would whistle loud enough to drown out the incessant screams and white noises that polluted our heads. There, in our very own corner of hell, aboard a piping locomotive, is where we learned each other's buttons far too well, and we did our best to push them at a frequency that would have made any of our ADD-riddled friends look like a poster child for the Kids Pausing Patiently For Patience Foundation (KPPFPF).
If dad didn't volley the hot potato mom fired into his court, my brother and I would reach out our hands. I guess you could compare our behavior to that of malevolent little catalysts, or good-for-nothing provokers. If foul language was used, we repeated it loudly and proudly to support mom's point that we were creatures learning by example, wanting nothing more than unfettered access to the dirty dossiers of known naughty words. If the driver-in-question turned out to be a woman, we found much pleasure joining in on the name-calling and applauding various theories that reached far beyond our mental grasp - ones that heralded men as superb road warriors and ostracized women, the other half of our species known as "dingbats."
This was a seminal time for our kindred unit.
If neither of these techniques garnered a satisfying response or escalated the seriousness of the argument at hand, my brother and I resorted to punching each other in the arm. Whatever it took to keep the momentum going, to introduce behavior that could be labeled as deviant, the blame of which falling upon that of our caregivers. We sought cheap entertainment, and our two favorite actors just happened to be seated directly in front of us at all times, rehearsing heated scenes in a moving contraption with their backs to their two biggest fans. What could be greater? Methinks nothing. So break a leg! We're taking this show on the road!
If dad didn't volley the hot potato mom fired into his court, my brother and I would reach out our hands. I guess you could compare our behavior to that of malevolent little catalysts, or good-for-nothing provokers. If foul language was used, we repeated it loudly and proudly to support mom's point that we were creatures learning by example, wanting nothing more than unfettered access to the dirty dossiers of known naughty words. If the driver-in-question turned out to be a woman, we found much pleasure joining in on the name-calling and applauding various theories that reached far beyond our mental grasp - ones that heralded men as superb road warriors and ostracized women, the other half of our species known as "dingbats."
This was a seminal time for our kindred unit.
If neither of these techniques garnered a satisfying response or escalated the seriousness of the argument at hand, my brother and I resorted to punching each other in the arm. Whatever it took to keep the momentum going, to introduce behavior that could be labeled as deviant, the blame of which falling upon that of our caregivers. We sought cheap entertainment, and our two favorite actors just happened to be seated directly in front of us at all times, rehearsing heated scenes in a moving contraption with their backs to their two biggest fans. What could be greater? Methinks nothing. So break a leg! We're taking this show on the road!
Summer Time and the Senior Living's Easy
There's never a dull moment at Sunrise Senior Living. After you've either gotten over or come to terms with the fact that your loved one has entered this elder center as the eminent "final stop" in life, whether on or against his/her own accord, there are bountiful opportunities for the rest of us free people who visit the facility regularly to hunker down and laugh death square in the face. Once you've gotten all the weeping and pouring over family photos and nostalgia and reminiscing and boo-hoo-hooing out of your system, you really begin to appreciate how fleeting, and downright hilarious, life and its final moments can be. To be frank, if any of these people had the capacity to string together a coherent sentence, their advice to you and me would go a little something like this:
"My children, please, come close. Closer. Closer still. Ah, yes. There you are, your pretty faces. Children, it is in my final moment that I beg of you: do not take life too seriously, for you never know which day will be your last. Too many are the things we take for granted, such as the very clothes on our backs and modern orthodontics. Speaking of which, would you be a dear and fetch my dentures and personal effects from my cell? I want you to break me the hell out of here, right now. I would rather die by the side of the road than rot in this prison."
The fact is that anyone who has ever frequented a nursing home of this caliber, let's say more than once a month, has witnessed and made mental note of enough absurd material to take a crack at penning a decent anthology about people who forget their own names, are spoon fed and sleep away the better part of an afternoon drooling on themselves. People who use a variety of wheeled contraptions to traverse carpeted hallways, and who poop their pants and hide the soiled trousers where they please. People who might smile one moment, and haul off and kick a resident or pet the next, for reasons that have long since escaped them.
Before she died, our grandma had a good stint at Sunrise, sleeping somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 hours a day in her "golden years." In addition to the unopened Christmas gifts and get-well cards and dusty picture frames and baggy, old clothes that no longer fit her scaled-down, 85-pound frame, she left behind grandpa, her husband, who still bides his time, albeit unknowingly, in the lower ward of Sunrise where they quarantine residents who have mentally checked out of life altogether. It's easier that way. For them. For the staff. For all of us. To sort of corral them into one area like that so they don't wander the halls and alarm virgin visitors who are not privy to the sedated, senile underbelly of Sunrise.
Out of sight, out of mind.
When grandpa was lucid, typically in the small window between a pill wearing off and before another had been administered in one of those small paper condiment cups, he became increasingly occupied with knowing the whereabouts of his "bride." We realized we had come to a crossroads. Should we tell the man the truth, which would surely devastate him? Or should we fabricate, "with good intentions," a soft story and quickly change the subject as we wait for the next pill to kick in? We pondered this for a while before realizing that no matter what we told him, no matter how accurate or far-fetched the tale, he would not be able to remember any of it.
For all he knew, grandma was on holiday in the Alps, taking to the black-diamond slopes in the morning and, later in the afternoon, carving up the moguls and half pipes. She was giving a series of award-winning seminars to prestigious universities across the country on the implications of global warming, and how we can all do our part to better the environment by reducing our carbon footprint. She was on tour with Coldplay. She was here just a second ago, and now must be in the adjacent room, or the garden, tending to that ol' rose bush that was in desperate need of pruning...
She was running for president.
Each of these seemed viable. More viable, in fact, than the harsh truth that grandma had passed away. So we ended up alternating our approaches, as if we were holding a recurring, redundant press conference where a lone, forgetful reporter asks the same question over and over and over again, with us family members huddled behind the microphone, covering it with our hands as we consult each other before giving a smattering of responses, sometimes building and playing off the assorted stories and plots and individual bursts of creativity we enacted.
As awful as this all might seem, it's a real quandary, and can only be fully understood when you've been in the situation yourself. And grandpa's case is just one man's example of the greater struggles being featured daily at Sunrise.
Take, for instance, the man confined to a dilapidated bed on wheels, who always screams for Henry. Nobody even knows who Henry is. There is no Henry. When he is not parked in the corner of the room by himself, screaming for Henry, he is stationed by the fireplace with his visiting family members, screaming out for Henry some more. Interrupted, his family jumps back at first because of the sheer loudness of his random outbursts, giving way to a slow shaking of their heads, as they've been duped like this millions of times before, yet, somehow, after all these years, still do not have a single clue or lead as to who the hell Henry is. Given the urgency of his cries ("HENRY!") and the mumblings surrounding them, it's become obvious to me that this is some sort of military flashback. The only other words I've heard him mutter are the seldom "DUCK!" and "INCOMING!" Granted, he has also been known to rip a huge fart and laugh hysterically after these signals.
Or how about the stalker woman who cameos as a kleptomaniac? She's rather speedy for a gal her age, as none of us can ever seem to shake her. She's also ubiquitous, and has that entire lower ward down like the back of her veiny, little, thieving hand. She particularly enjoys spending time with our family, too, which is another harrowing concept I've yet to elaborate on: the simple fact that these lonely people crave attention and interaction with young, warm blood so much that they'll satisfy their urges with just about anyone, regardless of who that person may or may not be. So we see a quite a bit of her, usually when she's rifling through mom's purse directly in front of her. And this also awkward. How do you politely tell this woman not to steal from you? She's smiling the entire time she's doing it, by the way. Ear to ear. What does a person do here? Slap her wrist? No. Grab her arm and push it back toward her torso? Probably not. Quickly retract your purse? Sure. But then she looks so damn disappointed. You almost have to let this woman steal from you, and then track down the lifted items at a later time. They're not going very far anyway, and there certainly isn't a black market in the lower ward where hot objects can be pawned for dime bags. Colostomy bags, maybe.
But the piano savant is quite possibly our family's favorite. A real diamond in the rough. For knowing not what she does, she does it pretty well. We discovered this person, or rather she discovered us, last Christmas when she found us on the couches helping grandma and grandpa unwrap their gifts. The savant helped, too, which was weird, waxing on in Mad Lib form where blanks are populated with randomly selected words from the dictionary and sentences turn into one big chunk of undecipherable code. Once she was through with us, she took to the piano bench. Before we had a chance to brace ourselves for the careless clunking of keys, she launched into a chilling holiday ballad that took us all by surprise. By the time she reached the chorus, we sat with our jaws dropped, in agreement that this woman was on fire. All of this coming from someone who blinked a lot, whose hands trembled and shook with a force that would make for an excellent drummer rather than a pianist. But somehow, someway, this woman was a sage on the baby grand. Her fingers fluttered past black and white keys, her feet in Darco medical shoes steadily working the pedals. Surely the biggest surprise of 2007.
That same day, we were warmly introduced to the overly affectionate woman, who gave my dad gifts in the rare forms of hugs, kisses, shoulder massages, physical gestures and sweet-nothings whispered directly into his ear. Such unique presents. Aw, poor dad. We could tell it tickled, mostly because she is a heavy breather, and having someone breathe a hot, heavy breath into your ear is, um, tickly-ish. And straight-up creepy. From what we gathered, he somewhat resembled her deceased husband in his prime, which made bidding her adieu practically impossible. She wasn't going anywhere, and we didn't want that kind of guilt hanging over our heads on baby Jesus' birthday. So she just kind of hung out and we had ourselves a little senior mixer of sorts, trying our best to mitigate her passionate advances on my father.
Somewhere amid all the calamity, you will find at Sunrise the youngest life-form by 80 some-odd years: a lone feline named Smokey. Smokey is an overfed, overstuffed cat - gray, chunky, mean and lazy. I'm not kidding when I say she could very well be the infamous I Can Has Cheeseburger cat. Or a miniature bear with cat-ear transplants. Smokey bulked up to her plump size not by hitting the weights or raiding the medication room late at night for steroids, but by eating all the food that these poor people are unable to get into their mouths that ends up on the floor at three different points during the day. You'd think there were regular food fights considering some of the unruly residents, and vivid scenes of seniors up-ending tables and hiding behind trays and wheelchairs as they chuck handfuls of mashed potatoes and sandwiches fill every guest's head. Sadly, it's not that exciting. It's simply a case of coordination, or the lack thereof. It's also a dirty job, and some organism's got to do it. Sunrise doesn't even need a vacuum cleaner this way. They have the Smokey 5,000, and Smokey 5,000 has Sunrise. Meow.
"My children, please, come close. Closer. Closer still. Ah, yes. There you are, your pretty faces. Children, it is in my final moment that I beg of you: do not take life too seriously, for you never know which day will be your last. Too many are the things we take for granted, such as the very clothes on our backs and modern orthodontics. Speaking of which, would you be a dear and fetch my dentures and personal effects from my cell? I want you to break me the hell out of here, right now. I would rather die by the side of the road than rot in this prison."
The fact is that anyone who has ever frequented a nursing home of this caliber, let's say more than once a month, has witnessed and made mental note of enough absurd material to take a crack at penning a decent anthology about people who forget their own names, are spoon fed and sleep away the better part of an afternoon drooling on themselves. People who use a variety of wheeled contraptions to traverse carpeted hallways, and who poop their pants and hide the soiled trousers where they please. People who might smile one moment, and haul off and kick a resident or pet the next, for reasons that have long since escaped them.
Before she died, our grandma had a good stint at Sunrise, sleeping somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 hours a day in her "golden years." In addition to the unopened Christmas gifts and get-well cards and dusty picture frames and baggy, old clothes that no longer fit her scaled-down, 85-pound frame, she left behind grandpa, her husband, who still bides his time, albeit unknowingly, in the lower ward of Sunrise where they quarantine residents who have mentally checked out of life altogether. It's easier that way. For them. For the staff. For all of us. To sort of corral them into one area like that so they don't wander the halls and alarm virgin visitors who are not privy to the sedated, senile underbelly of Sunrise.
Out of sight, out of mind.
When grandpa was lucid, typically in the small window between a pill wearing off and before another had been administered in one of those small paper condiment cups, he became increasingly occupied with knowing the whereabouts of his "bride." We realized we had come to a crossroads. Should we tell the man the truth, which would surely devastate him? Or should we fabricate, "with good intentions," a soft story and quickly change the subject as we wait for the next pill to kick in? We pondered this for a while before realizing that no matter what we told him, no matter how accurate or far-fetched the tale, he would not be able to remember any of it.
For all he knew, grandma was on holiday in the Alps, taking to the black-diamond slopes in the morning and, later in the afternoon, carving up the moguls and half pipes. She was giving a series of award-winning seminars to prestigious universities across the country on the implications of global warming, and how we can all do our part to better the environment by reducing our carbon footprint. She was on tour with Coldplay. She was here just a second ago, and now must be in the adjacent room, or the garden, tending to that ol' rose bush that was in desperate need of pruning...
She was running for president.
Each of these seemed viable. More viable, in fact, than the harsh truth that grandma had passed away. So we ended up alternating our approaches, as if we were holding a recurring, redundant press conference where a lone, forgetful reporter asks the same question over and over and over again, with us family members huddled behind the microphone, covering it with our hands as we consult each other before giving a smattering of responses, sometimes building and playing off the assorted stories and plots and individual bursts of creativity we enacted.
As awful as this all might seem, it's a real quandary, and can only be fully understood when you've been in the situation yourself. And grandpa's case is just one man's example of the greater struggles being featured daily at Sunrise.
Take, for instance, the man confined to a dilapidated bed on wheels, who always screams for Henry. Nobody even knows who Henry is. There is no Henry. When he is not parked in the corner of the room by himself, screaming for Henry, he is stationed by the fireplace with his visiting family members, screaming out for Henry some more. Interrupted, his family jumps back at first because of the sheer loudness of his random outbursts, giving way to a slow shaking of their heads, as they've been duped like this millions of times before, yet, somehow, after all these years, still do not have a single clue or lead as to who the hell Henry is. Given the urgency of his cries ("HENRY!") and the mumblings surrounding them, it's become obvious to me that this is some sort of military flashback. The only other words I've heard him mutter are the seldom "DUCK!" and "INCOMING!" Granted, he has also been known to rip a huge fart and laugh hysterically after these signals.
Or how about the stalker woman who cameos as a kleptomaniac? She's rather speedy for a gal her age, as none of us can ever seem to shake her. She's also ubiquitous, and has that entire lower ward down like the back of her veiny, little, thieving hand. She particularly enjoys spending time with our family, too, which is another harrowing concept I've yet to elaborate on: the simple fact that these lonely people crave attention and interaction with young, warm blood so much that they'll satisfy their urges with just about anyone, regardless of who that person may or may not be. So we see a quite a bit of her, usually when she's rifling through mom's purse directly in front of her. And this also awkward. How do you politely tell this woman not to steal from you? She's smiling the entire time she's doing it, by the way. Ear to ear. What does a person do here? Slap her wrist? No. Grab her arm and push it back toward her torso? Probably not. Quickly retract your purse? Sure. But then she looks so damn disappointed. You almost have to let this woman steal from you, and then track down the lifted items at a later time. They're not going very far anyway, and there certainly isn't a black market in the lower ward where hot objects can be pawned for dime bags. Colostomy bags, maybe.
But the piano savant is quite possibly our family's favorite. A real diamond in the rough. For knowing not what she does, she does it pretty well. We discovered this person, or rather she discovered us, last Christmas when she found us on the couches helping grandma and grandpa unwrap their gifts. The savant helped, too, which was weird, waxing on in Mad Lib form where blanks are populated with randomly selected words from the dictionary and sentences turn into one big chunk of undecipherable code. Once she was through with us, she took to the piano bench. Before we had a chance to brace ourselves for the careless clunking of keys, she launched into a chilling holiday ballad that took us all by surprise. By the time she reached the chorus, we sat with our jaws dropped, in agreement that this woman was on fire. All of this coming from someone who blinked a lot, whose hands trembled and shook with a force that would make for an excellent drummer rather than a pianist. But somehow, someway, this woman was a sage on the baby grand. Her fingers fluttered past black and white keys, her feet in Darco medical shoes steadily working the pedals. Surely the biggest surprise of 2007.
That same day, we were warmly introduced to the overly affectionate woman, who gave my dad gifts in the rare forms of hugs, kisses, shoulder massages, physical gestures and sweet-nothings whispered directly into his ear. Such unique presents. Aw, poor dad. We could tell it tickled, mostly because she is a heavy breather, and having someone breathe a hot, heavy breath into your ear is, um, tickly-ish. And straight-up creepy. From what we gathered, he somewhat resembled her deceased husband in his prime, which made bidding her adieu practically impossible. She wasn't going anywhere, and we didn't want that kind of guilt hanging over our heads on baby Jesus' birthday. So she just kind of hung out and we had ourselves a little senior mixer of sorts, trying our best to mitigate her passionate advances on my father.
Somewhere amid all the calamity, you will find at Sunrise the youngest life-form by 80 some-odd years: a lone feline named Smokey. Smokey is an overfed, overstuffed cat - gray, chunky, mean and lazy. I'm not kidding when I say she could very well be the infamous I Can Has Cheeseburger cat. Or a miniature bear with cat-ear transplants. Smokey bulked up to her plump size not by hitting the weights or raiding the medication room late at night for steroids, but by eating all the food that these poor people are unable to get into their mouths that ends up on the floor at three different points during the day. You'd think there were regular food fights considering some of the unruly residents, and vivid scenes of seniors up-ending tables and hiding behind trays and wheelchairs as they chuck handfuls of mashed potatoes and sandwiches fill every guest's head. Sadly, it's not that exciting. It's simply a case of coordination, or the lack thereof. It's also a dirty job, and some organism's got to do it. Sunrise doesn't even need a vacuum cleaner this way. They have the Smokey 5,000, and Smokey 5,000 has Sunrise. Meow.
That Big Harry Potter Scar, and How it Got on My Forehead in the First Place
If my hair is short enough (or parted by the wind in some unfavorable way); or if my face is red enough (which it usually is, regardless of season or embarrassment level); or if the lighting is right; or if you get close enough to the maritime vessel that is my gigantic, empty head; you will notice a big, vertical scar running down the middle of my forehead - an authentic marking with unauthentic intentions, as it all too closely imitates the one Harry Potter sports and treats like some accessory or piece of personal branding or business card. Trust me, it's not that glamorous. But how did it get there in the first place? My scar, dummy, not the boy wizard's. I have no idea or interest in knowing how his got there, though I'm sure many of you do, including the riveting ins and outs of which spell or sorcerer he contended with to come out so scathed. No, this is a selfish post, dammit, and I intend to stick to the agenda here: explaining the unsightly brain-scar that is giving me an eternal hug between the eyes. Geeze.
Fifth grade. Winter time. Recess.
Gearing up in the coat room, us boys struggled by our cubbies with our snow suits for the second time that day, the difference being that this time our mothers were not present to help us hoist and shimmy and pour our pudgy little figures into the insulated torture device. Or maybe that was just me. My grapefruit-sized calves never seemed to fit into my snow boots properly, and by the end of March they always ended up looking like salt-stained wind socks or tarps.
We were already choosing teams for football before we even reached the field. One of my closest friends, Tom, also one of the smartest people I knew at the time, selected me. I always thought Tom was particularly bright - a prodigy even - not because he could multiply double-digit numbers, do long division, give exact change when working the school cafeteria (contrasted with the many times I erred in assuming there were 60 cents in a dollar and gave change thusly, for in my head there were 60 minutes in an hour, which, after all, were the two elements the world valued most - time and money - so they must operate on the same metric system for good measure), pass physical fitness tests with flying colors, return library books on time, or talk to girls without stuttering or tripping over his own two feet and hating every inch of himself for it... but because he always seemed to pick me first or second for football games, and this ranked him pretty high in my book. Tom saw through my doughy, girthy exterior to note my true athletic prowess on the miniature field.
Truth be told, it was because of Tom that my social and athletic standings (often directly correlated, often the exact same thing) went up at an alarming, exponential rate. Dave was picked first?! That means something right there. I don't know what it means, exactly. But there's something there. But it is also because of Tom that I now walk the streets at 25 looking like I'm in between classes at Hogwarts (I don't read the books, really, this is just what people tell me).
At the peak of the game we were up big. So big, in fact, that we tried showboating a bit to impress the couple of girls who had strayed from the larger pack of girls who were busy doing girly things during recess, like being cold or not playing in the snow, much too occupied to watch us champions in snow suits on the grid iron.
Tom called a huddle. We were going long. I was going long. A Hail Mary. The sweet, saccharine stuff dreams are made of in fifth grade (though now I know some guys grow up and never relinquish this fantasy). I had barely heard him yell "hike" before I was running haphazardly down the snow-covered field, flailing my arms as if I had no control over them. Then the pig skin was in the air, and I was sprinting straight ahead, past my ADD-riddled opponent, toward the end zone, with my head turned back over my shoulder to look for the ball.
I caught it. I freaking caught it! Mom would've been proud. But in the short seconds between making that catch and turning forward in my stride, I ran face-first into the goal post. My forehead met the corner of the wooden beam, and I stuck there for a moment with it wedged in me. It cracked me open the way a fresh cantaloupe would look if someone took an ax to it. I fell backward, onto the snow, blacked out and came to only to find faces looking down on me as it started to rain. For as far gone as I was, I could tell something wasn't quite right about the rain: it was thick and clouded my eyes and tasted weird and the only place it seemed to be raining was on my face. Then I rolled over to feel what felt like a garden hose protruding from my forehead, squirting my livelihood all over the snow like some cruel holiday arts-and-crafts session gone horribly wrong, where you're only provided cotton balls and red glue and told to "make something beautiful for your mother." Next came a lot of high-pitched screaming. I guess the girls had decided to brave the snow after all.
When I managed to bring myself to my knees, the crowd's reaction can only be compared to that of people witnessing mauled bodies come to life again as they take to the streets as zombies of the living dead. None of them were willing to help me, and they all stared and shrieked as if I were about to hunt them down and snack on them and turn them into zombies, too. To this day, I have not seen a pack of people disperse quite like that. Pandemic pandemonium. Though I wasn't a zombie (yet), I sure sauntered and staggered around the playground like one. My only goal was to find one of the lunch ladies who supervised recess. Upon finding two of them, they gasped and shouted even louder than the little girls had. Ha-... Halp?! My head. It's. My head is. Ahh! Somehow they got the picture.
What happened next was, and still is, confusing and irritating. I started to lose control of my legs, I'm guessing because I had lost the liter equivalent of a couple 7-11 Big Gulps of blood, or maybe because zombies need to rest a lot because they have such stiff legs and never seem to bend their knees. You know, people can faint that way. Anyhow, with my limp body semi walking, semi being dragged by their arms, I started to give way and turn gray (even more zombie-like!). This was simply unacceptable to one of the women, who insisted I "stand up straight and stop getting blood all over the clean halls." Oh, right, 'cause I can do that. Thanks a lot, lady. Die in a fire.
I had never heard our principal swear before, but I got to that day. With the three of us barreling into the front office and me fading in and out of consciousness, I stuck around long enough to hear her say, "Oh, holy SHIT! What in the... Just what in the hell is going on here?!" It must have been a sight. Then the ambulances came and they strapped me to a wooden board, which I thought was used for unruly patients, which confused me because I surely wouldn't be putting up much of a fight, but I soon found out it served the purpose of keeping my body on the board and off of the parking lot floor. They shined bright lights in my eyes and asked me questions like, "Who is the president of the United States?" and "What is our state's capitol?" and "What is 10 times 10?" and posed challenges like, "Recite every other letter of the alphabet" and "Count by odd numbers," which annoyed me because I never got any of those things right on tests anyway. I needed Tom. But I gave it my best shot, with whatever part of my brain that was still in tact and not stuck like gum to the wooden goal post. Apparently these were ridiculously easy questions, and served as some sort of barometer to escalate the severity of patients' cases if they got X number of questions wrong. I think I passed, or failed, depending on the way you look at it, with flying colors. I went to the front of the line and got right into the emergency room.
The next thing I remember, I was being told that the 45 stitches in my face would come out in due time, and that the crimson, lightning-bolt scar of raw flesh would mend and turn out to "not look that bad." Well there's a vague diagnosis. My mom was pretty strict back then, so you know what she did? After scolding me in the car for playing in the snow so carelessly, we passed the very road we lived on. Where could we possibly be going? I needed to go home. I needed to rest and curl up in blankets and eat Popsicles and chicken noodle soup like all the other kids who smashed their faces in. I needed to learn our state's capitol and what odd numbers meant other than the fact that certain ones were funny or confusing to me. Maybe we were going out for ice cream and Novocaine? Yes, of course! Why didn't I think of this earlier?! We were going for ice cream and Novocaine. To my dismay, we pulled back into the crime scene. Beneath the flag pole, my mom dropped me off at school where I had busted myself open no more than four hours earlier. "Now. You go in and get the homework you missed," she said.
My dad was a little more lax. After being assured that his first son was not dead, the next words out of his mouth were: "Well, did he catch the ball at least?"
Fifth grade. Winter time. Recess.
Gearing up in the coat room, us boys struggled by our cubbies with our snow suits for the second time that day, the difference being that this time our mothers were not present to help us hoist and shimmy and pour our pudgy little figures into the insulated torture device. Or maybe that was just me. My grapefruit-sized calves never seemed to fit into my snow boots properly, and by the end of March they always ended up looking like salt-stained wind socks or tarps.
We were already choosing teams for football before we even reached the field. One of my closest friends, Tom, also one of the smartest people I knew at the time, selected me. I always thought Tom was particularly bright - a prodigy even - not because he could multiply double-digit numbers, do long division, give exact change when working the school cafeteria (contrasted with the many times I erred in assuming there were 60 cents in a dollar and gave change thusly, for in my head there were 60 minutes in an hour, which, after all, were the two elements the world valued most - time and money - so they must operate on the same metric system for good measure), pass physical fitness tests with flying colors, return library books on time, or talk to girls without stuttering or tripping over his own two feet and hating every inch of himself for it... but because he always seemed to pick me first or second for football games, and this ranked him pretty high in my book. Tom saw through my doughy, girthy exterior to note my true athletic prowess on the miniature field.
Truth be told, it was because of Tom that my social and athletic standings (often directly correlated, often the exact same thing) went up at an alarming, exponential rate. Dave was picked first?! That means something right there. I don't know what it means, exactly. But there's something there. But it is also because of Tom that I now walk the streets at 25 looking like I'm in between classes at Hogwarts (I don't read the books, really, this is just what people tell me).
At the peak of the game we were up big. So big, in fact, that we tried showboating a bit to impress the couple of girls who had strayed from the larger pack of girls who were busy doing girly things during recess, like being cold or not playing in the snow, much too occupied to watch us champions in snow suits on the grid iron.
Tom called a huddle. We were going long. I was going long. A Hail Mary. The sweet, saccharine stuff dreams are made of in fifth grade (though now I know some guys grow up and never relinquish this fantasy). I had barely heard him yell "hike" before I was running haphazardly down the snow-covered field, flailing my arms as if I had no control over them. Then the pig skin was in the air, and I was sprinting straight ahead, past my ADD-riddled opponent, toward the end zone, with my head turned back over my shoulder to look for the ball.
I caught it. I freaking caught it! Mom would've been proud. But in the short seconds between making that catch and turning forward in my stride, I ran face-first into the goal post. My forehead met the corner of the wooden beam, and I stuck there for a moment with it wedged in me. It cracked me open the way a fresh cantaloupe would look if someone took an ax to it. I fell backward, onto the snow, blacked out and came to only to find faces looking down on me as it started to rain. For as far gone as I was, I could tell something wasn't quite right about the rain: it was thick and clouded my eyes and tasted weird and the only place it seemed to be raining was on my face. Then I rolled over to feel what felt like a garden hose protruding from my forehead, squirting my livelihood all over the snow like some cruel holiday arts-and-crafts session gone horribly wrong, where you're only provided cotton balls and red glue and told to "make something beautiful for your mother." Next came a lot of high-pitched screaming. I guess the girls had decided to brave the snow after all.
When I managed to bring myself to my knees, the crowd's reaction can only be compared to that of people witnessing mauled bodies come to life again as they take to the streets as zombies of the living dead. None of them were willing to help me, and they all stared and shrieked as if I were about to hunt them down and snack on them and turn them into zombies, too. To this day, I have not seen a pack of people disperse quite like that. Pandemic pandemonium. Though I wasn't a zombie (yet), I sure sauntered and staggered around the playground like one. My only goal was to find one of the lunch ladies who supervised recess. Upon finding two of them, they gasped and shouted even louder than the little girls had. Ha-... Halp?! My head. It's. My head is. Ahh! Somehow they got the picture.
What happened next was, and still is, confusing and irritating. I started to lose control of my legs, I'm guessing because I had lost the liter equivalent of a couple 7-11 Big Gulps of blood, or maybe because zombies need to rest a lot because they have such stiff legs and never seem to bend their knees. You know, people can faint that way. Anyhow, with my limp body semi walking, semi being dragged by their arms, I started to give way and turn gray (even more zombie-like!). This was simply unacceptable to one of the women, who insisted I "stand up straight and stop getting blood all over the clean halls." Oh, right, 'cause I can do that. Thanks a lot, lady. Die in a fire.
I had never heard our principal swear before, but I got to that day. With the three of us barreling into the front office and me fading in and out of consciousness, I stuck around long enough to hear her say, "Oh, holy SHIT! What in the... Just what in the hell is going on here?!" It must have been a sight. Then the ambulances came and they strapped me to a wooden board, which I thought was used for unruly patients, which confused me because I surely wouldn't be putting up much of a fight, but I soon found out it served the purpose of keeping my body on the board and off of the parking lot floor. They shined bright lights in my eyes and asked me questions like, "Who is the president of the United States?" and "What is our state's capitol?" and "What is 10 times 10?" and posed challenges like, "Recite every other letter of the alphabet" and "Count by odd numbers," which annoyed me because I never got any of those things right on tests anyway. I needed Tom. But I gave it my best shot, with whatever part of my brain that was still in tact and not stuck like gum to the wooden goal post. Apparently these were ridiculously easy questions, and served as some sort of barometer to escalate the severity of patients' cases if they got X number of questions wrong. I think I passed, or failed, depending on the way you look at it, with flying colors. I went to the front of the line and got right into the emergency room.
The next thing I remember, I was being told that the 45 stitches in my face would come out in due time, and that the crimson, lightning-bolt scar of raw flesh would mend and turn out to "not look that bad." Well there's a vague diagnosis. My mom was pretty strict back then, so you know what she did? After scolding me in the car for playing in the snow so carelessly, we passed the very road we lived on. Where could we possibly be going? I needed to go home. I needed to rest and curl up in blankets and eat Popsicles and chicken noodle soup like all the other kids who smashed their faces in. I needed to learn our state's capitol and what odd numbers meant other than the fact that certain ones were funny or confusing to me. Maybe we were going out for ice cream and Novocaine? Yes, of course! Why didn't I think of this earlier?! We were going for ice cream and Novocaine. To my dismay, we pulled back into the crime scene. Beneath the flag pole, my mom dropped me off at school where I had busted myself open no more than four hours earlier. "Now. You go in and get the homework you missed," she said.
My dad was a little more lax. After being assured that his first son was not dead, the next words out of his mouth were: "Well, did he catch the ball at least?"
P4K, Briefly
Well, this year's Pitchfork Music Festival owned. Was there ever any doubt? Probably not. So, rather than crafting inane amateur accounts of musical highlights and lowlights, I thought I'd offer up some of the stranger sights from the last three days:
Running into Bon Iver and King Khan. What did these two dudes have in common? They put on two of my favorite performances, and I saw them both at the festival's record fair. But, more importantly, what did they not have in common? Quite simple: Bon Iver was fully clothed when I saw him, whereas King Khan was wearing only a Speedo, a cape, and a helmet. Obviously.
Sebadoh saying something along the lines of "Rush sucks." And then seeing a pissed off guy in a Rush shirt head for the beer line. Boy, do I ever hate when that happens.
Supremely intoxicated bikini girl. With throngs of thousands abound, what were the odds I would run into this same person multiple times a day, two days in a row? Apparently pretty high. She was loaded on Sparks, which is where you probably encountered her, too - waiting not-so-patiently in the drink line to fade one shade closer to complete blackness. (Have you ever had Sparks? Just one of 'em? My lord. They make you crazy. She must have had a dozen cups of the alcohol-infused, orange energy elixir each day, and behaved accordingly.) The only things she seemed to savor more than Sparks were, not the artists, but rather her own body, her flesh-toned bikinis, bumblebee antennas and lots of... body glitter? And her blue JanSport backpack, which seemed to contain nothing. She deliberately rubbed up against anyone, male or female, who looked her way, her lone motive to acquire more drink tickets. Or cigarettes. And then a lighter. In that order. (I know this to be true from first-hand experience.)
Guy with "Straight Edge" tattooed across his back. Question: what made this noteworthy? Answer: he was smoking a cigarette. (Please see Wikipedia entry if punch line is not inferred.)
Thousands upon thousands of nerdy white hipsters (falsely) feeling funky-fresh, getting down to the bombastic beats and revolutionary rhymes of Public Enemy. (Needs no further explanation.)
Mud fights. I mean, honestly, what's cooler than hoards of strangers rolling around in a mud pit together? This always makes me feel warm on the inside, and little less dirty than I actually am on the outside.
Running into Bon Iver and King Khan. What did these two dudes have in common? They put on two of my favorite performances, and I saw them both at the festival's record fair. But, more importantly, what did they not have in common? Quite simple: Bon Iver was fully clothed when I saw him, whereas King Khan was wearing only a Speedo, a cape, and a helmet. Obviously.
Sebadoh saying something along the lines of "Rush sucks." And then seeing a pissed off guy in a Rush shirt head for the beer line. Boy, do I ever hate when that happens.
Supremely intoxicated bikini girl. With throngs of thousands abound, what were the odds I would run into this same person multiple times a day, two days in a row? Apparently pretty high. She was loaded on Sparks, which is where you probably encountered her, too - waiting not-so-patiently in the drink line to fade one shade closer to complete blackness. (Have you ever had Sparks? Just one of 'em? My lord. They make you crazy. She must have had a dozen cups of the alcohol-infused, orange energy elixir each day, and behaved accordingly.) The only things she seemed to savor more than Sparks were, not the artists, but rather her own body, her flesh-toned bikinis, bumblebee antennas and lots of... body glitter? And her blue JanSport backpack, which seemed to contain nothing. She deliberately rubbed up against anyone, male or female, who looked her way, her lone motive to acquire more drink tickets. Or cigarettes. And then a lighter. In that order. (I know this to be true from first-hand experience.)
Guy with "Straight Edge" tattooed across his back. Question: what made this noteworthy? Answer: he was smoking a cigarette. (Please see Wikipedia entry if punch line is not inferred.)
Thousands upon thousands of nerdy white hipsters (falsely) feeling funky-fresh, getting down to the bombastic beats and revolutionary rhymes of Public Enemy. (Needs no further explanation.)
Mud fights. I mean, honestly, what's cooler than hoards of strangers rolling around in a mud pit together? This always makes me feel warm on the inside, and little less dirty than I actually am on the outside.
Look, Ma! No Cards!
I recently read "Bringing Down The House" (which is rather amazing, not because of the way it is written, but because of the utter amazingness of the real events that transpire), and it dawned on me that this particular tale - one of cards, gambling and basic strategy - could not be more foreign to me (and there is a possibility that this is why I found the book to be so good).
Growing up, the only types of cards guaranteed to be found in our household were (maxed-out) credit cards. And perhaps the seasonal greeting card or occasional - occasional - Uno deck. But even that was a stretch. So where am I going with this? Ah yes: I never learned how to play a single card game. Not one. (Some might argue Uno to be a real card game, but when you are approaching 25 and the only quasi card game you are able to play somewhat proficiently with small and large groups of people involves brightly colored cards with enormous letters and numbers and a recommended age of "5 and up" printed on a Mattel box... you have officially proven your loserdom to both yourself and society.)
From the wholly inane (Go Fish) to the common-man's game (Euchre) to lucrative, strategic puzzles (Blackjack), I hadn't a clue. Ignorance is bliss, and I was pretty damn blissful all throughout my youth. While this provided me with ample time to engage myself in other activities (like painting plaster statues of dragons, for example), the number of social interactions and camaraderie I missed out on is a number with even more digits than pi itself.
Yes, for a long while I rode the social bench, so to speak, watching from the sidelines as friends and significant others engaged in the games. It was a lonely time. In the early stages I struggled with math problems in grade nine that involved probability and what-if scenarios where we had to calculate the odds of drawing a certain card from a shortening deck. It was nuclear physics to me. I recall labeling one of these scenarios as "impossible" on a test, in frustrated capital letters and pencil-lead smudges, and I had to stay after class because the teacher thought I was mocking him. Afraid not, sir. On the other end of the spectrum, I even contended in college with drinking games that involved the very presence of a deck of cards, which is torment no one should have to endure.
So as my friends continue to settle down and get married and have kids and further disappear from my life, it is with great conviction that I recommend the following to you bastards: keep decks of cards in your homes. Lots of them. Keep them everywhere. Hide them, even. Help your kids. Help them understand. Full-blown 10-deck Las Vegas style blackjack shoes, books and literature on card counting, clay poker chips, automatic shuffling machines. Cover your kitchen table in green felt, I don't care. Just please: do whatever it takes to set your child up for success with the values, mores, personality and general knowledge of card games that he or she deserves. They will love you for it down the road.
As for me, I guess the skill just wasn't in my cards.
Growing up, the only types of cards guaranteed to be found in our household were (maxed-out) credit cards. And perhaps the seasonal greeting card or occasional - occasional - Uno deck. But even that was a stretch. So where am I going with this? Ah yes: I never learned how to play a single card game. Not one. (Some might argue Uno to be a real card game, but when you are approaching 25 and the only quasi card game you are able to play somewhat proficiently with small and large groups of people involves brightly colored cards with enormous letters and numbers and a recommended age of "5 and up" printed on a Mattel box... you have officially proven your loserdom to both yourself and society.)
From the wholly inane (Go Fish) to the common-man's game (Euchre) to lucrative, strategic puzzles (Blackjack), I hadn't a clue. Ignorance is bliss, and I was pretty damn blissful all throughout my youth. While this provided me with ample time to engage myself in other activities (like painting plaster statues of dragons, for example), the number of social interactions and camaraderie I missed out on is a number with even more digits than pi itself.
Yes, for a long while I rode the social bench, so to speak, watching from the sidelines as friends and significant others engaged in the games. It was a lonely time. In the early stages I struggled with math problems in grade nine that involved probability and what-if scenarios where we had to calculate the odds of drawing a certain card from a shortening deck. It was nuclear physics to me. I recall labeling one of these scenarios as "impossible" on a test, in frustrated capital letters and pencil-lead smudges, and I had to stay after class because the teacher thought I was mocking him. Afraid not, sir. On the other end of the spectrum, I even contended in college with drinking games that involved the very presence of a deck of cards, which is torment no one should have to endure.
So as my friends continue to settle down and get married and have kids and further disappear from my life, it is with great conviction that I recommend the following to you bastards: keep decks of cards in your homes. Lots of them. Keep them everywhere. Hide them, even. Help your kids. Help them understand. Full-blown 10-deck Las Vegas style blackjack shoes, books and literature on card counting, clay poker chips, automatic shuffling machines. Cover your kitchen table in green felt, I don't care. Just please: do whatever it takes to set your child up for success with the values, mores, personality and general knowledge of card games that he or she deserves. They will love you for it down the road.
As for me, I guess the skill just wasn't in my cards.
So I Had a Bad Temper
The whole basketball thing got me thinking: I had a really bad temper when I was a kid. Like, really, really bad. Before we launch into this, allow me to offer my deepest apologies to those I offended, wronged and injured along the way.
Basketball
Let's start with that same sport. There was this one specific game that, close to halftime, showcased me in all my b-ball glory. A career argued by some to be headed straight for the pros. There was even talk - murmurs in the bleachers, rather - of me forgoing college to enter straight into the NBA draft. And all of this at 16! It was a lot for a 5-foot-8-inch nerdy white kid to handle, what with my ability to dribble skillfully with my right hand, and poorly with my left. (It was fine, I just stuck to right side of the court and, voila: problem solved!) Who wouldn't have wanted to scoop up such hot, budding talent?
Before the half, I guess I fouled another player "egregiously." I think I elbowed him. But then a weird thing happened. In the way Bruce Banner busts through his clothes to become the one, the only Incredible Hulk, a rage wave overcame me. The ref called for the basketball, and instead of obeying him I turned in the opposite direction, lifted up the smooth, orange ball, dropped it and punted it down the court. It hit the gymnasium's ceiling, all eyes following its ascent, closely watching it ricochet like a pinball among the rafters until it finally landed in the upper rows of the opposing team's stands.
That poor ref. Those poor people. Everyone! Aww. What in the hell was I thinking?! The gall! The ref didn't even know what to do. Guy probably had a steady day job, refereed on the side because he loved the game that much and had now spent several years supervising uncoordinated suburbanites as they launched three pointers and drew nothing but backboard. And now this little punk has done drop kicked the ball the entire length of the gym? You've got to be kidding...
Amid incessant boos from the entire gym - opponents, opponents' parents, teammates, teammates' parents and, obviously, my own parents - both refs decided, rightfully, to eject me from the game. This was a town/city/district first (hence the confusion regarding the punishment). I couldn't play in the next handful of games, and they were a bit reticent to let me play again at all, the first reinstatement game of which we had the exact same ref.
I was humiliated.
Golf
Many years before the famous b-ball-punting crisis, my parents tried to get me to take up golf. People who know the current version of me are probably already laughing at this. I know I am! Well, early one summer morning I attended my first golf match. The grass was still freshly dewed as us pre-teens lugged our heavy bags around the links. Before hole nine I decided I greatly disliked a certain player in our group. He was a big bragger, and made it a point to verbally coach each shot he took, squeezing in even more boasting in between our own shots. He was actually pretty good, which only further pissed us off since the rest of us were pretty pitiful players.
Again, I reached that point, that crux where people gasp at what you're about to do or do do. Said kid hit an ego streak, and as he stood there jabbering no more than 20 feet away I instinctively grabbed my driver from my bag and hurled it boomerang style toward his head. He ducked, but the implications of what I had just done were not lost on anyone. I even scared a Canadian goose away, and those things are pretty nasty! By this point we were in view of parents, who all came running over to scold me. This was supposed to be a gentleman's game, for crying out loud! Awwwwww. No gentleman here.
Needless to say, I walked over and picked up my weapon, putting it back into my bag for the last time ever.
Fail.
Soccer
Soccer! Well this was bound to happen, if not based off of statistics alone. I've played more soccer games than any other sport, and I wasn't half terrible at it either, which sorta made it more enjoyable! This anecdote might be the most embarrassing of the three since I was the oldest at this point in time. I think I can introduce these quicker now: heated game, opposing player I didn't like (either very talented or a big talker) and me being really ignorant. That's the recipe.
There we were, but this time it was worse because I physically did something to someone. Ugh. The guy was very small - he could have been a walking stuffed animal. Very compact in every which way. After a verbal assault on my playing, I approached the boy and picked him up. I picked him up! He didn't stop me from doing this, which surprised me. I had no real plan in mind after this, as I hadn't expected to get close enough to him to cause harm!
I had him in the air, his stomach sort of by my face and him yelling at me to put him down, put him down, etc., so I threw him to the side, sort of like forest adventurers throw brush over their shoulders while safariing. I tossed him up and he fell down, down, down to the ground and hit it kinda hard. He said, "Ow!" and by that point the whole game had stopped and I was labeled an ass (yes, rightfully so) and removed from the field at once. Awwwwwwwww.
Don't you learn, boy?! Geeze. What was wrong with me? I remember listening to a lot of Wu-Tang Clan back then, reciting popular hooks like, "Cash Rules Everything Around Me/CREAM, get the money/Dollar dollar bill, y'all," so maybe that contributed? But I am better now, so no worries.
Basketball
Let's start with that same sport. There was this one specific game that, close to halftime, showcased me in all my b-ball glory. A career argued by some to be headed straight for the pros. There was even talk - murmurs in the bleachers, rather - of me forgoing college to enter straight into the NBA draft. And all of this at 16! It was a lot for a 5-foot-8-inch nerdy white kid to handle, what with my ability to dribble skillfully with my right hand, and poorly with my left. (It was fine, I just stuck to right side of the court and, voila: problem solved!) Who wouldn't have wanted to scoop up such hot, budding talent?
Before the half, I guess I fouled another player "egregiously." I think I elbowed him. But then a weird thing happened. In the way Bruce Banner busts through his clothes to become the one, the only Incredible Hulk, a rage wave overcame me. The ref called for the basketball, and instead of obeying him I turned in the opposite direction, lifted up the smooth, orange ball, dropped it and punted it down the court. It hit the gymnasium's ceiling, all eyes following its ascent, closely watching it ricochet like a pinball among the rafters until it finally landed in the upper rows of the opposing team's stands.
That poor ref. Those poor people. Everyone! Aww. What in the hell was I thinking?! The gall! The ref didn't even know what to do. Guy probably had a steady day job, refereed on the side because he loved the game that much and had now spent several years supervising uncoordinated suburbanites as they launched three pointers and drew nothing but backboard. And now this little punk has done drop kicked the ball the entire length of the gym? You've got to be kidding...
Amid incessant boos from the entire gym - opponents, opponents' parents, teammates, teammates' parents and, obviously, my own parents - both refs decided, rightfully, to eject me from the game. This was a town/city/district first (hence the confusion regarding the punishment). I couldn't play in the next handful of games, and they were a bit reticent to let me play again at all, the first reinstatement game of which we had the exact same ref.
I was humiliated.
Golf
Many years before the famous b-ball-punting crisis, my parents tried to get me to take up golf. People who know the current version of me are probably already laughing at this. I know I am! Well, early one summer morning I attended my first golf match. The grass was still freshly dewed as us pre-teens lugged our heavy bags around the links. Before hole nine I decided I greatly disliked a certain player in our group. He was a big bragger, and made it a point to verbally coach each shot he took, squeezing in even more boasting in between our own shots. He was actually pretty good, which only further pissed us off since the rest of us were pretty pitiful players.
Again, I reached that point, that crux where people gasp at what you're about to do or do do. Said kid hit an ego streak, and as he stood there jabbering no more than 20 feet away I instinctively grabbed my driver from my bag and hurled it boomerang style toward his head. He ducked, but the implications of what I had just done were not lost on anyone. I even scared a Canadian goose away, and those things are pretty nasty! By this point we were in view of parents, who all came running over to scold me. This was supposed to be a gentleman's game, for crying out loud! Awwwwww. No gentleman here.
Needless to say, I walked over and picked up my weapon, putting it back into my bag for the last time ever.
Fail.
Soccer
Soccer! Well this was bound to happen, if not based off of statistics alone. I've played more soccer games than any other sport, and I wasn't half terrible at it either, which sorta made it more enjoyable! This anecdote might be the most embarrassing of the three since I was the oldest at this point in time. I think I can introduce these quicker now: heated game, opposing player I didn't like (either very talented or a big talker) and me being really ignorant. That's the recipe.
There we were, but this time it was worse because I physically did something to someone. Ugh. The guy was very small - he could have been a walking stuffed animal. Very compact in every which way. After a verbal assault on my playing, I approached the boy and picked him up. I picked him up! He didn't stop me from doing this, which surprised me. I had no real plan in mind after this, as I hadn't expected to get close enough to him to cause harm!
I had him in the air, his stomach sort of by my face and him yelling at me to put him down, put him down, etc., so I threw him to the side, sort of like forest adventurers throw brush over their shoulders while safariing. I tossed him up and he fell down, down, down to the ground and hit it kinda hard. He said, "Ow!" and by that point the whole game had stopped and I was labeled an ass (yes, rightfully so) and removed from the field at once. Awwwwwwwww.
Don't you learn, boy?! Geeze. What was wrong with me? I remember listening to a lot of Wu-Tang Clan back then, reciting popular hooks like, "Cash Rules Everything Around Me/CREAM, get the money/Dollar dollar bill, y'all," so maybe that contributed? But I am better now, so no worries.
Back When I Wore an Eye Patch
It hurts to think, let alone write, about this one. The pain I endured, both physical pain and emotional pain, in a few seemingly endless days was more than enough for an entire childhood.
I used to play basketball (though not very well), and as a second-string member of our high school's junior-varsity basket ball team I relished the rare occasion I was put into a game. This usually only happened when we were winning big (rare), losing by a whole hell of a lot (more common) or had several injured players and simply needed more bodies on the floor (the most common). This particular game found me on the court in the latter scenario.
Energetic and uncoordinated and wearing my pristine, never-been-sweat-in uniform, I took to the hardwood doubting my every ability to successfully contribute to our team's well being, what with the intense level of the tied competition. A real nail-biter, in the sense that any match can possibly be when it's just a big collection of below-average to downright-awful players. We were a sporting crime scene of short, white teens who haphazardly threw an orange ball toward a towering basket (we're talking season-high scorers with a whopping 15 points, games where two teams collectively could not break the 30-point mark and MVP candidates pretty much wrapped up by the end of the first practice). So it should come as no surprise that what happened during my 30-second stint in the game rendered me the next injured teen - my primed body, my blossoming spirit - on the (end of our) bench.
After a missed free-throw by the opposing team, I threw myself into the key for the rebound, along with seven other pimply kids. I had clear sight of the ball, and behind it, my own teammate coming toward it with outstretched arms. We both missed it (shocking!), but where I retracted my arms he did not, and I now had clear sight of the tip of his dirty index finger coming right into my eye as if he were ringing a doorbell. Blinking is a reflex that's done pretty quickly, and I didn't even have time to do it before he was fingering my cornea, then my iris, then my pupil, as an optometrist would later theorize.
So off the court and onto the bench for medical attention, where I loathed for my scraggly self and pondered some of life's greatest questions: like if I would be kicked off the team for doing so poorly or if the dozens of girls I had crushes on who were in attendance would ever talk to me in class again (further analysis concluded they were actually not in attendance after all, and were likely out doing something much cooler).
My right eye. It was broken. It/I/eye couldn't see anything, and I had trouble walking and making out faces. Here's the kicker: our family was going on a skiing trip the very next day, and we were to fly out of Detroit into Salt Lake City. For those unfamiliar with the snow sport, it's one that requires functioning eyes to have any shot at being preformed safely and successfully. A visit to the emergency room saw me into the night donning a humongous, makeshift eye patch. They were fresh out of the cool pirate ones, I guess.
I had white gauze running diagonally around my head, and a thick foam pad over my eye (some cotton balls in there, too). Fastening the patch to my face were two pieces of tape, laid across each other in a giant X. My head resembled that of a mummy. And I was expected to get on a plane the next morning? Come on...
I pretended I wasn't keeping track of (19) or wasn't noticing or didn't care all that much about the stares and finger-pointing and giggles and mockery (hand covering right eye, walking like a mummy) I garnered at the airport. Try it sometime. Or don't. Pure humiliation. I couldn't even look at (not able to/didn't want to even if I could) napkins, tissues or toilet paper. We landed in Utah, where a second optometrist rid me of my cursed mummy wrap, trading me it for a pair of those cool ultraviolet (UV) sunglasses that are popular among senior citizens and persons with cataracts. I looked great on the slopes with those boxy beauties.
High school was the best.
I used to play basketball (though not very well), and as a second-string member of our high school's junior-varsity basket ball team I relished the rare occasion I was put into a game. This usually only happened when we were winning big (rare), losing by a whole hell of a lot (more common) or had several injured players and simply needed more bodies on the floor (the most common). This particular game found me on the court in the latter scenario.
Energetic and uncoordinated and wearing my pristine, never-been-sweat-in uniform, I took to the hardwood doubting my every ability to successfully contribute to our team's well being, what with the intense level of the tied competition. A real nail-biter, in the sense that any match can possibly be when it's just a big collection of below-average to downright-awful players. We were a sporting crime scene of short, white teens who haphazardly threw an orange ball toward a towering basket (we're talking season-high scorers with a whopping 15 points, games where two teams collectively could not break the 30-point mark and MVP candidates pretty much wrapped up by the end of the first practice). So it should come as no surprise that what happened during my 30-second stint in the game rendered me the next injured teen - my primed body, my blossoming spirit - on the (end of our) bench.
After a missed free-throw by the opposing team, I threw myself into the key for the rebound, along with seven other pimply kids. I had clear sight of the ball, and behind it, my own teammate coming toward it with outstretched arms. We both missed it (shocking!), but where I retracted my arms he did not, and I now had clear sight of the tip of his dirty index finger coming right into my eye as if he were ringing a doorbell. Blinking is a reflex that's done pretty quickly, and I didn't even have time to do it before he was fingering my cornea, then my iris, then my pupil, as an optometrist would later theorize.
So off the court and onto the bench for medical attention, where I loathed for my scraggly self and pondered some of life's greatest questions: like if I would be kicked off the team for doing so poorly or if the dozens of girls I had crushes on who were in attendance would ever talk to me in class again (further analysis concluded they were actually not in attendance after all, and were likely out doing something much cooler).
My right eye. It was broken. It/I/eye couldn't see anything, and I had trouble walking and making out faces. Here's the kicker: our family was going on a skiing trip the very next day, and we were to fly out of Detroit into Salt Lake City. For those unfamiliar with the snow sport, it's one that requires functioning eyes to have any shot at being preformed safely and successfully. A visit to the emergency room saw me into the night donning a humongous, makeshift eye patch. They were fresh out of the cool pirate ones, I guess.
I had white gauze running diagonally around my head, and a thick foam pad over my eye (some cotton balls in there, too). Fastening the patch to my face were two pieces of tape, laid across each other in a giant X. My head resembled that of a mummy. And I was expected to get on a plane the next morning? Come on...
I pretended I wasn't keeping track of (19) or wasn't noticing or didn't care all that much about the stares and finger-pointing and giggles and mockery (hand covering right eye, walking like a mummy) I garnered at the airport. Try it sometime. Or don't. Pure humiliation. I couldn't even look at (not able to/didn't want to even if I could) napkins, tissues or toilet paper. We landed in Utah, where a second optometrist rid me of my cursed mummy wrap, trading me it for a pair of those cool ultraviolet (UV) sunglasses that are popular among senior citizens and persons with cataracts. I looked great on the slopes with those boxy beauties.
High school was the best.
An Ode to Margot (May You Soon Rest in Pieces)
This is going to sound harsh, and I intend for it to.
Margot, my love, you are the only thing, living or inanimate, that I absolutely despise about my new apartment. You and your owners (my neighbors). For anonymity's sake - and because I don't want your owners finding this post by Googling your stupid name (which I'm sure they do on a regular basis), which is actually even more unique, ill-thought and dumb-sounding than "Margot" - I will be calling your mutt face "Margot" in the words that follow.
I should have known upon move-in. I should have known that leaving my back door open for 30 seconds would result in you wandering into my place like you were interested in subletting for the summer. Margot, I believe you were the first living thing I met in this building, howling and growling at me like I had no business being in my own newly rented unit. You were in my kitchen, what with your pudgy, girthy figure; short, brown coat; flat-iron face; black, recessed snout; stubby, bowed legs; and wiry, curly tail. You resemble that of a pig, Margot. A pig that is a dog.
Now, I love dogs. I grew up with dogs my entire life, and I still plan on owning and taking care of a dog one day (a dog unlike Margot). I even moved here from a city where there are statistically more dogs than children. But when your coddling owners treat you better than 99 percent of parents treat a living, breathing child - when I can hear all three of you swooning outside my apartment at 1, 2, 3 in the morning because Margot just took a dump - I simply have to draw the line: I hate you all.
I don't know how you do it, man. I'm calling you "man" because I forgot both you and and your girlfriend's names. It's like you're a stay-at-home father. But again: for a dog. You don't work, you don't go to school, and are somehow up both earlier and later than I am - usually playing with Margot in the dog park, championing her to fetch a poorly thrown tennis ball as if she were some primed Olympic athlete in training; or carrying her up and down the stairs like she just had four prosthetic knee replacements, or polio; or trying to verbally convince her for 10 minutes to stop barking at my back door (a cross-section view of which must be rather amusing - me on one side in my kitchen, shaking my head in disbelief, you two on the other side, one barking relentlessly at a big slab of wood and the other, apparently smarter life-form standing behind you, asking you if you really think continuing to bark at my door is the best idea when he should in theory be kicking you in the butt and saying, "Get your ugly ass back inside this apartment this instant!" It's not the best idea, Margot, and it's really goddamn annoying, so stop); or seeing the girlfriend, the bread-winner in your household, off to work each day (this is equally special [read: nauseating] and involves more baby talk, the boyfriend standing at the gate, Margot in his bosom, both of them waving goodbye to her, a human hand clenching a mangled paw in one pathetic, cross-species au revoir. "Say goodbye, Margot! Wish mama a good day!" This. Every freaking day).
In fact, as I write this, I am listening to you two playing on the back porch, which is also my back porch, which is also adjacent to my bedroom. It is exactly 1:20 a.m. on a Wednesday. "Go on, Margot. Go on! Get it, Margot! That's a good girl. Who's my favorite? Who's my favorite girl?! Yes, Margot! Yesh, yesh, yesh! That's a good Margot! Good girrrlll! Yesh, yesh, yesh!"
Gag me with a spoon, this is sickening. I hope I don't sound like this when talking to my cat. I try talking to and treating pets like they are accountable human beings, or friends of mine. It's better for both this way - the animal doesn't feel belittled and I don't feel and look like a complete jackass. Truth be told, I really wanted to name my cat Karen so I could fully live out this experiment. Alas, things happen...
At this point in the evening I will digress by taking twice the recommended dosage of NyQuil, so as to savor any shot I have at getting some shut-eye tonight (or ever). Thanks.
This Post is About How My Dad Got Poison Ivy (Down There)
Not sure how you pulled it off, dad, but I really gotta hand it to you on this one. It's not every day that a man encounters poison ivy, touches it and somehow manages to spread the stuff all over his crotch. It would seem some of the modern miracles mankind has managed to actualize over the course of time - clothes, for example - should have prevented at least two of the three from occurring. Or maybe that's just my opinion.
I knew something was amiss when mom called me laughing. She told me how after weeding the yard you noticed a patch you'd missed and, instead of putting your gloves back on, pulled those suckers out of the ground with your bare hands. You made your way into the house, wiped the sweat from your face and neck, and proceeded to use the restroom. Then you washed your hands? Oy ve. Had this been one of us kids growing up you would've salivated over the poignant life lessons and back-in-my-days that were practically begging to be wrought on our halfwitted brains.
I know exactly how this one played out, too. Let's see. Ah yes. You awoke with an incredible, painful itching sensation on your jowls, and soon later an illustrious, crimson rash on the most fallible member of man's southern hemisphere. After consulting mom, a trained nurse, her advice to you was likely "oh go on," "you're such a baby" or the more valuable "see, i told you so! should've worn gloves!" (afraid she was right). Now, normally you would've craned your neck, tried to simmer, bit your nail and thought of a quick comeback or retort, but not this time. No, at this point the swelling was all you could think of, more than you could bear and certainly the center of the vortex in a mass brain-wash of irritated, itchy thoughts and impulses. With no other option, you chose to show mom exactly what turmoil you were in. The proof was right there. This is when she really lost it on the phone...
I know exactly how this one played out, too. Let's see. Ah yes. You awoke with an incredible, painful itching sensation on your jowls, and soon later an illustrious, crimson rash on the most fallible member of man's southern hemisphere. After consulting mom, a trained nurse, her advice to you was likely "oh go on," "you're such a baby" or the more valuable "see, i told you so! should've worn gloves!" (afraid she was right). Now, normally you would've craned your neck, tried to simmer, bit your nail and thought of a quick comeback or retort, but not this time. No, at this point the swelling was all you could think of, more than you could bear and certainly the center of the vortex in a mass brain-wash of irritated, itchy thoughts and impulses. With no other option, you chose to show mom exactly what turmoil you were in. The proof was right there. This is when she really lost it on the phone...
Described to me by my own mother, in hysterics, as "swollen to two times its normal size, and ruby-red," I had to excuse myself from the office because of my disruptive laughter and tears. Sorry, dad, but this is pure gold. It's amazing it took this much convincing to get mom to offer up a ride to the hospital, which, once there, I understand more comedy ensued (at your expense). When the doctor asked you to drop trou I guess you made the nurse exit the room? I think I would have done the same. And upon seeing the swollen soul the doctor himself joined in on the fun, recommending you be at the pool in a Speedo instead of the hospital, laughing with mom about how other doctors actually charge male patients money to make them leave the operation room looking like dad had on his way in. Aw, poor dad!
A couple tubes of topical steroid cream later, you were back at home rendered useless on the couch, me on the other end of the line, listening to you explain how a bag of frozen baby carrots has never felt so good on one man's loins.
Get well soon.
Get well soon.
My First Bar Fight
This past weekend I wound up in my inaugural bar fight. Turns out there is a first time for just about everything. "In" a bar fight as in physically situated within and surrounded by a large, gale-force skirmish, rather than the "in" where one is actually the one throwing drunken haymakers. Strangely enough, however, a group of us did seem to spark the incident, albeit unknowingly.
Everything about this bar fight was ironic and cliche.
Let's start with the irony: it was ironic because Sopo is a bar situated on Southport - a yuppified avenue where the infant-to-puppy ratio is something like 1:2. Maybe even 2:2, which can be reduced to 1:1, but 2:2 sounds more impressive - almost like there is too much cuteness going on and the 2 and the other 2 will somehow leap the colon and unite to become 4, which is a pretty big number, and while it wouldn't be immediately clear what a ratio or cuteness factor of "4" would stand for... it would be kinda intimidating. Bottom line is that bar fights and cuteness are and always will be mutually exclusive, so that makes this particular fight pretty damn ironic.
OK, now for the cliches: everything about this fight was cliche because, as you probably guessed, it contained all of the basic elements found in any average, run-of-the-mill saloon scrap. Such items included:
- Misunderstanding/personal slighting
- Communication breakdown
- Escalation
- (Now) shirtless man
- Secondary bystanders who have no affiliation to primary (shirtless) character(s), but who nonetheless egg on, provoke and support the contestant(s)
- Broken glass/pool cues
- Haphazard attempt at "drawing first blood"
- Cheering/unanimous content
- Isolated, unrelated, accessory fight erupting at an indeterminate distance from the hostile nucleus
- Authorities
- Ensuing indignance
Yes this, my very first bar fight, exhibited all of the above. (Granted, two items were intentionally omitted from this list: tons of booze and loaded patrons, which should be inferred, of course. Moving on...)
There's not much to be left to the imagination, really, so I'll just throw it out there in case you haven't pieced it together yourself.
[barfight]His Excellency the Inebriate bumps into us and asks if we have a problem. We say "nay" and remind Inebriate it was he who did the bumping into. Inebriate repeats former question, but louder. Inebriate's own troops heed quarrel, strangely siding with us. Inebriate collects growing hatred for strangers, transfers to own cronies and, later, self. Polo shirt is removed and former question is repeated, but louder. Public attention has been captured, outcry commences. Inebriate's confused cohorts raise hands, try to pull a Churchill a la "Sinews of Peace (Iron Curtain)," whence Inebriate delivers initial blow. Patrons hit floor in droves. Separate fight is waged on other side of bar, glass bottles broken over table edges, pool cues over knees. Hollering and semantics plot inversely proportional lines on some graph in some underground laboratory in Russia. Bouncer arrives, bull in a china shop, with pithy aphorism a la "not on my watch," "not in my house," "not on my shift," "no way, José," "no you didn't," "nobody messes with MY NAME HERE." Additional bodies hit ground, more carnage. Screaming blonde woman in skirt is hoisted over different man's shoulders and carried out. Bartenders and general kitchen staff (hopelessly) try to deter the use of cameras, cell phones, small recording equipment. Vow to selves to search for new jobs. Amateur videos of preceding 45 seconds debut atop YouTube's "Featured Videos" section. (Way too many) authorities arrive. Remaining people asked to leave. Sopo as we know it closes, maybe for good.[/barfight]
Did I miss anything?
OMG, Dad! Rattlesnake!
In my pre-teenage years I was pretty much obsessed with snakes. Go figure. The only thing I might have liked equally were dinosaurs, but reptiles usually reigned supreme in my book, somehow managing to be the focus of almost every thought I had, awake or sleeping.
I even pretended to be a snake at times, which is tougher than it sounds, hissing and slithering down the carpeted staircase to greet my grandma when she visited, who still hates snakes to this day, only to stand up at her feet with rug-burned elbows and knees. She would say something like, "Snakes don't cry, silly!" and I would feel pretty dumb and less snake-like and have to hold back those awkward emotions that the first waves of puberty evoke in young boys. Sigh.
So snakes, to me, were the cat's pajamas. I would go exploring in the woods and physically collect snakes, wearing my dad's muddy boots and placing them into a giant, yellow bucket. I knew precisely where to look, how to approach them, how to pick them up and hold them, how to hiss like them, how to bite them like they bit me... things of that nature. Very well read. I would bring them home and show my screaming parents who, for some reason, did not find it to be nearly as cool or amusing as I did. Never fully understood that one. Psh, who doesn't love snakes?!
Somewhere in there our family was entertaining the idea of vacationing to Arizona, which I lobbied for pretty hard, mostly because there are snakes there, too - but cooler, more-dangerous snakes. I didn't tell my parents this, of course, choosing to cloak my real intentions by lobbying behind other non-snake platforms, such as geographical attractions, overall climate and family bonding. And it worked! So off we went.
No sooner had we arrived to the hotel than I started running into the desert like a lunatic. I had already studied the map in the lobby and chosen a desert trail to hike (remember: secretly in search of snakes). My dad insisted on accompanying me, and I'm now thankful he did.
We neared a bend in the path when the sound of rattles, maracas and other Latin-rhythm-section-sounding things filled the arid air. Rattlesnakes. A whole bush of 'em. JACKPOT! Holy hell, kid. What were you thinking? Out came a rattlesnake from the lair in all of its scaly, serpentine glory, flicking its black tongue every which way and hoisting behind it its glorious rattling tail - the same one I had been drawing so poorly for so many empty years. I wanted to hold it and take it home with me and name it and be friends with it.
Before dad could grab me I bolted and got way too close to the rattlesnake, and I quickly realized this was the extent of my poorly devised plan. I... was kind of just really, really scared now. I wanted to cry, partly because of the whole awkward puberty thing brewing but more so because I was now standing within striking distance of a frigging rattlesnake. Thankfully my dad had read to me before bed in my infancy, usually snake books, so he was fully aware of the best-practices for deadly snake encounters.
"Hold still, dammit!"
"I'm scared!"
"What the hell have you gotten us into, David?!?!"
"I don't know, I'm scared!!"
Dad crept toward me and the snake and grabbed me by the arm, hoisting me up into the air and running down the desert path, me with my feet off the ground, crying against his chest.
I liked snakes a little less after that and got really into dinosaurs instead, which isn't as dangerous of a hobby, you know, because of the whole extinction thing.
I even pretended to be a snake at times, which is tougher than it sounds, hissing and slithering down the carpeted staircase to greet my grandma when she visited, who still hates snakes to this day, only to stand up at her feet with rug-burned elbows and knees. She would say something like, "Snakes don't cry, silly!" and I would feel pretty dumb and less snake-like and have to hold back those awkward emotions that the first waves of puberty evoke in young boys. Sigh.
So snakes, to me, were the cat's pajamas. I would go exploring in the woods and physically collect snakes, wearing my dad's muddy boots and placing them into a giant, yellow bucket. I knew precisely where to look, how to approach them, how to pick them up and hold them, how to hiss like them, how to bite them like they bit me... things of that nature. Very well read. I would bring them home and show my screaming parents who, for some reason, did not find it to be nearly as cool or amusing as I did. Never fully understood that one. Psh, who doesn't love snakes?!
Somewhere in there our family was entertaining the idea of vacationing to Arizona, which I lobbied for pretty hard, mostly because there are snakes there, too - but cooler, more-dangerous snakes. I didn't tell my parents this, of course, choosing to cloak my real intentions by lobbying behind other non-snake platforms, such as geographical attractions, overall climate and family bonding. And it worked! So off we went.
No sooner had we arrived to the hotel than I started running into the desert like a lunatic. I had already studied the map in the lobby and chosen a desert trail to hike (remember: secretly in search of snakes). My dad insisted on accompanying me, and I'm now thankful he did.
We neared a bend in the path when the sound of rattles, maracas and other Latin-rhythm-section-sounding things filled the arid air. Rattlesnakes. A whole bush of 'em. JACKPOT! Holy hell, kid. What were you thinking? Out came a rattlesnake from the lair in all of its scaly, serpentine glory, flicking its black tongue every which way and hoisting behind it its glorious rattling tail - the same one I had been drawing so poorly for so many empty years. I wanted to hold it and take it home with me and name it and be friends with it.
Before dad could grab me I bolted and got way too close to the rattlesnake, and I quickly realized this was the extent of my poorly devised plan. I... was kind of just really, really scared now. I wanted to cry, partly because of the whole awkward puberty thing brewing but more so because I was now standing within striking distance of a frigging rattlesnake. Thankfully my dad had read to me before bed in my infancy, usually snake books, so he was fully aware of the best-practices for deadly snake encounters.
"Hold still, dammit!"
"I'm scared!"
"What the hell have you gotten us into, David?!?!"
"I don't know, I'm scared!!"
Dad crept toward me and the snake and grabbed me by the arm, hoisting me up into the air and running down the desert path, me with my feet off the ground, crying against his chest.
I liked snakes a little less after that and got really into dinosaurs instead, which isn't as dangerous of a hobby, you know, because of the whole extinction thing.
Back When I was Husky
Back when I was husky I had to wear "husky" jeans. I was probably too young to know what this meant for me, you know, socially, and my mom did one hell of a job to make sure I didn't find out anytime soon. Imagine her fear! Kids can be downright mean in the fourth or fifth grades.
I threw her for a loop when I started gravitating toward non-husky jeans (aka jeans made for regular-sized children) at the local Kohl's. I would ask her if I could try them on and she would have to come up with some funny explanation about how I would not like them or how they weren't quite "my style." Ha! "My style!" Please, mom - I'm 10! Anyway, poor woman, God bless her, she got me to try on and actually like the "husky" pair each and every time, usually fit with a chic, stonewashed finish and a cool, little (big) elastic waistband to accommodate my fluctuating, flabby figure.
Well, further into the school year I flat out asked my mom what "husky" jeans were really all about. By this point I (amazingly) had what they like to call "friends" and it was only a matter of time before I compared myself to them. And their clothes, too.
So out came the, "Mom, why do all my jeans say 'husky' on the waist?"
"Oh... Well... Honey..."
I can't remember her exact quote, so I won't even try to B.S. something. I'll paraphrase. She told me that the "husky" referred to the majestic Siberian husky or Alaskan husky breeds of dogs, and like these dogs the jeans were rough, tough, resilient and rugged, much like myself, and said I should be proud to sport such trousers. Heck, she even suggested that I was just as cool as the popular canine that my jeans represented.
From that moment on, unbeknownst to me, I lived out the rest of my chunky childhood relatively carefree.
I threw her for a loop when I started gravitating toward non-husky jeans (aka jeans made for regular-sized children) at the local Kohl's. I would ask her if I could try them on and she would have to come up with some funny explanation about how I would not like them or how they weren't quite "my style." Ha! "My style!" Please, mom - I'm 10! Anyway, poor woman, God bless her, she got me to try on and actually like the "husky" pair each and every time, usually fit with a chic, stonewashed finish and a cool, little (big) elastic waistband to accommodate my fluctuating, flabby figure.
Well, further into the school year I flat out asked my mom what "husky" jeans were really all about. By this point I (amazingly) had what they like to call "friends" and it was only a matter of time before I compared myself to them. And their clothes, too.
So out came the, "Mom, why do all my jeans say 'husky' on the waist?"
"Oh... Well... Honey..."
I can't remember her exact quote, so I won't even try to B.S. something. I'll paraphrase. She told me that the "husky" referred to the majestic Siberian husky or Alaskan husky breeds of dogs, and like these dogs the jeans were rough, tough, resilient and rugged, much like myself, and said I should be proud to sport such trousers. Heck, she even suggested that I was just as cool as the popular canine that my jeans represented.
From that moment on, unbeknownst to me, I lived out the rest of my chunky childhood relatively carefree.
I Take My Yogurt Warm
New colleagues and old friends, gather 'round. Time to clarify something here. Those delightful Yoplait Lights you see sitting on my desk are deliberately left out for hours on end, usually until the end of the day when they are just ripe enough for human consumption. It seems over the years I have come to like yogurt a considerable amount, but this comes with large, abnormal caveats: it must be of room temperature, and it must be either the Very Cherry or Very Vanilla flavors of Yoplait's flagship fleet of Light yogurt. No exceptions, please.
All of you think this is gross, I know. I am yet to meet a single person who will entertain the idea of eating warm yogurt. Most of you warn of diseases and contamination, of spoiling and bacteria, but I am still here, somewhat healthy, after years of taking this stuff down at lukewarm levels. Truly, I find yogurt most appetizing when it can barely stay on or in a spoon by itself.
You see, yogurt needs a lot of tender-loving care at this volatile viscosity, and you should use caution when enjoying it so warm. Be forewarned: for some reason (physics?), when opening the container at said temps, yogurt likes to burp. In the fraction of a second it takes to crack the foil seal, a little bit of warm yogurt spittle will inevitably come flying out toward you. Now, there are a couple things you can do here to combat the burp. You can:
A) Insert a napkin between you and the Yoplait
B) Point the Yoplait away from you
C) Weather the burp head-on, in hopes that it might not happen this time
Whichever you choose, please enjoy your yogurt (warm). I know I'll be!
Black Towels = the Devil's Handiwork
I think this is the worst product ever made, not to mention indisputable evidence that an evil axis exists. Have you ever had these, black towels? I am a guy and don't really know about or am cognizant of things like this, but black towels shed, I guess? I consider this to not be my fault - how was I supposed to know? I saw no label on them, otherwise I would not have bought the shedding kind.
I basically showered and used them for the first time and didn't really pay too much attention, but upon getting out and glancing in the mirror I noticed I looked like a caveman, but with black hair where they have brown. Or like a giant black bear. Or a fuzzy gorilla. Those are better comparisons than a caveman who has black hair. I am one of those in the mornings now. I even get to dust myself off after showering, or else I show up to work with black cobwebs all over my face.
I've even washed these stupid things several times over, but to no avail. They just keep shedding, crop dusting the white tiles until my bathroom has this black, dusty film thing going on where the crap is everywhere and I try to clean it up but it's no use because, hey, guess what, I have to shower tomorrow as well and it's just going to happen again and again, so... I really regret this purchase. What I do try to do though is not write a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer or take them back to the store or burn them or throw them away but clean the shower while I'm in there using it. Yeah. I use my right foot which must look kinda funny because, well, for starters I look kinda funny without clothes but then you put me in there with my wet foot and it's even funnier I think. So the foot. My (right) foot is how I clean the pollinated shower. I get it nice and wet and kinda use it like a shammy or a scrub on the furry tub, gathering all the black tufts so that they're clinging to my right foot, usually to the bottom of it, and when I've assembled enough of it or until I'm satisfied I rinse it all off and it goes away down the drain.
I've been doing this for about four weeks now.
Bottom line: please do not buy black towels. I'm not sure why they even make these things, because who else is buying them besides me?
Geeze, black towels.
Makeout Session From Mars
Last night, 300 people and I witnessed the makeout session to end all makeout sessions.
At the Do Division Street Festival, somewhere among the hipsters, scenesters, vendors, musicians, mommies, daddies, strollered children, tethered canines and Ted Leo and the Pharmacists show that populated the busy block, two women started going at it like it was nobody's business. It was hard not to notice this public display of, um, affection, since the women were breaking through such large barriers. Literally: they knocked over an orange "ROAD CLOSED"obstruction like it was a house of cards, thus moving their engagement to the pavement.
Intense stuff for a Sunday.
I'm still not sure If I've ever seen something like this. Probably not. I was standing against the barrier when I noticed them running toward it, and me. The one woman turned and pushed the other one up against it and they started going to town on each other's lips. We're talking something from the movies, people - from "Ghost" or something - with the hiking of the leg and eyes rolling back into the head and all, except replace Patrick Swayze with a lesbian lover.
I questioned their sobriety, but certainly not their passion. Was this beautiful? Was this sloppy? What on earth was happening here? Hath "Candid Camera" been reincarnated? It definitely wasn't as composed or as touching as "Ghost," but I couldn't deny their conviction. And then they knocked over the barrier. This is when the public's attention was drawn from the concert to the makeout soirée, and even the yellow lab in front of me raised its ears and titled its head toward the rumbling couple. It was like one of those cartoon fights, illustrated as a tumbling tornado in all of its fury and tarnation, leaving the characters bruised and gasping for air upon finish. Something was in the air that night, and it took these two women by surprise. (I don't know this feeling.)
Some parents left abhorred. Drunk men cheered and took pictures. Sober men's girlfriends hit them on the arms. I was somewhere in the progressive mingling, and it occurred to me that spring had finally arrived.
At the Do Division Street Festival, somewhere among the hipsters, scenesters, vendors, musicians, mommies, daddies, strollered children, tethered canines and Ted Leo and the Pharmacists show that populated the busy block, two women started going at it like it was nobody's business. It was hard not to notice this public display of, um, affection, since the women were breaking through such large barriers. Literally: they knocked over an orange "ROAD CLOSED"obstruction like it was a house of cards, thus moving their engagement to the pavement.
Intense stuff for a Sunday.
I'm still not sure If I've ever seen something like this. Probably not. I was standing against the barrier when I noticed them running toward it, and me. The one woman turned and pushed the other one up against it and they started going to town on each other's lips. We're talking something from the movies, people - from "Ghost" or something - with the hiking of the leg and eyes rolling back into the head and all, except replace Patrick Swayze with a lesbian lover.
I questioned their sobriety, but certainly not their passion. Was this beautiful? Was this sloppy? What on earth was happening here? Hath "Candid Camera" been reincarnated? It definitely wasn't as composed or as touching as "Ghost," but I couldn't deny their conviction. And then they knocked over the barrier. This is when the public's attention was drawn from the concert to the makeout soirée, and even the yellow lab in front of me raised its ears and titled its head toward the rumbling couple. It was like one of those cartoon fights, illustrated as a tumbling tornado in all of its fury and tarnation, leaving the characters bruised and gasping for air upon finish. Something was in the air that night, and it took these two women by surprise. (I don't know this feeling.)
Some parents left abhorred. Drunk men cheered and took pictures. Sober men's girlfriends hit them on the arms. I was somewhere in the progressive mingling, and it occurred to me that spring had finally arrived.
Chicago, Et Al
Most of you know I recently relocated to the Windy City. In just 11 short but exhaustive days, I've learned so many things are that wholly different about this place from the likes of San Francisco that they are worth documenting and sharing in some (amateur) form.
The bums (or lack thereof). All right, guys. Where are they? You really expect me to believe there are no bums here? Are you kidding me? None?! Really, it's OK, Chicago. I've seen my fair share. Too many, in fact. So bring them out in droves. It will be fine - I won't leave. I'm in my second week here and I've seen, what, I think just two bums? Two! That's like, let's see, one more than one and a whopping average of one a week! In San Francisco I'd be lucky to encounter less than two bums on the same block; and nine times out of 10 they'd be naked from the waist down and soiling themselves. So what does Chicago do differently? This city has 3 million people for crying out loud! San Francisco has less than 800,000! Be ashamed, Bay Area. Oh, and get this: I encountered the most polite homeless person ever yesterday. He asked if I had change, and after saying I didn't he said, "God bless you! Have a fantastic day, sir! Thanks for the smile and courtesy!" Oh... oh my dear God. Hold it right there while I walk to Washington Mutual and liquidate my entire meager life savings. Into quarters. Straight coin. For you. The change you asked for! Here it is! You are just too freaking sweet. There, I feel better. And you do too!
The L. Good grief. First off, my friends' place that I'm crashing at almost gets hit by the damn thing. I'm not too sure how they designed the rail system for this thing, but it's clear that the houses and buildings were here long before they even considered installing any form of public transportation (and understandably so). It runs over and between roofs, and underground as well. If I am awakened at 4 a.m. by what sounds like an out-of-control 18-wheeler headed right for the living room, and in turn my face, I simply turn over on the couch and remind my sleeping self that it's just the L train, which will bend approximately three feet before it can touch the building's foundation. Great planning right there.
Everything is flat! Oh joy! Most saps do not appreciate this fact, but living and walking in a hilly city for a couple years is, how do you say, bad? Here I can see and walk and bike for miles. I can look at a map and decide where I want to go and how I want to get there and not have to base my route off of weird things you don't commonly think about while looking at a map - things like topography, folks. Or ascent. Or elevation. Or "degree of difficulty." Can't believe I ever did that. I can go forever here! Just watch me.
Attractive people abound! Sweet Moses! I'm sorry, but something must be sullied in the Bay Area's gene pool. I'm genuinely not a superficial person, but honestly - who are these people?! Did I mistakenly walk into a swanky photo shoot? On one hand it's cool because there's a load of saccharine eye candy to boot, but on the other hand it's depressing because I've never felt more unsightly and ogreish. I'm poorly cast, it's plain to see, but I'll keep my chin up and continue to bat lashes at you sexy creatures.
The alpha males. Boo! Boo boo boo! But hey, I knew I'd find you douche bags hanging out somewhere around here. Hey, look, it's a pack of late 30-somethings taking over the bar on a Friday night as if it were their freshman years in college... only now receding hairlines and impotence have long since set in, and that's definitely not sexy. Dudes! Sure, I'll get ya another shot of Jager, bro. I'll trade you for that thin silver chain that's furled in your chest hair. I mean, I do sorta like how you had to shave the patch there at the top to stop it from connecting to... to your neck? Is that right? Your beard or neck, connecting to your chest hair? Hmm. Remarkable. I couldn't pull that off if I shaved my head and glued all the hair to my gullet. But you have seemingly achieved this effortlessly! Congrats, bro!
Cheap beer. It's baaack! In fact, it's everywhere! People here are not above or below drinking it. A lot of it. It's all for one and one for all. There are few beer snobs, and those who are, for some reason, just aren't above a good ol' bottle of Cream Dog (Budweiser) or Miller Lite. Sweet! You mean I don't have to order an IPA or something brewed in the hills of Northwest? Huzzah!
Apartment hunting. First off, there's no lines or open houses with people handing over a life's work of information or documentation to some shady landlord just to rent some 300-square-foot closet. There are actually more apartments than people here, so you have what is called a "choice." What's more, since there is a surplus, there actually exist companies to help building owners rent their units and vice versa. For $0, these companies will help you find a place and drive you to them. I know?! No more of the whole I-am-touring-this-shit-hole-because-some-
dude-died-here-and-I-can't-wait-to-get-in thing. Forget it! This is something new and cool and totally better. We have selection!
The seasons. Somehow I unlearned them in San Francisco, and likewise, my wardrobe hath too. Everything is buzzing around here, and it's only getting warmer. No more of intermittent nice-ish days only to be succeeded by a chilly, gray Monday that peaks at 45 degrees at any given time of the year. Nope. Though there are extreme highs and lows here throughout the year, when they're here they're here. It's called consistency. No tomfoolery. If it's that time of year, it's that time of year, no questions asked.
The bums (or lack thereof). All right, guys. Where are they? You really expect me to believe there are no bums here? Are you kidding me? None?! Really, it's OK, Chicago. I've seen my fair share. Too many, in fact. So bring them out in droves. It will be fine - I won't leave. I'm in my second week here and I've seen, what, I think just two bums? Two! That's like, let's see, one more than one and a whopping average of one a week! In San Francisco I'd be lucky to encounter less than two bums on the same block; and nine times out of 10 they'd be naked from the waist down and soiling themselves. So what does Chicago do differently? This city has 3 million people for crying out loud! San Francisco has less than 800,000! Be ashamed, Bay Area. Oh, and get this: I encountered the most polite homeless person ever yesterday. He asked if I had change, and after saying I didn't he said, "God bless you! Have a fantastic day, sir! Thanks for the smile and courtesy!" Oh... oh my dear God. Hold it right there while I walk to Washington Mutual and liquidate my entire meager life savings. Into quarters. Straight coin. For you. The change you asked for! Here it is! You are just too freaking sweet. There, I feel better. And you do too!
The L. Good grief. First off, my friends' place that I'm crashing at almost gets hit by the damn thing. I'm not too sure how they designed the rail system for this thing, but it's clear that the houses and buildings were here long before they even considered installing any form of public transportation (and understandably so). It runs over and between roofs, and underground as well. If I am awakened at 4 a.m. by what sounds like an out-of-control 18-wheeler headed right for the living room, and in turn my face, I simply turn over on the couch and remind my sleeping self that it's just the L train, which will bend approximately three feet before it can touch the building's foundation. Great planning right there.
Everything is flat! Oh joy! Most saps do not appreciate this fact, but living and walking in a hilly city for a couple years is, how do you say, bad? Here I can see and walk and bike for miles. I can look at a map and decide where I want to go and how I want to get there and not have to base my route off of weird things you don't commonly think about while looking at a map - things like topography, folks. Or ascent. Or elevation. Or "degree of difficulty." Can't believe I ever did that. I can go forever here! Just watch me.
Attractive people abound! Sweet Moses! I'm sorry, but something must be sullied in the Bay Area's gene pool. I'm genuinely not a superficial person, but honestly - who are these people?! Did I mistakenly walk into a swanky photo shoot? On one hand it's cool because there's a load of saccharine eye candy to boot, but on the other hand it's depressing because I've never felt more unsightly and ogreish. I'm poorly cast, it's plain to see, but I'll keep my chin up and continue to bat lashes at you sexy creatures.
The alpha males. Boo! Boo boo boo! But hey, I knew I'd find you douche bags hanging out somewhere around here. Hey, look, it's a pack of late 30-somethings taking over the bar on a Friday night as if it were their freshman years in college... only now receding hairlines and impotence have long since set in, and that's definitely not sexy. Dudes! Sure, I'll get ya another shot of Jager, bro. I'll trade you for that thin silver chain that's furled in your chest hair. I mean, I do sorta like how you had to shave the patch there at the top to stop it from connecting to... to your neck? Is that right? Your beard or neck, connecting to your chest hair? Hmm. Remarkable. I couldn't pull that off if I shaved my head and glued all the hair to my gullet. But you have seemingly achieved this effortlessly! Congrats, bro!
Cheap beer. It's baaack! In fact, it's everywhere! People here are not above or below drinking it. A lot of it. It's all for one and one for all. There are few beer snobs, and those who are, for some reason, just aren't above a good ol' bottle of Cream Dog (Budweiser) or Miller Lite. Sweet! You mean I don't have to order an IPA or something brewed in the hills of Northwest? Huzzah!
Apartment hunting. First off, there's no lines or open houses with people handing over a life's work of information or documentation to some shady landlord just to rent some 300-square-foot closet. There are actually more apartments than people here, so you have what is called a "choice." What's more, since there is a surplus, there actually exist companies to help building owners rent their units and vice versa. For $0, these companies will help you find a place and drive you to them. I know?! No more of the whole I-am-touring-this-shit-hole-because-some-
dude-died-here-and-I-can't-wait-to-get-in thing. Forget it! This is something new and cool and totally better. We have selection!
The seasons. Somehow I unlearned them in San Francisco, and likewise, my wardrobe hath too. Everything is buzzing around here, and it's only getting warmer. No more of intermittent nice-ish days only to be succeeded by a chilly, gray Monday that peaks at 45 degrees at any given time of the year. Nope. Though there are extreme highs and lows here throughout the year, when they're here they're here. It's called consistency. No tomfoolery. If it's that time of year, it's that time of year, no questions asked.
On Social Media and how the B-M New Media Team is, Give or Take, 100 Times Better Than 1999's "Wild Wild West"
I posted this one over at Harold's Kids.
For those of you who don't know, Burson-Marsteller has a New Media Team, which, incidentally, is one of my favorite Burson-Marsteller programs.
Why? Because the current media landscape is changing so feverishly that it’s (sadly) incredibly easy to miss out on the latest and greatest buzz being discussed in various communities. The New Media Team is a step in the right direction for attempting to address this onslaught of change (good change, mind you) that’s happening each and every day.
New Media Team discussions are free-form slices of pie of varying flavors and dimensions, and are great chances for us to share what we’ve each been seeing, hearing and doing out "there."
Let's go into this "there" thing a bit more...
The common analogy to new media is that it’s like the Wild West right now, and, despite how much i dislike corny and overplayed analogies and metaphors, there’s actually quite a bit of truth to this one. Everyone is staking their claims in various communities, but by no means is one single person or institution a bona fide expert. We are all vying.
(A wordy aside: Right image [not included here] should not be confined to the cow"boy" mentality, per se, because, well, we all know cow"girls" did and do exist... They're very real, too. I just didn't have time to photoshop long locks of hair on our hero there. No, this image could/should just be interpreted as a cow"person" who's making a foray into wonderfully uncharted things, be they whatever you wish. A closing remark: the only stipulation I had while searching for this image was that it could in no way, shape or form be from the tragic 1999 film "Wild Wild West," which, as we know all too well, starred Will Smith, Salma Hayek and a metal robot spider. Quite simply, this was a wretched piece of cinematography that cost millions and millions of dollars to make. A proverbial "Waterworld," if you will. The horror.)
No, social media, by its undefined definition, is too viral to have classes, too infantile to be mature or pretentious and far too new for anyone/anything to be an all-knowing source. People, there are no rules here! In fact, that’s really what new media’s all about anyway. Anyone can play. We can all publish. We become our own authors, our own voices, our own little brands heaved with caution or carelessness to the blogosphere and myriad click-of-a-button publishing galaxies in between.
Publications are embracing these tools because, well, honestly, they’re kind of dying on the vine. They have to play nice. They have to start incorporating multimedia and other interactive elements on their sites because that's what people are eating up. For anyone who follows, say, maybe 100 people on Twitter, especially some of the major players who Tweet on average 50 times a day, it takes you little time to realize it’s a goldmine for real-time news. It’s hard for me to recount the number of times I’ve discovered news first on Twitter, only to read about it hours or, gasp, days later in formal publications. They just can’t keep up with their hulking beats, lead-times, editors, advertisers, etc. But Twitter is just one small example. A great, popular example no doubt, but still just one. There's so much more to come.
I really feel like we are at the beginning of what will be, and already is in many ways, a great reformation of the way people create, disseminate and consume news. For sensationalists like me, it’s quite thrilling and empowering being able to engage and share things like we do.
So that was long. But yes. The answer is yes. The Burson-Marsteller New Media Team is very worthwhile and a breath of fresh air. While it’s true that all of these new mediums might not be the best fit for every single client on any agency's roster, it behooves us as PR professionals to be on the bleeding edge of all of this wizardry that’s taking place here. Because someday it will be entirely relevant for just about everybody.
We have too big of a stake in this to not be knowledgeable about it.
For those of you who don't know, Burson-Marsteller has a New Media Team, which, incidentally, is one of my favorite Burson-Marsteller programs.
Why? Because the current media landscape is changing so feverishly that it’s (sadly) incredibly easy to miss out on the latest and greatest buzz being discussed in various communities. The New Media Team is a step in the right direction for attempting to address this onslaught of change (good change, mind you) that’s happening each and every day.
New Media Team discussions are free-form slices of pie of varying flavors and dimensions, and are great chances for us to share what we’ve each been seeing, hearing and doing out "there."
Let's go into this "there" thing a bit more...
The common analogy to new media is that it’s like the Wild West right now, and, despite how much i dislike corny and overplayed analogies and metaphors, there’s actually quite a bit of truth to this one. Everyone is staking their claims in various communities, but by no means is one single person or institution a bona fide expert. We are all vying.
(A wordy aside: Right image [not included here] should not be confined to the cow"boy" mentality, per se, because, well, we all know cow"girls" did and do exist... They're very real, too. I just didn't have time to photoshop long locks of hair on our hero there. No, this image could/should just be interpreted as a cow"person" who's making a foray into wonderfully uncharted things, be they whatever you wish. A closing remark: the only stipulation I had while searching for this image was that it could in no way, shape or form be from the tragic 1999 film "Wild Wild West," which, as we know all too well, starred Will Smith, Salma Hayek and a metal robot spider. Quite simply, this was a wretched piece of cinematography that cost millions and millions of dollars to make. A proverbial "Waterworld," if you will. The horror.)
No, social media, by its undefined definition, is too viral to have classes, too infantile to be mature or pretentious and far too new for anyone/anything to be an all-knowing source. People, there are no rules here! In fact, that’s really what new media’s all about anyway. Anyone can play. We can all publish. We become our own authors, our own voices, our own little brands heaved with caution or carelessness to the blogosphere and myriad click-of-a-button publishing galaxies in between.
Publications are embracing these tools because, well, honestly, they’re kind of dying on the vine. They have to play nice. They have to start incorporating multimedia and other interactive elements on their sites because that's what people are eating up. For anyone who follows, say, maybe 100 people on Twitter, especially some of the major players who Tweet on average 50 times a day, it takes you little time to realize it’s a goldmine for real-time news. It’s hard for me to recount the number of times I’ve discovered news first on Twitter, only to read about it hours or, gasp, days later in formal publications. They just can’t keep up with their hulking beats, lead-times, editors, advertisers, etc. But Twitter is just one small example. A great, popular example no doubt, but still just one. There's so much more to come.
I really feel like we are at the beginning of what will be, and already is in many ways, a great reformation of the way people create, disseminate and consume news. For sensationalists like me, it’s quite thrilling and empowering being able to engage and share things like we do.
So that was long. But yes. The answer is yes. The Burson-Marsteller New Media Team is very worthwhile and a breath of fresh air. While it’s true that all of these new mediums might not be the best fit for every single client on any agency's roster, it behooves us as PR professionals to be on the bleeding edge of all of this wizardry that’s taking place here. Because someday it will be entirely relevant for just about everybody.
We have too big of a stake in this to not be knowledgeable about it.
My Barber is not Bilingual
Oh, how awkward was this one? My inaugural haircut in San Francisco was at the hand of a man named Bin (yes, like the container, but pronounced "Bean"). Already seated in his chair, it became apparent that Bin did not and still does not speak English. It probably goes without saying, but this small fact made for a rather, uh, interesting haircut experience.
Let's expand upon this. Try conveying what you'd ideally like your hair to look like: what you maybe don't like about your hair; what your do isn't doing for you; where you'd like to leave it long; where you'd like to bring it in a little; how you'd like it styled on the sides, in the back; for the ladies, what color you'd like it to be; the addition or removal of bangs; gents, the length of sideburns... all of these things without using words. Kinda difficult, eh?
Luckily I did not have to explain things like bangs or highlights to Bin. I only wanted the common-man's haircut for crying out loud! All this should require is a fast-food-like order for a No. 1 or something. But not for Bin. I had to physically and spatially diagram this seemingly extraneous request with abstract hand gestures, circling around my cranium, running through my hair, elevating up and around my ears, deploying a streamlined motion in the back (complete with sound effects), all while Bin's eyes followed my hands and arms like he was watching a fly buzzing around the room.
Poor Bin! Poor me!
Then the sheers. Oh, Bin. Bin, Bin, Bin. I don't think Bin had yet mastered the sheers - the trusty blades any sane, employed barber should be more than proficient with. Bin just couldn't get the hang of it. Keep in mind there was absolutely no conversation happening, so one horrible haircut was being wreaked in a silent room, the two of us staring into the mirror with confusion as each snip revealed a different patch of my scalp.
I wanted to cry. I think I almost did actually. It was horrible.
I walked out of there looking like I had been speeding on the highway, and at some point during the joyride had leaned out the window and dragged my skull on the pavement for half a mile. I, my hair and I, we looked injured, and I think Bin knew what he had done. He knew this was certainly not the best cut of his (probably early, probably not blossoming) career, so we sort of parted ways like we were breaking up... without using words.
But Bin and I knew we probably wouldn't be seeing each other ever again.
Let's expand upon this. Try conveying what you'd ideally like your hair to look like: what you maybe don't like about your hair; what your do isn't doing for you; where you'd like to leave it long; where you'd like to bring it in a little; how you'd like it styled on the sides, in the back; for the ladies, what color you'd like it to be; the addition or removal of bangs; gents, the length of sideburns... all of these things without using words. Kinda difficult, eh?
Luckily I did not have to explain things like bangs or highlights to Bin. I only wanted the common-man's haircut for crying out loud! All this should require is a fast-food-like order for a No. 1 or something. But not for Bin. I had to physically and spatially diagram this seemingly extraneous request with abstract hand gestures, circling around my cranium, running through my hair, elevating up and around my ears, deploying a streamlined motion in the back (complete with sound effects), all while Bin's eyes followed my hands and arms like he was watching a fly buzzing around the room.
Poor Bin! Poor me!
Then the sheers. Oh, Bin. Bin, Bin, Bin. I don't think Bin had yet mastered the sheers - the trusty blades any sane, employed barber should be more than proficient with. Bin just couldn't get the hang of it. Keep in mind there was absolutely no conversation happening, so one horrible haircut was being wreaked in a silent room, the two of us staring into the mirror with confusion as each snip revealed a different patch of my scalp.
I wanted to cry. I think I almost did actually. It was horrible.
I walked out of there looking like I had been speeding on the highway, and at some point during the joyride had leaned out the window and dragged my skull on the pavement for half a mile. I, my hair and I, we looked injured, and I think Bin knew what he had done. He knew this was certainly not the best cut of his (probably early, probably not blossoming) career, so we sort of parted ways like we were breaking up... without using words.
But Bin and I knew we probably wouldn't be seeing each other ever again.
Indian Food is Free
Something weird just happened. Without me asking, a smiling Indian man handed me free Indian food. And it was delicious.
I visited Mehfil Indian Cuisine on the corner of 2nd and Folsom streets, which must be doing rather well for itself judging by the abundance of customers and lack of interest in my money.
I ordered chicken tikka masala, and quickly realized I only had a $100 bill in my wallet. I asked the cashier if he could break the bill, and he lowered his eyes to stare deeply into the register, shaking his head all the while. Then he shot up and glared into my eyes. It was pretty intense. But a huge smile took over his face and he exploded in laughter and said, "You eat free! Take it! You pay another time!"
OK! I will! Twist my arm, geeze.
A couple things...
One, why does this not happen more often? I'm saving this lucky $100 bill and whipping it out every chance I get. Maybe I'll get some more free stuff? Or maybe I'll be asked to relinquish whatever it is I thought I would be getting? We'll have to see.
Two, was this act truly a selfless one? Or was it an act of bravado that was supposed to speak for the impeccable quality of the food itself? Were they really that confident I would be honest and come back and like it and pay the difference? Even if I did, what would happen if I came back the very next day with the same $100 bill? Could I perpetually relive this experience and dine on succulent chicken tikka masala for the rest of my natural-born life?! Wow! Can you imagine such a thing?!
Three, is it even possible for a legally operating restaurant to sell plates for less than $5 and reach a point of financial security where they just... don't really care to collect payment for food anymore? Hmm. Perhaps they get a kick out of seeing customers leave as happy as their own cash-register man? Or is there a dark underbelly to this grinning Indian establishment? One that's sullied with illegal curry imports and the street dealing of the substance?
I visited Mehfil Indian Cuisine on the corner of 2nd and Folsom streets, which must be doing rather well for itself judging by the abundance of customers and lack of interest in my money.
I ordered chicken tikka masala, and quickly realized I only had a $100 bill in my wallet. I asked the cashier if he could break the bill, and he lowered his eyes to stare deeply into the register, shaking his head all the while. Then he shot up and glared into my eyes. It was pretty intense. But a huge smile took over his face and he exploded in laughter and said, "You eat free! Take it! You pay another time!"
OK! I will! Twist my arm, geeze.
A couple things...
One, why does this not happen more often? I'm saving this lucky $100 bill and whipping it out every chance I get. Maybe I'll get some more free stuff? Or maybe I'll be asked to relinquish whatever it is I thought I would be getting? We'll have to see.
Two, was this act truly a selfless one? Or was it an act of bravado that was supposed to speak for the impeccable quality of the food itself? Were they really that confident I would be honest and come back and like it and pay the difference? Even if I did, what would happen if I came back the very next day with the same $100 bill? Could I perpetually relive this experience and dine on succulent chicken tikka masala for the rest of my natural-born life?! Wow! Can you imagine such a thing?!
Three, is it even possible for a legally operating restaurant to sell plates for less than $5 and reach a point of financial security where they just... don't really care to collect payment for food anymore? Hmm. Perhaps they get a kick out of seeing customers leave as happy as their own cash-register man? Or is there a dark underbelly to this grinning Indian establishment? One that's sullied with illegal curry imports and the street dealing of the substance?
Dude Broke His Foot
Last week I was walking near the corner of California and Battery streets when I witnessed a particularly remarkable injury transpire. If you've passed through this intersection before, you're well aware of the sharp drop-off between sidewalk and street.
My eyes were drawn to the opposite corner where a man stood, fully clad in loose-fitting business attire, looking very much out of his element and emitting a certain stench of arrogance. Everything he wore was way, way too big - starting bottom-up with his shoes that undoubtedly, at one point, belonged to an emo clown; pants that were stolen from the set of the "U Can't Touch This" music video; a suit coat fit for a mildly obese Ichabod Crane; a shirt collar with ample room for a couple gullets; and to top it all off, a poorly tied tie.
So the crosswalk sign turned white and everyone took cautious steps down onto the street. Except our hero. God knows (or, actually, probably hasn't the foggiest) what was going through this chap's head. He took his first step without much concern for, well, anything.
Yeah, and then he fell and broke his foot.
Have you ever walked or tip-toed through a dark, empty house? That's how he should've treated this situation. But no. This was more like a bull-in-a-china-shop thing, cast in broad daylight in front of hundreds of watchful Financial District lunch-goers who secretly hoped he would fall so that they would have something interesting to tell colleagues upon returning to their offices. Poor guy just spaced out at the most inopportune moment. He took a step forward that would have been perfect for a flat surface... except there was no flat surface.
That's when he plummeted. His foot might've broken his fall, but the fall sure as heck broke his foot - bending at some awkward-ass, painfully unnatural angle. This was all followed by an equally gut-wrenching moan, which in the hustle and bustle of the city can best be recounted as, "Noooaaahhhooowww! OW! OW! OW!"
Noah-OW is right, buddy! Good grief! Did you see that abyss you just jumped into? What were you thinking? We're talking a chasm-caliber rift here. Good lord! Even I felt the pain reverberating through the pavement! Are you right in the head, man?
Walk it off, junior. Back to work.
Walk it off, junior. Back to work.
And Now: Dave's Long-Winded, Overly Sentimental Goodbye!
Lord. Have. Mercy. What a freakishly awesome ride it's been…
From fixing paper-jams in our elite fleet of printers to helping pitch and win big new business - SHIFT has allowed me to do anything and everything under the all-powerful PR sun. And I'd be nowhere without you, my kick-ass friends and teammates.
So what could this dork possibly say about our agency that hasn't already been said 1,000 times over? Probably nothing, but I will try my damndest to recount some of the memories I am putting in my pocket and taking with me to Chicago:
1. When I sat on the ninth floor, there was this one time when I got very thirsty (and lazy) and drank the distilled water in my cubicle's earthquake pack. Chris, buddy, this took place in your current cube. You might want to take a look at your survivor's kit - I'd hate for you to be parched when the big one hits.
2. On two separate occasions I have used the eighth-floor men's restroom at the same time as a woman (the same woman each time!). It was both uncomfortable and exhilarating. Men, heed the following: use the facilities with great caution. To quell obvious rumors, this person is not physically handicapped, mentally challenged or newly transgendered in any way, shape or form – she is simply too freaking lazy to walk up or down one measly flight of stairs.
3. Upon moving to California from Michigan, hordes of SHIFTers informed me that I have a "rather noticeable accent," which was something I had never been told before. Cool?! So it should come as no surprise that when they asked me, "Where are you from?" I honest to goodness replied with a trepid, "America." The horror! Far too broad, Dave. They wanted to know which state, dummy!
4. I once ate two too many Specialty's cookies in a client meeting and became heavily, heavily sedated. I mean, you know how hot the ninth-floor conference room can get, right? Throw a couple pounds of cookie dough in me and I'm bound to fade fast into comatose. But the best part was coming to and seeing my client directly across from me… doing the exact same thing! From that moment on we shared a profound, unspoken bond.
5. When piloting Jott, a free voice-to-text service, I still can recall the awkwardness of a particular message Cathy sent to me. It read (and I quote): "Hi, babe. Can you e-mail me Johnnie's cell-phone number?" Whoa, Cathy. Hmm… All I'll say is I guess phonetically "Dave" does or could sound a lot like "babe." Who knew? Poor ol' Jott just gave it its best ballpark shot before firing away. This would certainly not bode well for a Jott case-study, should SHIFT ever pitch them. (Had to do it. Sorry, Cathy. [Important aside to Mr. Mike Fiske: no cause for concern on this one, I promise!])
6. On my way out one day, I took the stairs instead of the elevator and by the fourth floor I could distinctly hear Ozzie belting out "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?" by Al Green, which was on the radio. "How can you mend a broken man?/How can a loser ever win?/Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again." You might not think it, but this fragile man (Ozzie) has a spectacular voice. I told him this and he covered his face with both hands. Truth be told, Ozzie's a total softie. Get him listening and singing to the smooth, soulful sounds of any R&B ditty and you, my friend, will have a confidant in this building for eternity.
7. Lest we forget that dancing with a client is always, um, weird? So just pray you'll never have to. For those who have: how awful, huh? Praise Jebus I had a couple drinks in me! This not-so-smooth Caucasian criminal is out of place on a dance-floor to begin with, so when you throw a client into the mix who was literally, physically twisting my arm to get down with my bad self, it quickly became a grossly forced charade. But she made me look good, that's for damn sure - spinning around and cutting up rug like a Whirling Dervish while I pretty much just stood there and bobbed up and down as if I were some sort of human buoy on a wave. Hey-o!
I could not have asked for better friends and colleagues in y'all. These past two years have been a blast, and I'll miss you kids and this fair city dearly. Be well, SHIFT, and keep in touch.
Signing off (later today),
From fixing paper-jams in our elite fleet of printers to helping pitch and win big new business - SHIFT has allowed me to do anything and everything under the all-powerful PR sun. And I'd be nowhere without you, my kick-ass friends and teammates.
So what could this dork possibly say about our agency that hasn't already been said 1,000 times over? Probably nothing, but I will try my damndest to recount some of the memories I am putting in my pocket and taking with me to Chicago:
1. When I sat on the ninth floor, there was this one time when I got very thirsty (and lazy) and drank the distilled water in my cubicle's earthquake pack. Chris, buddy, this took place in your current cube. You might want to take a look at your survivor's kit - I'd hate for you to be parched when the big one hits.
2. On two separate occasions I have used the eighth-floor men's restroom at the same time as a woman (the same woman each time!). It was both uncomfortable and exhilarating. Men, heed the following: use the facilities with great caution. To quell obvious rumors, this person is not physically handicapped, mentally challenged or newly transgendered in any way, shape or form – she is simply too freaking lazy to walk up or down one measly flight of stairs.
3. Upon moving to California from Michigan, hordes of SHIFTers informed me that I have a "rather noticeable accent," which was something I had never been told before. Cool?! So it should come as no surprise that when they asked me, "Where are you from?" I honest to goodness replied with a trepid, "America." The horror! Far too broad, Dave. They wanted to know which state, dummy!
4. I once ate two too many Specialty's cookies in a client meeting and became heavily, heavily sedated. I mean, you know how hot the ninth-floor conference room can get, right? Throw a couple pounds of cookie dough in me and I'm bound to fade fast into comatose. But the best part was coming to and seeing my client directly across from me… doing the exact same thing! From that moment on we shared a profound, unspoken bond.
5. When piloting Jott, a free voice-to-text service, I still can recall the awkwardness of a particular message Cathy sent to me. It read (and I quote): "Hi, babe. Can you e-mail me Johnnie's cell-phone number?" Whoa, Cathy. Hmm… All I'll say is I guess phonetically "Dave" does or could sound a lot like "babe." Who knew? Poor ol' Jott just gave it its best ballpark shot before firing away. This would certainly not bode well for a Jott case-study, should SHIFT ever pitch them. (Had to do it. Sorry, Cathy. [Important aside to Mr. Mike Fiske: no cause for concern on this one, I promise!])
6. On my way out one day, I took the stairs instead of the elevator and by the fourth floor I could distinctly hear Ozzie belting out "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?" by Al Green, which was on the radio. "How can you mend a broken man?/How can a loser ever win?/Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again." You might not think it, but this fragile man (Ozzie) has a spectacular voice. I told him this and he covered his face with both hands. Truth be told, Ozzie's a total softie. Get him listening and singing to the smooth, soulful sounds of any R&B ditty and you, my friend, will have a confidant in this building for eternity.
7. Lest we forget that dancing with a client is always, um, weird? So just pray you'll never have to. For those who have: how awful, huh? Praise Jebus I had a couple drinks in me! This not-so-smooth Caucasian criminal is out of place on a dance-floor to begin with, so when you throw a client into the mix who was literally, physically twisting my arm to get down with my bad self, it quickly became a grossly forced charade. But she made me look good, that's for damn sure - spinning around and cutting up rug like a Whirling Dervish while I pretty much just stood there and bobbed up and down as if I were some sort of human buoy on a wave. Hey-o!
I could not have asked for better friends and colleagues in y'all. These past two years have been a blast, and I'll miss you kids and this fair city dearly. Be well, SHIFT, and keep in touch.
Signing off (later today),
Dave
This Apartment is... Nice?
San Franciscans have been through it before: scouring craigslist for a place to live and then showing up at an open-house with about 50 other desperate individuals who are ready, willing and eager to sign their lives away to spend one awful calendar year in a makeshift abode.
They clench copies of credit reports, bank statements, letters of recommendation, proofs of employment, proofs of citizenship, birth certificates, social-security cards and so on and so forth. If this is your first open-house experience, you poor sap, you are likely holding none of these documents, and you certainly do not end up living in said place. Onward and upward.
My two most favorite apartment-hunting stories both involve death, which is pretty cool if you ask me.
First, I knew something wasn't quite right when the building manager came across as being incredibly nervous. Building managers, clad in sweat pants or dirty jeans, care little about their personal appearances. Using this logic, individuals who care little about something as basic as their own face will not have much concern for other things. But can you really blame them? Why try to impress throngs of people when they will clamor over any apartment, regardless of its condition? It's just too easy.
Anyway, he was hiding something. Then he came out with it.
"Um, so, yeah... It's been newly repainted, has clean hardwood floors and... likeImentionedtheprevioustenantdiedherebecauseofaheartattack. The front room also gets great sunlight in the afternoon."
"Whoa, whoa! Did you just say this place is vacant because someone died here?"
"Huh?! Oh, that? Well, I mean, yeah, technically... I think we have to tell you that, you know? Like, obligated or something. But yeah. Yes."
"Bye."
For the second story, I beg of you to remember this: do not tour, consider living in or live in apartments that are next to, across the street from, above, in or part of transvestite strip clubs. These are usually not the safest areas in town.
The building manager wore coke-bottle glasses and was cross-eyed to the point where he could carefully examine the pimples on his nose. Unlike the man in the first story, this guy was not nervous at all, but instead was just a really creepy person.
"Just repainted the entire thing. New paint all over. We don't require a security deposit. Or a credit report. Or a background check."
***WARNING!*** If you ever, ever, ever hear these words, turn and leave immediately. Start screaming and running and pay the transvestite strippers and hookers on the corner no mind as you make your way home to safety.
I did not heed such advice, primarily because I had never received such advice. Bummer. So I went up to see the room, and when I say the place was a murder scene, I mean the place was a murder scene. The "new paint" was haphazardly thrown on walls, minus the one wall that surely needed it most - a wall with a huge blood spray on it. A freaking blood spray. The spray was strewn in an arc that led up to the ceiling, and then I noticed the chandelier also had blood flecks covering it, inside and out.
"Fresh paint, huh? What the hell is this then?"
"Oh. Well I'll be... That there must be wine. Yup, gotta be the vino."
"Bye."
They clench copies of credit reports, bank statements, letters of recommendation, proofs of employment, proofs of citizenship, birth certificates, social-security cards and so on and so forth. If this is your first open-house experience, you poor sap, you are likely holding none of these documents, and you certainly do not end up living in said place. Onward and upward.
My two most favorite apartment-hunting stories both involve death, which is pretty cool if you ask me.
First, I knew something wasn't quite right when the building manager came across as being incredibly nervous. Building managers, clad in sweat pants or dirty jeans, care little about their personal appearances. Using this logic, individuals who care little about something as basic as their own face will not have much concern for other things. But can you really blame them? Why try to impress throngs of people when they will clamor over any apartment, regardless of its condition? It's just too easy.
Anyway, he was hiding something. Then he came out with it.
"Um, so, yeah... It's been newly repainted, has clean hardwood floors and... likeImentionedtheprevioustenantdiedherebecauseofaheartattack. The front room also gets great sunlight in the afternoon."
"Whoa, whoa! Did you just say this place is vacant because someone died here?"
"Huh?! Oh, that? Well, I mean, yeah, technically... I think we have to tell you that, you know? Like, obligated or something. But yeah. Yes."
"Bye."
For the second story, I beg of you to remember this: do not tour, consider living in or live in apartments that are next to, across the street from, above, in or part of transvestite strip clubs. These are usually not the safest areas in town.
The building manager wore coke-bottle glasses and was cross-eyed to the point where he could carefully examine the pimples on his nose. Unlike the man in the first story, this guy was not nervous at all, but instead was just a really creepy person.
"Just repainted the entire thing. New paint all over. We don't require a security deposit. Or a credit report. Or a background check."
***WARNING!*** If you ever, ever, ever hear these words, turn and leave immediately. Start screaming and running and pay the transvestite strippers and hookers on the corner no mind as you make your way home to safety.
I did not heed such advice, primarily because I had never received such advice. Bummer. So I went up to see the room, and when I say the place was a murder scene, I mean the place was a murder scene. The "new paint" was haphazardly thrown on walls, minus the one wall that surely needed it most - a wall with a huge blood spray on it. A freaking blood spray. The spray was strewn in an arc that led up to the ceiling, and then I noticed the chandelier also had blood flecks covering it, inside and out.
"Fresh paint, huh? What the hell is this then?"
"Oh. Well I'll be... That there must be wine. Yup, gotta be the vino."
"Bye."
Never Ever Sleep With Candles
In the summer of 2006, my younger brother and I decided to drive the 600 miles from Detroit to Manchester, Tenn., for the Bonnaroo Music Festival.
We may as well have not packed clothes (God knows we wouldn't have been the only ones), for Tennessee is not all that chilly in June. With little more than a van, a tent, some crackers and select beverages, we prepared for something we were so very unprepared for.
For those who have been, you know Bonnaroo is quite a ridiculous scene. You are all too familiar with 21st-century hippies, stark-white/translucent nudists covered in mud, overflowing port-a-potties and the sheer visual calamity of drug-addled masses. But in those four hazy, dirty, downright filthy days, you also probably saw and heard some great musical performances, which, after all, is what brought you to a 700-acre farm in Tennessee, right?
After setting up our tent the wrong way (and deciding not to do it over again correctly), Drew and I found out just how muggy, sweltering and disgusting Tennessee, or any place for that matter, can get. That evening, behemoth mosquitoes came out of the fields and forests with rebel force.
All Drew and I had to protect and defend ourselves was our poorly constructed tent and two citronella candles, which we at first wielded, which we then swung around like light sabers, which ultimately failed us quite miserably. We were being consumed.
So what would have been the next logical solution? Sleep in the car or a port-a-potty, perhaps? Barter with nearby hippie hoards for mosquito repellent? Smear mud all over ourselves as a cloaking agent?
Unfortunately we didn't consider a single one of these. No, instead we chose to zip ourselves in our tent with the citronella candles. Smart!
Sometime around 4 a.m. Drew and I completely passed out, exhausted, tattered with bites and probably a couple quarts shy of the average or preferred human-blood level. The blood feast was one that would have made the Red Cross jealous, and we later felt the itchy repercussions.
I was the first to come to, and I immediately noticed the remnants of the citronella candles lying next to me, smoldering in a black pile of ashes. Those candles had burned like cannon fire all night, and had completely torched themselves into oblivion... all within the confines of our tent. How the entire thing didn't burn to the ground is beyond my comprehension.
When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I noticed a thick black film on my fingers. And then I saw poor Drew and his face. Oh, his face!
I soon realized we had slept in a smoke incubator throughout night. Drew's face was just absolutely tarnished, completely covered in soot. He looked like he was wearing one of those mud masks you get at a spa, or had been up all night sweeping Tennessee's chimneys, or had been mining for coal deep within the bowels of the earth, or was some sort of human phoenix birthed from the ashes of his former fiery self.
He awoke, and the whites of his eyes had the most magnificent contrast with the sheer blackness of his soiled face. And then he saw me! I had the same thing going on! We thought this was hilarious, but then were dismayed at how stupid we were/are. We started coughing and blowing our noses and discovered the soot was not just on us, but in us as well. Our noses, our throats, our lungs, our eyes, our ears, under our nails.
Since there is little to no water at Bonnaroo, we washed ourselves with Budweiser, which made even less sense, and only attracted other creepy-crawly things in the coming days.
We may as well have not packed clothes (God knows we wouldn't have been the only ones), for Tennessee is not all that chilly in June. With little more than a van, a tent, some crackers and select beverages, we prepared for something we were so very unprepared for.
For those who have been, you know Bonnaroo is quite a ridiculous scene. You are all too familiar with 21st-century hippies, stark-white/translucent nudists covered in mud, overflowing port-a-potties and the sheer visual calamity of drug-addled masses. But in those four hazy, dirty, downright filthy days, you also probably saw and heard some great musical performances, which, after all, is what brought you to a 700-acre farm in Tennessee, right?
After setting up our tent the wrong way (and deciding not to do it over again correctly), Drew and I found out just how muggy, sweltering and disgusting Tennessee, or any place for that matter, can get. That evening, behemoth mosquitoes came out of the fields and forests with rebel force.
All Drew and I had to protect and defend ourselves was our poorly constructed tent and two citronella candles, which we at first wielded, which we then swung around like light sabers, which ultimately failed us quite miserably. We were being consumed.
So what would have been the next logical solution? Sleep in the car or a port-a-potty, perhaps? Barter with nearby hippie hoards for mosquito repellent? Smear mud all over ourselves as a cloaking agent?
Unfortunately we didn't consider a single one of these. No, instead we chose to zip ourselves in our tent with the citronella candles. Smart!
Sometime around 4 a.m. Drew and I completely passed out, exhausted, tattered with bites and probably a couple quarts shy of the average or preferred human-blood level. The blood feast was one that would have made the Red Cross jealous, and we later felt the itchy repercussions.
I was the first to come to, and I immediately noticed the remnants of the citronella candles lying next to me, smoldering in a black pile of ashes. Those candles had burned like cannon fire all night, and had completely torched themselves into oblivion... all within the confines of our tent. How the entire thing didn't burn to the ground is beyond my comprehension.
When I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I noticed a thick black film on my fingers. And then I saw poor Drew and his face. Oh, his face!
I soon realized we had slept in a smoke incubator throughout night. Drew's face was just absolutely tarnished, completely covered in soot. He looked like he was wearing one of those mud masks you get at a spa, or had been up all night sweeping Tennessee's chimneys, or had been mining for coal deep within the bowels of the earth, or was some sort of human phoenix birthed from the ashes of his former fiery self.
He awoke, and the whites of his eyes had the most magnificent contrast with the sheer blackness of his soiled face. And then he saw me! I had the same thing going on! We thought this was hilarious, but then were dismayed at how stupid we were/are. We started coughing and blowing our noses and discovered the soot was not just on us, but in us as well. Our noses, our throats, our lungs, our eyes, our ears, under our nails.
Since there is little to no water at Bonnaroo, we washed ourselves with Budweiser, which made even less sense, and only attracted other creepy-crawly things in the coming days.
Timber!
So I broke my first chair. And let me tell you, there's nothing quite like taking something so commonplace for granted - such as your seat - and then spontaneously plummeting toward the earth... all before 9 a.m.
Talk about a rude awakening.
Sad story. This, probably the culmination of my weight, has been a strange and trying time. Truth be told, there is probably no way to feel good about breaking a chair, especially an office chair that was designed for long-term use by fatsos. Yes, it seems I, too, have taken durability to school. And it don't feel all that great.
While reading the newspaper, I suddenly found myself staring at the ceiling, falling backward, to the side, then down, down, down, until finally the ground was left with no other option than to try its turn at holding me up.
Now, it's one thing to break a chair, and it's another thing to break a chair in a crowded conference room. People tend to notice something like this. Those astute pricks. Carry on! Pay me no mind! So what if the ass of this chair is now detached from the body? I don't know how I did it, but I did it! I'm gonna pick myself up off the floor now, and when my head breaks the surface of this table, it would be swell if I didn't see 12 faces staring at me, k?
Buuuuut no. There you all are. Hi! Yeah, it was me. The chair is now broken. Good morning to you!
Talk about a rude awakening.
Sad story. This, probably the culmination of my weight, has been a strange and trying time. Truth be told, there is probably no way to feel good about breaking a chair, especially an office chair that was designed for long-term use by fatsos. Yes, it seems I, too, have taken durability to school. And it don't feel all that great.
While reading the newspaper, I suddenly found myself staring at the ceiling, falling backward, to the side, then down, down, down, until finally the ground was left with no other option than to try its turn at holding me up.
Now, it's one thing to break a chair, and it's another thing to break a chair in a crowded conference room. People tend to notice something like this. Those astute pricks. Carry on! Pay me no mind! So what if the ass of this chair is now detached from the body? I don't know how I did it, but I did it! I'm gonna pick myself up off the floor now, and when my head breaks the surface of this table, it would be swell if I didn't see 12 faces staring at me, k?
Buuuuut no. There you all are. Hi! Yeah, it was me. The chair is now broken. Good morning to you!
Readings From the Gospel, According to Al
(Note: I also posted this on Unspun.)
Apparently being a former
The context for this post is Al Gore's recent speech on environmental activism and his incorporation of (brace yourselves) religion into the topic.
Oh no he didn't. Yup, he went there.
On Jan. 31 in
Gore then addressed the state of our environment and delved into how those of the Baptist faith can do their parts in combating global warming by supporting programs like scientific research, green technology, renewable energy, recycling, apocalypses, oracles and prophecies.
Well now you've got my attention, Al.
Using strong verbiage, dramatic pauses, stirring PowerPoint animations and other tools like doctrine, fire and brimstone, Gore then quoted Bible verses to support his save-the-earth message. He also warned of Old Testament-style famines and floods, should earth not clean up its act.
Following are some quotes from Gore's speech and my personal reactions to each.
Exhibit A: "'When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have set in place, Lord, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?' I think that there is a distinct possibility that one of the messages coming out of this gathering and this new covenant is creation care - that we who are Baptists of like mind and attempting in our lives to the best of our abilities to glorify God, are not going to countenance the continued heaping of contempt on God's creation."
Reaction: Whoa. What's with all the Scripture? And can't the fight against global warming be a non-denominational one? What the heck is this?
Exhibit B: "Come, let us reason together and tell one another the truth, inconvenient though it may be, about the crisis, including the opportunity that we now face. The ancient prophet laid the choice before the people. Life or death, blessings or curses. Therefore choose life so both thou and thy seed may live."
Reaction: The "truth, inconvenient though it may be" reference flirts too closely with being a shameless plug for his own documentary (now available on DVD!). Ew, Al.
Exhibit C: "The evidence is there. The signal is on the mountain. The trumpet has blown. The scientists are screaming from the rooftops. The ice is melting. The land is parched. The seas are rising. The storms are getting stronger. Why do we not judge what is right?"
Reaction: Honey, grab the kids and cat and head for high ground! Eternal damnation is upon us! But seriously, I don't like scare tactics. You can just picture the PowerPoint frenzy going on with this one. Yawn.
To be honest, I found a lot of value in "An Inconvenient Truth." Regardless of your political, religious, economic or environmental beliefs, the 30,000-foot view of the documentary's message is a good one: being aware of our earth's health is imperative, and can greatly benefit us and our future generations. After all, they'll have to live here too (unless they ever revive that whole life-on-Mars thing). But messaging that's crafted in the above fashion is very likely to alienate (no pun intended) a majority of your audience - part of which probably agreed with you in the first place. They will then only feel embarrassed for listening to what you originally had to say. Not good.
From a professional standpoint, Al, if you absolutely must attend New Baptist Covenant Celebrations, by golly, spread your arms wide and be broad and all-encompassing! According to your film, we all need to do our parts, not just the Baptists. So why not invite us all to the party?
Sadly, this is not the end of my post.
Perhaps more startling than all of this put together (and then multiplied… by three) is the fact that Gore's presentation was officially closed to all media. "Why?!" you ask. Gore didn't want the PowerPoint slides with Biblical allegories to be leaked on the Internet. (Insert myriad jokes about Al Gore as the creator of Internet here.)
Well then. Where do we begin with this one? For starters, this approach never wins over journalists and other staunch supporters of a little ditty called the First Amendment. On top of that, banning the media creates the allusion that you're hiding behind a murky veil of dishonesty. If you are truthful and confident in all that you do, stand behind your messaging and facts, be transparent and let the knowledge flow.
Ladies and gentlemen, the Goreacle hath spoken.
Look-alikes
All right, let's get this over with since I've managed to let it go unaddressed for eons. The premise is quite simple, something you have all undoubtedly experienced in your lifetimes...
The look-alike.
That is, when a third party believes he/she has uncovered a profound resemblance between your own sad appearance and that of a better-known entity. Sometimes, but not always, this entity is that of a celebrity (OMG!).
Relax, because more times than not, this is an unglamorous revelation. In fact, it can be downright humiliating when this can of worms is opened up in the presence of other people - people who you might not necessarily know - but who are fully capable of comparing your physicality to said public entity. And they're also capable of swooning, laughing or looking mighty perplexed, which are the only three reactions that are possible when a look-alike scenario presents itself.
So enter yours truly and his look-alike story.
Now, the people I know seem to experience the exact opposite of what I continue to experience. They are the dashing, beautiful, memorable, handsome, sultry and sexy actors and actresses who sell tickets, populate marquees and provide lesser people with the necessary motivation to do things like, say, work out.
Then there is what I experience.
What on earth could be possibly be worse than being mistaken for (and/or even remotely resembling in any way, shape or form) Rick Moranis?
"Rick... Moranis?" you cringe. "Lord, probably nothing is worse than that!"
Yes, on several isolated occasions, separate, independent factions have each compared my mug to the likes of the Canadian-born beau who broke millions and millions of hearts through his paternal roles in blockbuster, ahem, "films" like: "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids"; "Honey, I Blew Up the Kid"; "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves"; and "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience." (What a franchise.)
I am still shocked and dismayed that anyone managed to put this together, because I, myself - who should be the most acclimated with my own unsightliness, right? - did not come to this conclusion before people who are not me. So I Googled "Rick Moranis" and confirmed my fear - right there, practically the first result, was an image of Rick Moranis that looked more like me than him! Aw, are you kidding me?! Come on!
The portrait was/is basically one of my high-school yearbook photos with Rick's name under it. And with glasses added. Horrific, horrific stuff.
No, I will not post any Moranis-centric images at this moment.
The look-alike.
That is, when a third party believes he/she has uncovered a profound resemblance between your own sad appearance and that of a better-known entity. Sometimes, but not always, this entity is that of a celebrity (OMG!).
Relax, because more times than not, this is an unglamorous revelation. In fact, it can be downright humiliating when this can of worms is opened up in the presence of other people - people who you might not necessarily know - but who are fully capable of comparing your physicality to said public entity. And they're also capable of swooning, laughing or looking mighty perplexed, which are the only three reactions that are possible when a look-alike scenario presents itself.
So enter yours truly and his look-alike story.
Now, the people I know seem to experience the exact opposite of what I continue to experience. They are the dashing, beautiful, memorable, handsome, sultry and sexy actors and actresses who sell tickets, populate marquees and provide lesser people with the necessary motivation to do things like, say, work out.
Then there is what I experience.
What on earth could be possibly be worse than being mistaken for (and/or even remotely resembling in any way, shape or form) Rick Moranis?
"Rick... Moranis?" you cringe. "Lord, probably nothing is worse than that!"
Yes, on several isolated occasions, separate, independent factions have each compared my mug to the likes of the Canadian-born beau who broke millions and millions of hearts through his paternal roles in blockbuster, ahem, "films" like: "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids"; "Honey, I Blew Up the Kid"; "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves"; and "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience." (What a franchise.)
I am still shocked and dismayed that anyone managed to put this together, because I, myself - who should be the most acclimated with my own unsightliness, right? - did not come to this conclusion before people who are not me. So I Googled "Rick Moranis" and confirmed my fear - right there, practically the first result, was an image of Rick Moranis that looked more like me than him! Aw, are you kidding me?! Come on!
The portrait was/is basically one of my high-school yearbook photos with Rick's name under it. And with glasses added. Horrific, horrific stuff.
No, I will not post any Moranis-centric images at this moment.
The Awful Elephant
Every time you are at Elephant & Castle you wonder why you are at Elephant & Castle. It is consistently the poorest option. Really, this place is no place for anything.
Elephant & Castle has all of the traditional sucky-bar traits (poor service, it's nearly impossible to get a drink, loud as hell, overpriced/bad food, uncomfortable environment, etc.), but it also has the suckiest trump card of all up its sleeve.
Trivia.
Now, I used to be a big advocate for bar trivia. It used to be fun. It used to engage people (strangers even!). That is, until Elephant & Castle killed it.
Yes, bar trivia is dead. Elephant & Castle decided to make Thursday nights trivia nights, and that's when they lost the limited patronage they once had. See, trivia should probably be held on any day from Monday to Wednesday. By the time Thursday evening rolls around, haggard Financial District professionals break out of the woodwork in full force to drown their sorrows and forget about their trite careers and, well, lives. Not to play trivia.
Even after taking all of this into consideration, Elephant & Castle might have saved face had they chosen their trivia moderator wisely. But they didn't. No, instead they chose some British dude who is very much tone deaf. Conversations are frequently interrupted by a monotone, soggy drawl, which is downright blasted throughout the bar's speakers. And, yes, no one is playing.
"This musician starred in an '80s fantasy film with a teenage Jennifer Connelly. Teams, your answers please..."
(There are no teams.)
"David Bowie... The answer was David Bowie... Teams? David Bowie... David... Bowie... Two points if you had David Bowie."
(People start to ponder various ways to kill themselves.)
"This was the supercontinent that existed 250 million years ago. Yes, 250 million years ago, this supercontinent existed. Teams?"
(A craving for more alcohol consumes all patrons. They contemplate satisfying the urge elsewhere.)
"Pangaea. The correct response was Pangaea. That's P-A-N, G-A, E-A. Pangaea. Two points for Pangaea."
(People file out of the bar.)
Elephant & Castle has all of the traditional sucky-bar traits (poor service, it's nearly impossible to get a drink, loud as hell, overpriced/bad food, uncomfortable environment, etc.), but it also has the suckiest trump card of all up its sleeve.
Trivia.
Now, I used to be a big advocate for bar trivia. It used to be fun. It used to engage people (strangers even!). That is, until Elephant & Castle killed it.
Yes, bar trivia is dead. Elephant & Castle decided to make Thursday nights trivia nights, and that's when they lost the limited patronage they once had. See, trivia should probably be held on any day from Monday to Wednesday. By the time Thursday evening rolls around, haggard Financial District professionals break out of the woodwork in full force to drown their sorrows and forget about their trite careers and, well, lives. Not to play trivia.
Even after taking all of this into consideration, Elephant & Castle might have saved face had they chosen their trivia moderator wisely. But they didn't. No, instead they chose some British dude who is very much tone deaf. Conversations are frequently interrupted by a monotone, soggy drawl, which is downright blasted throughout the bar's speakers. And, yes, no one is playing.
"This musician starred in an '80s fantasy film with a teenage Jennifer Connelly. Teams, your answers please..."
(There are no teams.)
"David Bowie... The answer was David Bowie... Teams? David Bowie... David... Bowie... Two points if you had David Bowie."
(People start to ponder various ways to kill themselves.)
"This was the supercontinent that existed 250 million years ago. Yes, 250 million years ago, this supercontinent existed. Teams?"
(A craving for more alcohol consumes all patrons. They contemplate satisfying the urge elsewhere.)
"Pangaea. The correct response was Pangaea. That's P-A-N, G-A, E-A. Pangaea. Two points for Pangaea."
(People file out of the bar.)
Hold on! It's Muni Time!
San Franciscans are all too familiar with Muni and its various forms of public transportation. But the Muni Bus offers something that the rest do not...
Utter chaos.
Simply put, Muni Bus is a carnival on wheels. And the most entertaining routes that never disappoint are the ones that run in the hilliest parts of the city. Oh, and Chinatown.
Now, I did say that San Franciscans are familiar with Muni's existence, but I did not say that they're familiar with how to ride Muni.
Ride the 1 California line and you are in for the biggest treat of them all.
Take a moment to picture your most favorite roller coaster from childhood. Got it? Good. Now, you know the cars they strapped you into? Replace them with a giant bus. A Muni Bus. Push "play" and picture that same roller coaster resuming its normal, curvy course.
This is what the 1 California line is like.
With people packed in like sardines - sardines without seat belts - the Muni Bus makes its ascent up the steep hill. One would assume that the daily riders of this route are savvy, quasi-athletic folks who've a great sense of self and the most stable centers of gravity.
That ain't the case.
When the bus hits the hill you will see approximately 40 uber-surprised individuals flying to the back of the bus, colliding with each other like someone has just broke a fresh set of pool balls. They go everywhere.
Through the windows they are only able to see slanted buildings and blue sky ahead of them. Briefcases are dropped; lunches tumble out of plastic bags; someone invariably almost steps on an apple; a small, elderly woman and/or young boy gets stampeded; strangers embrace awkwardly; and a LED marquee at the front of the bus flashes a message in blood-red text - "PLEASE HOLD ON!" Yes, in caps.
Then the plateau. Everything is quiet when the wreckage bears its ugly head. Disheveled people try to put themselves back together and gather their stray articles. In this moment, somehow, amazingly, unbelievably, everyone - everyone - forgets about the sharp dive that's still to come.
The nose of the bus lowers, and we come over the crest to see the street disappear underneath the vessel. Then the opposite of everything that just happened happens. People are thrown forward with mercurial force, and by now the bus driver is laughing uncontrollably. Tumbling fools catch glimpse of the LED marquee that is still taunting them with its message...
And they want to murder inertia.
When the bus finally reaches the valley, smoke, steam and hatred practically spew and seep from the bus' crevices. The doors open and people fall out, in no way ready for the workday that awaits them all.
Utter chaos.
Simply put, Muni Bus is a carnival on wheels. And the most entertaining routes that never disappoint are the ones that run in the hilliest parts of the city. Oh, and Chinatown.
Now, I did say that San Franciscans are familiar with Muni's existence, but I did not say that they're familiar with how to ride Muni.
Ride the 1 California line and you are in for the biggest treat of them all.
Take a moment to picture your most favorite roller coaster from childhood. Got it? Good. Now, you know the cars they strapped you into? Replace them with a giant bus. A Muni Bus. Push "play" and picture that same roller coaster resuming its normal, curvy course.
This is what the 1 California line is like.
With people packed in like sardines - sardines without seat belts - the Muni Bus makes its ascent up the steep hill. One would assume that the daily riders of this route are savvy, quasi-athletic folks who've a great sense of self and the most stable centers of gravity.
That ain't the case.
When the bus hits the hill you will see approximately 40 uber-surprised individuals flying to the back of the bus, colliding with each other like someone has just broke a fresh set of pool balls. They go everywhere.
Through the windows they are only able to see slanted buildings and blue sky ahead of them. Briefcases are dropped; lunches tumble out of plastic bags; someone invariably almost steps on an apple; a small, elderly woman and/or young boy gets stampeded; strangers embrace awkwardly; and a LED marquee at the front of the bus flashes a message in blood-red text - "PLEASE HOLD ON!" Yes, in caps.
Then the plateau. Everything is quiet when the wreckage bears its ugly head. Disheveled people try to put themselves back together and gather their stray articles. In this moment, somehow, amazingly, unbelievably, everyone - everyone - forgets about the sharp dive that's still to come.
The nose of the bus lowers, and we come over the crest to see the street disappear underneath the vessel. Then the opposite of everything that just happened happens. People are thrown forward with mercurial force, and by now the bus driver is laughing uncontrollably. Tumbling fools catch glimpse of the LED marquee that is still taunting them with its message...
And they want to murder inertia.
When the bus finally reaches the valley, smoke, steam and hatred practically spew and seep from the bus' crevices. The doors open and people fall out, in no way ready for the workday that awaits them all.
Words From a Funeral
You know, I wrote this last night and wasn't even sure I'd end up reading it today. Please bear with me.
Earlier this week, Molly asked us grandchildren what memories of grandma we will carry with us. I immediately thought of three specific scenarios, which will hopefully lighten our spirits a bit since I will always remember Katy as a fun, warm and sociable woman.
First, in my mind I still picture her at the Higgins Lake cottage, sitting out back on the patio in one of the green swinging couches. Nine times out of 10 she had a choice beverage in her hand that she told us kids was "iced tea." By the time I was 11, I learned that iced tea was, give or take, only half the contents of her glass. I also learned that when the words "long" and "island" are placed in front of "iced tea," it's an entirely different ballgame. And a much more enjoyable one at that. So I cheers you on that note, grandma.
Secondly, when doctors prescribed grandma calcium supplements to help strengthen her bones, we were all a bit confused as to why she started carrying around a seemingly endless supply of vitamin C pills in her purse. "Doctor's orders!" she said. That's when we had to politely explain to grandma that the "C" in "vitamin C" does not stand for calcium. She thought this was hilarious, so bless her for that. And to her credit, the doctor should have been more specific. Sorry if you're here, doc.
Finally, I remember the questioning but loving looks grandma gave us grandchildren once (who, mind you, were probably on the verge of a sugar- or caffeine-induced comatose) as we gathered around the stereo, got out Storm Front's lyrics sheet, turned the volume on full blast and attempted to belt out every single word of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire." And all of this at 10 a.m.! "We did not start this fire, grandma... It was always burning." We're sorry about that one, Katy.
We love you big.
Earlier this week, Molly asked us grandchildren what memories of grandma we will carry with us. I immediately thought of three specific scenarios, which will hopefully lighten our spirits a bit since I will always remember Katy as a fun, warm and sociable woman.
First, in my mind I still picture her at the Higgins Lake cottage, sitting out back on the patio in one of the green swinging couches. Nine times out of 10 she had a choice beverage in her hand that she told us kids was "iced tea." By the time I was 11, I learned that iced tea was, give or take, only half the contents of her glass. I also learned that when the words "long" and "island" are placed in front of "iced tea," it's an entirely different ballgame. And a much more enjoyable one at that. So I cheers you on that note, grandma.
Secondly, when doctors prescribed grandma calcium supplements to help strengthen her bones, we were all a bit confused as to why she started carrying around a seemingly endless supply of vitamin C pills in her purse. "Doctor's orders!" she said. That's when we had to politely explain to grandma that the "C" in "vitamin C" does not stand for calcium. She thought this was hilarious, so bless her for that. And to her credit, the doctor should have been more specific. Sorry if you're here, doc.
Finally, I remember the questioning but loving looks grandma gave us grandchildren once (who, mind you, were probably on the verge of a sugar- or caffeine-induced comatose) as we gathered around the stereo, got out Storm Front's lyrics sheet, turned the volume on full blast and attempted to belt out every single word of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire." And all of this at 10 a.m.! "We did not start this fire, grandma... It was always burning." We're sorry about that one, Katy.
We love you big.
Please. Don't... Move
[rant]Really, don't. No big deal. I'll go around. No need to for you to pay attention or acknowledge someone other than yourself, so, so just walk right into me, k? There ya go. See that felt nice. That was sorta like a little hug without the embracing part. Thanks.
What in the eff, you stupid frigging people? I exist. So start acting like it.
It seems that now, more than ever, the average shmuck is a lowly individual with little or no courtesy, manners or sensibility. This is stuff that should've died out in the '50s for Christ's sake. We claim to have evolved and become uber-intellectuals, right? So what gives?
Here are a few simple tips to help you suck less:
1 a. When you walk on sidewalks in crowded cities, look up. Looking down at your shoes will cause you to, ready?, run into other people (me), which is considered rude. So if you are about to run into someone, don't.
1 b. When walking on sidewalks or in public places, please stay to the right. Last time I checked it's still how the traffic of anything and everything in America is organized. As much as you might hate conformity, please don't go against the grain.
2. Upon opening a door, look behind you to see if there is another life form who might need to use the same door. If it looks to be that way, hold the door for him/her. Getting bludgeoned with a door is no fun, especially when you're holding a hot beverage.
3. Before entering something that has sliding doors (i.e. elevators, subways, buses), let those in the contraption out before you go in. Shocking concept, I know, but this one in particular has spiraled out of control. No need to stampede and trample children. You'll get in, I promise.
4. If it's raining and you are carrying an umbrella, please be aware of its size. Umbrellas are freaking huge, and they increase the amount of space you take up on this earth. And they can poke, stab and hit people when you move too quickly or wander aimlessly.
5. If you are walking in a group (more than three people), you are probably taking up the entire sidewalk and, no, you are not the only ones who need to use it. Get organized, and stop bogarting space.[/rant]
I Committed Bunnycide
What's cuter than bunnies? Let's be honest, probably nothing is cuter than bunnies. So you'll understand the heartbreaking nature of this sad-but-true tale, in which I play both the protagonist and the antagonist (and the executioner!).
One of my summer jobs in college was working with the maintenance "crew" at a local airport. As the sole member of the one-man "crew," it was I who was responsible for cutting roughly 150 acres of grass on a weekly basis. Fun stuff.
It took me almost no time to master the lawn mower (a Scag Tiger Cub), which guzzled diesel gasoline like Gatorade and pumped some awful black stuff back out into the environment. But I loved riding that polluter around on hot summer afternoons. Airplane mechanics took great pride in making fun of my pale complexion and slender build, and they taught me much of what I needed to know about the job. Much, but not all.
What they had failed to tell me was that I should pay special attention to certain areas of the airport grounds, as they are home to several species of wild animals. Guess I should've seen that one coming.
I had become quite skilled at rounding corners, turning on a dime, cutting in alternating swaths, avoiding damp soil, identifying troublesome objects (such as boulders, rocks and roots) - the whole nine yards. I was an artist, and even I admired my work.
But not for too long.
It all came crashing down one day when I drove the mower a little too quickly through a heavy patch of grass. While going over the patch, I heard what I believed to be the sound of sticks snapping in the blades and saw what I thought to be dandelions shooting out from the mower. But upon returning, I got a clear view of what I had just destroyed.
Something was moving beneath the grass shavings. And then I saw them. Below me lay the disfigured remnants of a litter of bunnies, writhing in a messy, glossy pool of red, brown and green. Pieces of them and their unstrung fur coats were strewn about everywhere. I had killed something like a baker's dozen of bunnies that were alive and young just a few moments before I had crossed their paths, and all I could do was shut off the mower and hate myself forever.
I didn't last much longer at that job.
So sorry, bunnies. I can't look at you guys the same as I once did. Please forgive the lawn-mower man.
One of my summer jobs in college was working with the maintenance "crew" at a local airport. As the sole member of the one-man "crew," it was I who was responsible for cutting roughly 150 acres of grass on a weekly basis. Fun stuff.
It took me almost no time to master the lawn mower (a Scag Tiger Cub), which guzzled diesel gasoline like Gatorade and pumped some awful black stuff back out into the environment. But I loved riding that polluter around on hot summer afternoons. Airplane mechanics took great pride in making fun of my pale complexion and slender build, and they taught me much of what I needed to know about the job. Much, but not all.
What they had failed to tell me was that I should pay special attention to certain areas of the airport grounds, as they are home to several species of wild animals. Guess I should've seen that one coming.
I had become quite skilled at rounding corners, turning on a dime, cutting in alternating swaths, avoiding damp soil, identifying troublesome objects (such as boulders, rocks and roots) - the whole nine yards. I was an artist, and even I admired my work.
But not for too long.
It all came crashing down one day when I drove the mower a little too quickly through a heavy patch of grass. While going over the patch, I heard what I believed to be the sound of sticks snapping in the blades and saw what I thought to be dandelions shooting out from the mower. But upon returning, I got a clear view of what I had just destroyed.
Something was moving beneath the grass shavings. And then I saw them. Below me lay the disfigured remnants of a litter of bunnies, writhing in a messy, glossy pool of red, brown and green. Pieces of them and their unstrung fur coats were strewn about everywhere. I had killed something like a baker's dozen of bunnies that were alive and young just a few moments before I had crossed their paths, and all I could do was shut off the mower and hate myself forever.
I didn't last much longer at that job.
So sorry, bunnies. I can't look at you guys the same as I once did. Please forgive the lawn-mower man.
The Biggest Compliment of My Life (Happened in a Dentist's Office)
There's been a whole lotta writing about teeth lately, huh? This one warrants some words. Sorta.
After going a year and a half with no - I repeat - no dental examination, I felt it was time to surrender myself to the awkward waiting rooms, blinding lights and stainless-steel prods I had been avoiding so well for so long.
First, I should mention that I have a poor track record when it comes to winning dentists' opinions. As a child, my brother and I would always have back-to-back appointments, and while his teeth garnered rave reviews ("Andrew, such a pleasure to see you! Have you kept good care of our favorite pearly-whites?!"), mine, sadly, were not as well received ("David, how many times do we have to tell you to brush your teeth?").
And the worst part was that I brushed them religiously! You could set your watch to my dental regimen. It was my brother who never brushed! He would even go as far as polishing off a bag of Skittles in bed the night before a dental examination! The situation could not have been more unjust.
That is, until recently.
Up until a week ago only one other dentist in the entire world had seen my teeth, so I had my concerns. (What if she doesn't understand my teeth like my old dentist did? Will she hate them? Have I stepped up my brushing game enough? And I know I hate, hate, hate flossing, but I've been doing it more regularly. I mean, haven't I? Oh God, I haven't! I think I skipped last Saturday! And I think I forgot to do the bottom teeth yesterday! That would explain why something's lodged down there!)
But when I sat in the chair and opened my mouth an unequivocal expression of fulfillment came over my new dentist. A lifelong search had ended. Beams of light emitted from every tooth. Choirs sang. Kittens mewed. Time itself stood still to honor the triumphant moment I was about to have. It was glorious.
She set down her tools and took off her rubber gloves, dabbing her brow with a blue handkerchief. She poised herself for what she was about to say.
(Small Hispanic woman saying the following) "Mr. Wendland, I have to say... In all my years as a dentist I have never, ever come across a set of teeth quite like yours. The are... how do I say?... magnificent."
E gads! Was this really happening?! Was this some sort of cruel prank dialed in by my former, crueler dentist, or perhaps my brother?
(Getting misty-eyed) "When such care is given to teeth, it reminds me of how good they are able look. You, Mr. Wendland, have taken exceptional care of your teeth, and I am so very pleased you came into my office today."
She really meant it! Holy cow! This was the moment I had waited so long for! (Are they really that great? I mean, I do brush - or try to brush - twice daily. Sure, sometimes it's once. Maybe she just sees a lot of homeless or wayward folks or meth-heads who don't own an actual toothbrush and have to use their fingers instead? Ever tried that? Doesn't really get the deep cleaning done.) Hooray!
I consider this the biggest compliment I have ever received in my lifetime. Call it lame, that's fine with me, but I can say that the joy this dentist brought me by ending years of mental angst and frustration is something that is hard to describe.
After going a year and a half with no - I repeat - no dental examination, I felt it was time to surrender myself to the awkward waiting rooms, blinding lights and stainless-steel prods I had been avoiding so well for so long.
First, I should mention that I have a poor track record when it comes to winning dentists' opinions. As a child, my brother and I would always have back-to-back appointments, and while his teeth garnered rave reviews ("Andrew, such a pleasure to see you! Have you kept good care of our favorite pearly-whites?!"), mine, sadly, were not as well received ("David, how many times do we have to tell you to brush your teeth?").
And the worst part was that I brushed them religiously! You could set your watch to my dental regimen. It was my brother who never brushed! He would even go as far as polishing off a bag of Skittles in bed the night before a dental examination! The situation could not have been more unjust.
That is, until recently.
Up until a week ago only one other dentist in the entire world had seen my teeth, so I had my concerns. (What if she doesn't understand my teeth like my old dentist did? Will she hate them? Have I stepped up my brushing game enough? And I know I hate, hate, hate flossing, but I've been doing it more regularly. I mean, haven't I? Oh God, I haven't! I think I skipped last Saturday! And I think I forgot to do the bottom teeth yesterday! That would explain why something's lodged down there!)
But when I sat in the chair and opened my mouth an unequivocal expression of fulfillment came over my new dentist. A lifelong search had ended. Beams of light emitted from every tooth. Choirs sang. Kittens mewed. Time itself stood still to honor the triumphant moment I was about to have. It was glorious.
She set down her tools and took off her rubber gloves, dabbing her brow with a blue handkerchief. She poised herself for what she was about to say.
(Small Hispanic woman saying the following) "Mr. Wendland, I have to say... In all my years as a dentist I have never, ever come across a set of teeth quite like yours. The are... how do I say?... magnificent."
E gads! Was this really happening?! Was this some sort of cruel prank dialed in by my former, crueler dentist, or perhaps my brother?
(Getting misty-eyed) "When such care is given to teeth, it reminds me of how good they are able look. You, Mr. Wendland, have taken exceptional care of your teeth, and I am so very pleased you came into my office today."
She really meant it! Holy cow! This was the moment I had waited so long for! (Are they really that great? I mean, I do brush - or try to brush - twice daily. Sure, sometimes it's once. Maybe she just sees a lot of homeless or wayward folks or meth-heads who don't own an actual toothbrush and have to use their fingers instead? Ever tried that? Doesn't really get the deep cleaning done.) Hooray!
I consider this the biggest compliment I have ever received in my lifetime. Call it lame, that's fine with me, but I can say that the joy this dentist brought me by ending years of mental angst and frustration is something that is hard to describe.
Update: Rest of World Just as Confused About Toothbrushes
Since our last foray into contemporary dental hygiene, I received some reaffirming feedback from a friend who currently resides halfway around the world. Her message to us, from Australia with love, is this: the rest of planet earth is equally perplexed about the toothbrush conundrum. Ladies and gents, it appears we have an intercontinental caper on our hands.
For anonymity's sake, we'll refer to her as Cuspid for this post.
"I went to look for a new toothbrush the other day, and it took me a good 20 minutes to settle on one," said Cuspid. "And then I had to choose my color! There were so many combinations. Am I a pink and yellow kind of girl? What does purple and green say about me? And what combination screams 'No!' to plaque?"
So Americans aren't the only sad souls spending fortnights in the toothbrush aisle! Oh, what a relief! Can you imagine if we were to add the collective man hours wasted on deliberating over toothbrushes? Had there been just one model and one color - only one option - we'd probably have cured certain diseases and ended wars by now (excluding gum disease and the war on plaque, of course). But no! We love selection!
In the end, Cuspid chose a baby-blue toothbrush fully equipped with gum massagers to roll, knead and do all sorts of crazy stuff to her gums. And is she happy with her choice?
"I have to say it's worth it," said Cuspid. "I never knew such a level of pleasure was possible with one's gums."
Cuspid, here's to your next checkup!
For anonymity's sake, we'll refer to her as Cuspid for this post.
"I went to look for a new toothbrush the other day, and it took me a good 20 minutes to settle on one," said Cuspid. "And then I had to choose my color! There were so many combinations. Am I a pink and yellow kind of girl? What does purple and green say about me? And what combination screams 'No!' to plaque?"
So Americans aren't the only sad souls spending fortnights in the toothbrush aisle! Oh, what a relief! Can you imagine if we were to add the collective man hours wasted on deliberating over toothbrushes? Had there been just one model and one color - only one option - we'd probably have cured certain diseases and ended wars by now (excluding gum disease and the war on plaque, of course). But no! We love selection!
In the end, Cuspid chose a baby-blue toothbrush fully equipped with gum massagers to roll, knead and do all sorts of crazy stuff to her gums. And is she happy with her choice?
"I have to say it's worth it," said Cuspid. "I never knew such a level of pleasure was possible with one's gums."
Cuspid, here's to your next checkup!
One, Two, Too Many Toothbrushes
Have you been to a drug store lately? Good grief! I think searching for used cars is an easier task. At least you get to test drive them.
Who knew finding the right toothbrush would be such a time-consuming process that requires detailed comparison and deliberation? Shouldn't something so commonplace and essential be just as easy to select?
Um, no.
There are literally hundreds of options when it comes to toothbrushes. And they all do one thing and one thing only (ready?): clean your teeth! They don't even floss for you or ask you if that feels OK or take X-rays or administer fluoride or schedule your next dentist appointment or give you a little smiley-face sticker to wear on your shirt. What a ripoff.
So why are there so many kinds? There should be, like, two models max: soft bristles or firm. I'm all for that particular differentiator, but none of the others. Manual, electric, hybrid, battery-powered, solar-powered, diesel - the list goes on. Long-reaching, deep-cleaning, stain-removing, gum-massaging, tongue-scrubbing, molar-forming, tiered-bristling, ergonomic-fitting, etc. Oh, and just when you think you've narrowed it down they throw colors into the mix. Red, orange, green or leopard-print? Maybe silver?
And why don't all toothbrushes have the ADA seal of approval? Nothing is worse than ending up with one that doesn't. You mean to tell me the ADA does not recommend this model? Well crap, this thing might actually give me cavities.
Wait, what if all the ADA-approved toothbrushes sitting on shelves are really non-ADA-approved toothbrushes, in a ploy by the ADA to keep herding tartar-infested heads into dentists' offices? Awesome marketing scheme right there, no? This might explain why certain toothbrushes at local Walgreens stores are kept in secured glass showcases as if they were high-end stereo equipment or video games. Yes, these must be the ADA-approved toothbrushes. They certainly wouldn't want your average Joe being able to easily access such a device that could rid him of all his dental ailments, now, would they? No. They would make no money off of him! So they make it inconvenient for Joe and encourage Joe to purchase one of the lesser, "floor-friendly" models because none of the staff is willing to unlock the showcase for him.
Who knew finding the right toothbrush would be such a time-consuming process that requires detailed comparison and deliberation? Shouldn't something so commonplace and essential be just as easy to select?
Um, no.
There are literally hundreds of options when it comes to toothbrushes. And they all do one thing and one thing only (ready?): clean your teeth! They don't even floss for you or ask you if that feels OK or take X-rays or administer fluoride or schedule your next dentist appointment or give you a little smiley-face sticker to wear on your shirt. What a ripoff.
So why are there so many kinds? There should be, like, two models max: soft bristles or firm. I'm all for that particular differentiator, but none of the others. Manual, electric, hybrid, battery-powered, solar-powered, diesel - the list goes on. Long-reaching, deep-cleaning, stain-removing, gum-massaging, tongue-scrubbing, molar-forming, tiered-bristling, ergonomic-fitting, etc. Oh, and just when you think you've narrowed it down they throw colors into the mix. Red, orange, green or leopard-print? Maybe silver?
And why don't all toothbrushes have the ADA seal of approval? Nothing is worse than ending up with one that doesn't. You mean to tell me the ADA does not recommend this model? Well crap, this thing might actually give me cavities.
Wait, what if all the ADA-approved toothbrushes sitting on shelves are really non-ADA-approved toothbrushes, in a ploy by the ADA to keep herding tartar-infested heads into dentists' offices? Awesome marketing scheme right there, no? This might explain why certain toothbrushes at local Walgreens stores are kept in secured glass showcases as if they were high-end stereo equipment or video games. Yes, these must be the ADA-approved toothbrushes. They certainly wouldn't want your average Joe being able to easily access such a device that could rid him of all his dental ailments, now, would they? No. They would make no money off of him! So they make it inconvenient for Joe and encourage Joe to purchase one of the lesser, "floor-friendly" models because none of the staff is willing to unlock the showcase for him.
A Flurry of Flurries
The McFlurry. Ever had one? I used to be obsessed. Obsessed to the point where I'd crave a McFlurry at the most random, inconvenient moments.
Per the McDonald's Wikipedia entry, the McFlurry is described as "...a vanilla ice cream dessert that has pieces of candy, fruit or cookies mixed into it." The McFlurry is available in "most of its markets."
Per the McDonald's Wikipedia entry, the McFlurry is described as "...a vanilla ice cream dessert that has pieces of candy, fruit or cookies mixed into it." The McFlurry is available in "most of its markets."
Well what happened here? Most of its markets?! Ronald, this is utter blasphemy. Why not all of its markets? Or every market that ever existed anywhere? Are you trying to ration the supply of McFlurry goodness to create a swelling demand for the tasty treat? Praying for a bull market, Ronald? Come on. Ya ain't no Greenspan. You're a frigging clown. No, this McFlurry thing of yours needs to be sold everywhere. On street corners, Ronald. On street corners!
My most memorable McFlurry experience occurred whilst pulling an all-nighter for an exam in college. Once my system came down from the sugar and caffeine comatose that Monster had wrought on my synapses, I found myself craving something sweet (shock!). But what could possibly be open at 3:45 a.m.?
You guessed it.
The only soul on the road, I clenched the wheel with sweaty palms and envisioned how great my McFlurry would be. Hell, the late-night McDonald's crew was probably up mixing its finest batch of vanilla soft-serve ice cream, ready and waiting for me to valiantly place my order.
"Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?"
"A McFlurry! I'd like one, please! With Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! Woo!"
I was getting ready to devour my McFlurry. I paid and pulled forward and waited patiently for them to perfect my dessert. I envisioned all four employees participating in the making of my McFlurry - each taking handfuls of Peanut Butter Cups and sprinkling them in at the most precise places, dancing around in a tribal circle as they achieved the optimal balance of creamy vanilla and chocolatey, peanut buttery sweetness.
This was going to rule. I might just park at the window and eat the McFlurry in front of them so they could witness how happy they were about to make me.
And then something magical happened. The window slid open and an employee leaned out with not ONE but, wait for it, TWO (count: two!) McFlurries!
"Two McFlurries, sir?"
"Yes! Yes, that's my order!"
I never found out if they had messed up my order or were just really bored and could sense how excited I was to have a McFlurry and made two. But I ate both in 25 minutes. It was disgusting. In fact, I almost didn't make it to my exam because of the intestinal pain the quart of dairy put me through.
Can one acquire lactose intolerance? Because I think I did.
You Can "Go Greek," I'm Going Home
(Just dug this one up from the college days.)
Advertisement 1: "Go Greek, Sparty Did!"
Advertisement 2: "Greeks: The Leaders of Tomorrow!"
I think we need a little more guilt put into these cheap recruitment slogans, please. There's nothing like peer pressure to get me to do something. Sparty went Greek this year? Oh he did, did he? Since when are people doing what Sparty does? I'm yet to see anyone walking around campus wearing steel-plated armor and skirts. Did you hear at U of M last week Wolverine announced he would be endorsing the "Go Mammal, Wolverine Did!" campaign? Yup. The entire student body's on his side.
Advertisement 1: "Go Greek, Sparty Did!"
Advertisement 2: "Greeks: The Leaders of Tomorrow!"
I think we need a little more guilt put into these cheap recruitment slogans, please. There's nothing like peer pressure to get me to do something. Sparty went Greek this year? Oh he did, did he? Since when are people doing what Sparty does? I'm yet to see anyone walking around campus wearing steel-plated armor and skirts. Did you hear at U of M last week Wolverine announced he would be endorsing the "Go Mammal, Wolverine Did!" campaign? Yup. The entire student body's on his side.
Well, I guess since my own university's mascot went Greek then I should too. But does this mean I'll have to tote around one of those bulky canvas bags with strange letters sewn on it? How can I be a leader with such a great weight on my shoulder? And aren't we stealing the characters of a different culture? I've never even been to Greece, and would probably be lucky to identify it on a map. So what gives?
Is it safe to assume that Greek college students are as interested in American culture as we are in theirs? Could we go to Greece and expect to find students carrying around propaganda promoting the EAT or ZOMG house? I mean, what does that all really mean anyway? Don't you think we'd laugh at that? "Doug, look, that house over there has ABC on its roof in gigantic, blood-red letters. They must be, like, a spelling bee dynasty!"
But I, I guess this bag's kinda cute... ish. I just thought labeling was discouraged nowadays. Granted, we do need to differentiate ourselves from the non-Greek people. Is that part of our philanthropy? I thought it was, and that's sorta why I got into this thing. So...
Hmm...
Oh, I know! Perhaps they should give us staffs instead. Yeah! Or maybe scepters. Yes. Big, golden scepters with cool crystal balls fastened to their tops. And our trusty steeds will be unicorns. We'll bring them back, and we'll ride them around campus. I think that fits the leadership/visionary role a little better, you know, instead of a bag, or a hat, or sandals or something?
Actually, we could probably have hats - the tall, black fuzzy ones British Guards wear. And we could march too. People would genuinely want to know what we are up to. "Where the f*** are you guys going?!" they would ask. And that's when we could raise our phat scepters and reply: "To the future! We're leading you to the future!"
And then we could lead like we advertise ourselves to.
Biggest Mistakes of My Life: Mistake No. 2
I still regret going back to Wisconsin. What was supposed to be a weekend full of concerts, camping and sun just turned out to be one huge disaster.
Since we needed extra room, we decided to borrow my parents' van for the 400-mile trip from Detroit to East Troy. We also used their roof rack and carrier to help transport the tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, coolers, grills and other funky crap that people need when staying in a field for days on end.
Since we needed extra room, we decided to borrow my parents' van for the 400-mile trip from Detroit to East Troy. We also used their roof rack and carrier to help transport the tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, coolers, grills and other funky crap that people need when staying in a field for days on end.
The heat alone was enough to make the expedition a bad idea. It was the type of humidity that makes you feel like you're swimming in your skin all day. You can just taste the salt dripping down your face. No thanks.
Once we arrived, we unloaded the van and roof carrier and set up our camp site. Then it was time to drive to the amphitheater for the first night's concert. Since the carrier was now empty, we contemplated leaving it at our site but decided instead to fasten it back to the roof rack and bring it with us.
Morons. All six of us.
What we had not thought about were the laws of physics, and how all of our luggage had helped weigh down the roof carrier on the drive to Wisconsin. Sure, the carrier was somewhat secured by bungee cords fastened to the roof rack, but it was basically a massive plastic sled sitting on top of our van.
We slowly pulled out of the camp grounds and onto the interstate. I was driving, and by this point had completely forgotten about the carrier. We were accelerating quickly, but there was a disgruntled Wisconsinite riding our bumper. Apparently 50 mph wasn't fast enough for him.
Thank God he decided to pass us.
Before we hit 60 mph something awful happened. With no weight in it, the roof rack was trying its hardest to withstand the headwind. The only things keeping it down were now the bungee cords that had been strung together by idiotic amateurs.
SNAP, SNAP!
In a fraction of a second after this noise bludgeoned our ears, I saw in my rearview mirror a sight of pure horror. The carrier, flying over our car - up, up and away - crashing down onto the road behind us and blowing up into two pieces. And then...
CRASH!
This is the last thing we heard before we were surrounded by shards of glass flying every which way throughout the cabin of the van. Slow motion. Glass was exploding everywhere and we all ducked to cover our heads, including me - the driver. I don't know how we kept it on the road.
When the bungee cords snapped and left the carrier at the mercy of the wind, they whipped around to the back of our van, their metal hooks shattering the entirety of our back window and tail lights. The glass was then sucked into the vehicle, entering various points of our skin and landing all around us.
Would you feel comfortable leaving your car at a concert if it had no rear window and all of your belongings were sitting inside for anyone to take? We didn't. So we headed to Wal-Mart to bandage up the van.
After buying a couple hundred yards of duct tape and blue tarp, we taped up the ass of our van. Poor thing. It looked like a giant blue diaper. I could no longer see anything out of the back while driving.
The damages set me back $1,200, but had the Wisconsinite not passed us his car would have been hit with our plastic roof carrier missile. I could have been a murderer.
Red Hot & Blue
Growing up, my dad created a lot of awkward and embarrassing moments for our entire immediate family. At home, on the road, in the car, in private, in public, on the sidelines of some obscure Midwestern soccer field. Didn't matter. It was bound to happen anywhere, anytime, usually without any given notice - just a really drawn-out exhale and a slow shaking of his head before things got pretty bad.
One of his favorite places to eat used to be (used to be) Red Hot & Blue. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it's a safe bet for grabbing some barbecue. A conservative estimate would be that 98 percent of Red Hot & Blue's patrons come to taste their "award-winning" St. Louis style ribs.
Such was the case during our second, and final, visit to Red Hot & Blue.
When dad wanted something, he would go to great lengths to make sure he got it. Time, money, weather, physical distance, laws - things of that nature that might deter any normal, rational person from wanting something - were of no object to him. He was going to get it. End of story.
On this particular day, that item just so happened to be Red Hot & Blue's St. Louis style ribs.
I couldn't have been older than 10 or 11, but I can still recall this entire dining experience from start to finish. Dad was actually in a pretty good mood entering the restaurant, probably because he had already downed a couple of Coors Lights at home.
We were seated at a table and you could just tell right away that his expectations were pretty high - even impracticably, unattainably high - for this one specific meal. He had been clamoring about the damn ribs for two days and we were finally there, about to order.
First our drinks. You knew dad meant business when he ordered two Coors Lights right off the bat, "in frosted mugs, please." This was really going to be a dining experience for the books. Halfway into his second beer, our waitress was ready to take our order.
Dad didn't even open the menu. He knew. He had lived out this very moment five times over in the past 48 hours, and he surely didn't need to consider what else he might dine on that night.
"I will have the house special," he said. "Actually, make it two orders of the sweet St. Louis style ribs for me. I'd also like some extra Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce on them, too. I love that stuff. How do you guys do it?! And another Coors Light, please."
We all could sense something was off because the waitress was writing none of this down. But dad didn't seem to notice yet. She was just standing there, holding her pen and paper, looking mighty nervous. She was probably 18.
(With a trepid, flinching face) "Um, wow, I hate to tell you this, sir... But we're actually all out of ribs. I'm sorry."
Oh good lord the disappointment. You could feel it instantly. I felt extremely uncomfortable and felt so very bad for this unfortunate waitress. She had no idea what she had just said.
There was only silence for what felt like an eternity. It just hung there. My dad was absolutely raging inside, and he was doing his best to contain it within himself. But he just couldn't. This was too much of a disappointment for him to stay quiet. By this point his jaw was clenched tight and he was shaking his head slowly, staring down into his lap. Then the long exhale. We braced ourselves.
"What. Do. You. Mean. You're. (fingers for quote marks) 'Out.' 'Of.' 'Ribs.'? Huh?!"
She didn't have an answer for him. That's all there was to say. Somehow Red Hot & Blue had run out of what they do best. Blame it on a mishap in inventory or awful managerial skills, but this young waitress was just the messenger. You could tell she was hating her very existence at that moment, hating the restaurant's lack of ribs, wishing and willing to give her own ribs to dad with a side of Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce just to calm him down.
"You have got to be KIDDING me! You are OUT of RIBS?! RIBS are what you DO! No, it's ALL you DO!"
Now we were making a scene. We tried our best to act like we didn't know the man. Dad was getting loud and riled up, his face beet red and he was scooting out of the booth to present his argument standing up, complete with hand gestures.
"No! Nononono! This is like going to a football game and having them say, 'We're sorry! We're out of football players at the moment, so we're gonna play BASEBALL for you instead!' Yeah! THAT'S what THIS is like!"
The manager had by now been alerted to the situation and approached our table, apologizing to dad and encouraging him to order something else.
"No! I am not ORDERING anything ELSE! Honey, grab the kids. We're leaving!"
And just like that we left and have not been back to Red Hot & Blue since. Dad still holds a noticeable grudge against the place, often giving the building itself the middle finger while driving by.
One of his favorite places to eat used to be (used to be) Red Hot & Blue. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it's a safe bet for grabbing some barbecue. A conservative estimate would be that 98 percent of Red Hot & Blue's patrons come to taste their "award-winning" St. Louis style ribs.
Such was the case during our second, and final, visit to Red Hot & Blue.
When dad wanted something, he would go to great lengths to make sure he got it. Time, money, weather, physical distance, laws - things of that nature that might deter any normal, rational person from wanting something - were of no object to him. He was going to get it. End of story.
On this particular day, that item just so happened to be Red Hot & Blue's St. Louis style ribs.
I couldn't have been older than 10 or 11, but I can still recall this entire dining experience from start to finish. Dad was actually in a pretty good mood entering the restaurant, probably because he had already downed a couple of Coors Lights at home.
We were seated at a table and you could just tell right away that his expectations were pretty high - even impracticably, unattainably high - for this one specific meal. He had been clamoring about the damn ribs for two days and we were finally there, about to order.
First our drinks. You knew dad meant business when he ordered two Coors Lights right off the bat, "in frosted mugs, please." This was really going to be a dining experience for the books. Halfway into his second beer, our waitress was ready to take our order.
Dad didn't even open the menu. He knew. He had lived out this very moment five times over in the past 48 hours, and he surely didn't need to consider what else he might dine on that night.
"I will have the house special," he said. "Actually, make it two orders of the sweet St. Louis style ribs for me. I'd also like some extra Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce on them, too. I love that stuff. How do you guys do it?! And another Coors Light, please."
We all could sense something was off because the waitress was writing none of this down. But dad didn't seem to notice yet. She was just standing there, holding her pen and paper, looking mighty nervous. She was probably 18.
(With a trepid, flinching face) "Um, wow, I hate to tell you this, sir... But we're actually all out of ribs. I'm sorry."
Oh good lord the disappointment. You could feel it instantly. I felt extremely uncomfortable and felt so very bad for this unfortunate waitress. She had no idea what she had just said.
There was only silence for what felt like an eternity. It just hung there. My dad was absolutely raging inside, and he was doing his best to contain it within himself. But he just couldn't. This was too much of a disappointment for him to stay quiet. By this point his jaw was clenched tight and he was shaking his head slowly, staring down into his lap. Then the long exhale. We braced ourselves.
"What. Do. You. Mean. You're. (fingers for quote marks) 'Out.' 'Of.' 'Ribs.'? Huh?!"
She didn't have an answer for him. That's all there was to say. Somehow Red Hot & Blue had run out of what they do best. Blame it on a mishap in inventory or awful managerial skills, but this young waitress was just the messenger. You could tell she was hating her very existence at that moment, hating the restaurant's lack of ribs, wishing and willing to give her own ribs to dad with a side of Sufferin' Sweet BBQ sauce just to calm him down.
"You have got to be KIDDING me! You are OUT of RIBS?! RIBS are what you DO! No, it's ALL you DO!"
Now we were making a scene. We tried our best to act like we didn't know the man. Dad was getting loud and riled up, his face beet red and he was scooting out of the booth to present his argument standing up, complete with hand gestures.
"No! Nononono! This is like going to a football game and having them say, 'We're sorry! We're out of football players at the moment, so we're gonna play BASEBALL for you instead!' Yeah! THAT'S what THIS is like!"
The manager had by now been alerted to the situation and approached our table, apologizing to dad and encouraging him to order something else.
"No! I am not ORDERING anything ELSE! Honey, grab the kids. We're leaving!"
And just like that we left and have not been back to Red Hot & Blue since. Dad still holds a noticeable grudge against the place, often giving the building itself the middle finger while driving by.
More Heels in the Men's Room
In response to Heels in the Men's Room, it greatly saddens me to report that there have been, yes, more heels in the men's room.
I saw her again, only this time I was not using the facility. While waiting for the elevator, I caught a glimpse of our culprit as she strode into the lobby - all 5 feet, 90 pounds of her. Knock. Knock. Before lowering her shoulder into the door, she looked back at me with a face that reeked of "Yes-I-am-really-going-to-do-this" bravado. And in she went.
The verdict of this case is really quite simple. In fact, I'm quite embarrassed for ever over-thinking it. The truth stands that this person clearly knows what she's doing, and is simply too lazy to walk up or down one measly flight of stairs to use the restroom that has been designed and designated for her entire gender.
Ignoring social norms, public signage and etiquette in general, she enters, uses and exits the men's room on a daily basis, very aware and unconcerned that she might run into a man during this process.
I saw her again, only this time I was not using the facility. While waiting for the elevator, I caught a glimpse of our culprit as she strode into the lobby - all 5 feet, 90 pounds of her. Knock. Knock. Before lowering her shoulder into the door, she looked back at me with a face that reeked of "Yes-I-am-really-going-to-do-this" bravado. And in she went.
The verdict of this case is really quite simple. In fact, I'm quite embarrassed for ever over-thinking it. The truth stands that this person clearly knows what she's doing, and is simply too lazy to walk up or down one measly flight of stairs to use the restroom that has been designed and designated for her entire gender.
Ignoring social norms, public signage and etiquette in general, she enters, uses and exits the men's room on a daily basis, very aware and unconcerned that she might run into a man during this process.
They Caught the Plumber Looking at Porn
Well this one is pretty self-explanatory.
My parents' house flooded, so they hired a plumber to work on the pipes. Yeah, apparently the guy took the "working on the pipes" part as an open invitation to use our home computer to download porn.
Thanks, jackass. Way to have my mom come downstairs and find you minimizing windows at light speed.
"Excuse me... What are you doing?"
"Uh (click, click)... Um... (click, click, click... clickclickclickclick)... Oh, yeah, um, I needed to check my e-mail to see if I had a message from my sister - she's having a baby today."
"A baby, huh? So what's this on the desktop here? I'm pretty sure that's two people fornicating. Is she your sister?"
"... Yes?"
You, sir, just lost your job.
My parents' house flooded, so they hired a plumber to work on the pipes. Yeah, apparently the guy took the "working on the pipes" part as an open invitation to use our home computer to download porn.
Thanks, jackass. Way to have my mom come downstairs and find you minimizing windows at light speed.
"Excuse me... What are you doing?"
"Uh (click, click)... Um... (click, click, click... clickclickclickclick)... Oh, yeah, um, I needed to check my e-mail to see if I had a message from my sister - she's having a baby today."
"A baby, huh? So what's this on the desktop here? I'm pretty sure that's two people fornicating. Is she your sister?"
"... Yes?"
You, sir, just lost your job.
Lifetime Hates Men, but Men Probably Hate Lifetime More
Any man who has ever been in a relationship with a woman has at some point been subjected to watching Lifetime Television - for several hours on end, usually on a random Sunday. If for some reason this has not happened to you, pay close attention, for the following will save you future shock, awe and revelation.
She will be surfing around aimlessly and somewhere between the Disney Channel and ABC Family she will land upon a Made-for-Lifetime Movie. Starting then, the remote will not be touched for at least three hours, depending on what point you have entered the programming.
You poor bastard.
Whichever program you are coerced into watching, this will be the overarching message: men are horrible, horrible creatures (pigs). The series of events it takes to reach this conclusion is irrelevant. On Lifetime, it always ends up here. So don't be alarmed.
Comprehensive analysis of Made-for-Lifetime Movies reveals that only two basic plot lines actually exist. They also form the basis of everything ever aired on Lifetime (excluding some commercials, of course).
Plot One
Main woman is in a seemingly happy relationship with a semi-wealthy to wealthy man, who nine times out of 10 has black hair and a goatee. One day woman grows suspicious of man when one or more of the following happens:
1. Man says he will be "held up late at the office because of the upcoming board meeting and the boss is breathing down my neck."
2. She finds another woman's lipstick on the collar of his white dress shirt.
3. He claims to be away on business, but after an amateur investigation and/or pursuit, woman discovers man to be in the arms of another woman, at a motel very close to their home town.
Again, not important. Man's plan is foiled and he now tries to kill woman. He always drives a black Lincoln. Due to man's careless nature and susceptibility to let testosterone get the best of him, he fails, and woman ends up killing man in self-defense. If she has a child they move far, far away to start anew. If she is not a mother, she moves in with her own mother to mend.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who kill women (if necessary).
Pretty intense stuff to be near the Disney Channel, no?
Plot Two
Main woman is successful, independent and of the upper-middle class. She either is ill with or has recently fought and overcome breast cancer. She oft reflects on the several serious relationships she has had in her lifetime (no pun intended), but that have failed to materialize into anything permanent. She wears dark-rimmed glasses and has four close girlfriends.
Her best friend sets her up on a blind date with a loose acquaintance of hers - "a friend of a friend." To her own disbelief, the date goes surprisingly well and she ends up falling in love with "Mr. Right." The couple is happier than ever when things take a turn for the worse.
Over a bottle of red wine, an argument ensues and man strikes woman. It is not yet evening. When she regains consciousness it is the next day and she has trouble piecing together the previous night's events. Then she notices the cuts and bruises on her neck and arms. She concludes she has been abused. She is about to go to the police when she receives threats from man not to do so, or else there will be "repercussions." Her friends encourage her to do so anyway.
So she does. Mid phone call or en route to the police station, there is a struggle between her and man, usually in her own home or on the side of the road, in the woods, at dusk, in the rain. Either way glass is somehow broken. She kills man in self-defense.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who beat women (if necessary).
To the directors of Lifetime Television: are you feminist lesbians or twice-divorced straight women with an undying hatred for people with penises? My guess is the latter since every woman ever featured on Lifetime Television is straight.
Can you imagine if there was a channel like this for men? I mean, there's plenty of stuff out there that objectifies women - but what about an entire channel where the target viewership is sensitive males and plots feature backstabbing women who lie, cheat, connive and steal from men and men are left with no other choice but to kill women in self-defense?
It just doesn't seem possible.
So grab a beer and get comfortable, guys. It's gonna be a long one. Just remember: you're not that bad.
For a parting thought, I'll leave you with this: I recently discovered that Lifetime is actually an acronym. The underlying message? Like, I Freaking Envy The Instant Men Existed.
She will be surfing around aimlessly and somewhere between the Disney Channel and ABC Family she will land upon a Made-for-Lifetime Movie. Starting then, the remote will not be touched for at least three hours, depending on what point you have entered the programming.
You poor bastard.
Whichever program you are coerced into watching, this will be the overarching message: men are horrible, horrible creatures (pigs). The series of events it takes to reach this conclusion is irrelevant. On Lifetime, it always ends up here. So don't be alarmed.
Comprehensive analysis of Made-for-Lifetime Movies reveals that only two basic plot lines actually exist. They also form the basis of everything ever aired on Lifetime (excluding some commercials, of course).
Plot One
Main woman is in a seemingly happy relationship with a semi-wealthy to wealthy man, who nine times out of 10 has black hair and a goatee. One day woman grows suspicious of man when one or more of the following happens:
1. Man says he will be "held up late at the office because of the upcoming board meeting and the boss is breathing down my neck."
2. She finds another woman's lipstick on the collar of his white dress shirt.
3. He claims to be away on business, but after an amateur investigation and/or pursuit, woman discovers man to be in the arms of another woman, at a motel very close to their home town.
Again, not important. Man's plan is foiled and he now tries to kill woman. He always drives a black Lincoln. Due to man's careless nature and susceptibility to let testosterone get the best of him, he fails, and woman ends up killing man in self-defense. If she has a child they move far, far away to start anew. If she is not a mother, she moves in with her own mother to mend.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who kill women (if necessary).
Pretty intense stuff to be near the Disney Channel, no?
Plot Two
Main woman is successful, independent and of the upper-middle class. She either is ill with or has recently fought and overcome breast cancer. She oft reflects on the several serious relationships she has had in her lifetime (no pun intended), but that have failed to materialize into anything permanent. She wears dark-rimmed glasses and has four close girlfriends.
Her best friend sets her up on a blind date with a loose acquaintance of hers - "a friend of a friend." To her own disbelief, the date goes surprisingly well and she ends up falling in love with "Mr. Right." The couple is happier than ever when things take a turn for the worse.
Over a bottle of red wine, an argument ensues and man strikes woman. It is not yet evening. When she regains consciousness it is the next day and she has trouble piecing together the previous night's events. Then she notices the cuts and bruises on her neck and arms. She concludes she has been abused. She is about to go to the police when she receives threats from man not to do so, or else there will be "repercussions." Her friends encourage her to do so anyway.
So she does. Mid phone call or en route to the police station, there is a struggle between her and man, usually in her own home or on the side of the road, in the woods, at dusk, in the rain. Either way glass is somehow broken. She kills man in self-defense.
Conclusion: men are horrible, horrible creatures who beat women (if necessary).
To the directors of Lifetime Television: are you feminist lesbians or twice-divorced straight women with an undying hatred for people with penises? My guess is the latter since every woman ever featured on Lifetime Television is straight.
Can you imagine if there was a channel like this for men? I mean, there's plenty of stuff out there that objectifies women - but what about an entire channel where the target viewership is sensitive males and plots feature backstabbing women who lie, cheat, connive and steal from men and men are left with no other choice but to kill women in self-defense?
It just doesn't seem possible.
So grab a beer and get comfortable, guys. It's gonna be a long one. Just remember: you're not that bad.
For a parting thought, I'll leave you with this: I recently discovered that Lifetime is actually an acronym. The underlying message? Like, I Freaking Envy The Instant Men Existed.
Mel's? Gross
You know it very well. Mel's Drive-In is a place that you have probably ended up at because of someone else's poor and/or drunk decision-making skills.
Inebriate 1: "Guys, I am STARVING! Where can we get something to eat?!"
Inebriate 2: "Uh, gee, I don't know, I'm really not that..."
Inebriate 1: "I KNOW! How about Mel's?! I've never been there!"
Inebriate 2: (Exhaling) "Ah... Mel's... I mean, I guess if you're really..."
Inebriate 1: (Hurling self into empty street) "TAXXXIII!"
Mel's is only popular for one reason: it's open late. Much to my chagrin, they've studied local drinking establishments closely and found that all of them close at, gasp, 2 a.m.! Can you believe it? Those intelligent bastards. So how late does Mel's stay open? Until 4 a.m., which is one waffle away from being open 24 hours! Maybe it's got something to do with keeping the staff at part-time so they don't have to offer them any benefits. Their compensations stop at the '60s checkered uniforms. Chic!
Anyway, being the only (disclaimer: following word used loosely) restaurant that's open late, Mel's has become something of a ward or corral for the drunk. Bars close and haggard looking men, women and zombies saunter into Mel's to eat terrible, terrible food. Everything is messy. The people are loud. The food is fried twice. The talk is slurred. The lighting is unnecessarily bright (spotlights + inebriates = unsightliness). Yet they herd people in by the dozen, and they hook up, flirt and pass out over waffles, gyros and milkshakes, with the occasional homeless person sprinkled in who made his/her way in off the street and has gone yet unnoticed.
It's an ugly scene.
The first and last time I was at Mel's I saw a man heave and projectile vomit under his table, onto the feet of his friends. One of the guys was even wearing sandals. Gross! And there was no reaction. None! As if this was acceptable behavior or nothing out of the ordinary for a drunkard's haven. I was the only one who reacted, halfway across the room. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he regained focus and ate the rest of his pancakes. I think I even saw him making out with some woman in the lobby when I left. What a romancer. (Not sure how he pulled that one off actually.)
I don't know if I've ever witnessed a more appalling act take place in an eating establishment. Holy hamburgers. Mel, check please.
Inebriate 1: "Guys, I am STARVING! Where can we get something to eat?!"
Inebriate 2: "Uh, gee, I don't know, I'm really not that..."
Inebriate 1: "I KNOW! How about Mel's?! I've never been there!"
Inebriate 2: (Exhaling) "Ah... Mel's... I mean, I guess if you're really..."
Inebriate 1: (Hurling self into empty street) "TAXXXIII!"
Mel's is only popular for one reason: it's open late. Much to my chagrin, they've studied local drinking establishments closely and found that all of them close at, gasp, 2 a.m.! Can you believe it? Those intelligent bastards. So how late does Mel's stay open? Until 4 a.m., which is one waffle away from being open 24 hours! Maybe it's got something to do with keeping the staff at part-time so they don't have to offer them any benefits. Their compensations stop at the '60s checkered uniforms. Chic!
Anyway, being the only (disclaimer: following word used loosely) restaurant that's open late, Mel's has become something of a ward or corral for the drunk. Bars close and haggard looking men, women and zombies saunter into Mel's to eat terrible, terrible food. Everything is messy. The people are loud. The food is fried twice. The talk is slurred. The lighting is unnecessarily bright (spotlights + inebriates = unsightliness). Yet they herd people in by the dozen, and they hook up, flirt and pass out over waffles, gyros and milkshakes, with the occasional homeless person sprinkled in who made his/her way in off the street and has gone yet unnoticed.
It's an ugly scene.
The first and last time I was at Mel's I saw a man heave and projectile vomit under his table, onto the feet of his friends. One of the guys was even wearing sandals. Gross! And there was no reaction. None! As if this was acceptable behavior or nothing out of the ordinary for a drunkard's haven. I was the only one who reacted, halfway across the room. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he regained focus and ate the rest of his pancakes. I think I even saw him making out with some woman in the lobby when I left. What a romancer. (Not sure how he pulled that one off actually.)
I don't know if I've ever witnessed a more appalling act take place in an eating establishment. Holy hamburgers. Mel, check please.
Letter T, Where Art Thou?
Say hello to McDonald's Big N' Tasty. Perhaps you've heard of it. With 510 calories between its buns, I'm sure only a small handful of you have actually consumed one of these things. (Then again, it's got nothing on Hardee's latest contribution to fatsos everywhere.)
I was first introduced to the Big N' Tasty in Alabama, circa 2003. While on a cross-country drive, a van of teenagers happened upon a certain McDonald's with a giant marquee beneath its golden arches. The displayed message? Why, an invitation for passers-by to come in and try the Big N' Tasty.
But there was one small problem. The letter T. It was missing.
What should have read "Taste Our Big N' Tasty" actually read "Taste Our Big Nasty." Whether it was the handiwork of a prankster, an illiterate or the wind, we hadn't a clue. But what we did know was that it was hilariously appealing, and even more effective than the original message could have ever hoped to be.
Big Nasty? Yes, I'll have two.
The menu of this particular McDonald's also offered something not commonly found in other franchises. The McIce. What might sound like a dessert is really just, well, a cup filled with ice, no lid. And it costs a dollar! The McNapkin and the McStraw were other add-ons, should they have tickled our fancy.
I was first introduced to the Big N' Tasty in Alabama, circa 2003. While on a cross-country drive, a van of teenagers happened upon a certain McDonald's with a giant marquee beneath its golden arches. The displayed message? Why, an invitation for passers-by to come in and try the Big N' Tasty.
But there was one small problem. The letter T. It was missing.
What should have read "Taste Our Big N' Tasty" actually read "Taste Our Big Nasty." Whether it was the handiwork of a prankster, an illiterate or the wind, we hadn't a clue. But what we did know was that it was hilariously appealing, and even more effective than the original message could have ever hoped to be.
Big Nasty? Yes, I'll have two.
The menu of this particular McDonald's also offered something not commonly found in other franchises. The McIce. What might sound like a dessert is really just, well, a cup filled with ice, no lid. And it costs a dollar! The McNapkin and the McStraw were other add-ons, should they have tickled our fancy.
A Pigeonal Addendum
Before you read this, read this.
Really, I shouldn't be surprised at all. You outdid yourselves, again, for worse, again. What is with you guys? Huh?!
Here, let me spell it out for you:
Humans ≠ Pigeons
Humans ≠ Your Friends
Humans = Humans
Why is it then, pigeons, that you want to be man's best friend? The dog already holds this title. We'll give you a call when there's a vacancy. Until then, it is incumbent of your to KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. Ya heard? Distance is the operative word here.
Know what I saw the other day? Take a guess. No, go ahead. Give up?
People throwing rocks at pigeons. Rocks, pigeons. Rocks!
Can't you see what you've done? You're like the worst bird. Get it through your greasy little heads. The rocks were sizable ones - the size of an infant's fist - and they pummeled you. I mean, can't you guys fly? Last time I checked the roofs of cars or my own apartment window the answer was yes. (Hey, how do you guys manage to land a direct hit on my window anyway, which, of course, is perpendicular to your flight pattern? Is this like an in-flight, drop-and-release sort of thing where you pinch out a bomb 30 yards away and let gravity and momentum take care of the rest?)
Don't pull an ostrich or a penguin. FLY AWAY! But no, you pigeons took the beating happily, believing each next rock to be a cheeseburger. You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves. What a pathetic display. Some of you dropped like bowling pins. Others slowly hobbled away from the beat-down. Those unstoned approached the stoning like a buffet line, only to be turned away wholeheartedly disappointed and very much stoned.
So just to see how dumb you are (and how much I could get away with) I threw my shoe at you. That's right, my frigging shoe. And guess what? BAM! It took one of you down. Sucka. Sparwled you out flat on the ground. Wings out and everything.
"Squawwwk! Oh, that wasn't a baguette?" No, shit-for-brains, it's not a baguette. It's my shoe. Eat shoe.
Somehow your pals were not phased and only came closer to check out my shoe.
"Maybe this shoe stepped on a baguette earlier in the day and is harboring tiny, little baguette morsels in its sole?!" Nice try. I almost had to say "excuse me" to retrieve the damn thing. I swear, ants are harder to squash.
And another thing: where do you get off trying to enter my hotel room? I didn't ask room service to send you up here. I didn't order no pigeon. But there you were on my balcony, walking through the sliding glass door and by the foot of my bed like some sort of freelancing maid. Maybe it was the horrified look on my face that compelled you to strut out, albeit at a casual pace. Be urgent about these things, please.
Once on the terrace you trapezed the bannister to the next room! Who invited you, pigeon?!
Really, I shouldn't be surprised at all. You outdid yourselves, again, for worse, again. What is with you guys? Huh?!
Here, let me spell it out for you:
Humans ≠ Pigeons
Humans ≠ Your Friends
Humans = Humans
Why is it then, pigeons, that you want to be man's best friend? The dog already holds this title. We'll give you a call when there's a vacancy. Until then, it is incumbent of your to KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. Ya heard? Distance is the operative word here.
Know what I saw the other day? Take a guess. No, go ahead. Give up?
People throwing rocks at pigeons. Rocks, pigeons. Rocks!
Can't you see what you've done? You're like the worst bird. Get it through your greasy little heads. The rocks were sizable ones - the size of an infant's fist - and they pummeled you. I mean, can't you guys fly? Last time I checked the roofs of cars or my own apartment window the answer was yes. (Hey, how do you guys manage to land a direct hit on my window anyway, which, of course, is perpendicular to your flight pattern? Is this like an in-flight, drop-and-release sort of thing where you pinch out a bomb 30 yards away and let gravity and momentum take care of the rest?)
Don't pull an ostrich or a penguin. FLY AWAY! But no, you pigeons took the beating happily, believing each next rock to be a cheeseburger. You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves. What a pathetic display. Some of you dropped like bowling pins. Others slowly hobbled away from the beat-down. Those unstoned approached the stoning like a buffet line, only to be turned away wholeheartedly disappointed and very much stoned.
So just to see how dumb you are (and how much I could get away with) I threw my shoe at you. That's right, my frigging shoe. And guess what? BAM! It took one of you down. Sucka. Sparwled you out flat on the ground. Wings out and everything.
"Squawwwk! Oh, that wasn't a baguette?" No, shit-for-brains, it's not a baguette. It's my shoe. Eat shoe.
Somehow your pals were not phased and only came closer to check out my shoe.
"Maybe this shoe stepped on a baguette earlier in the day and is harboring tiny, little baguette morsels in its sole?!" Nice try. I almost had to say "excuse me" to retrieve the damn thing. I swear, ants are harder to squash.
And another thing: where do you get off trying to enter my hotel room? I didn't ask room service to send you up here. I didn't order no pigeon. But there you were on my balcony, walking through the sliding glass door and by the foot of my bed like some sort of freelancing maid. Maybe it was the horrified look on my face that compelled you to strut out, albeit at a casual pace. Be urgent about these things, please.
Once on the terrace you trapezed the bannister to the next room! Who invited you, pigeon?!
Shalimar to Patrons: “Pff! You Will NOT Pour Yourselves Water”
Shalimar is an Indian/Pakistani buffet on
Do not, under any circumstances, no matter how incredibly thirsty you may become, attempt to pour yourself, or anyone else, water from the pitchers at the beginning of the buffet line.
Do not be fooled into thinking that since the pitchers are found next to the self-serve buffet and the plates, and the silverware, and the napkins, and the glasses, and, for that matter, housed under the roof of a please-help-yourself, take-more-than-you-want, actually-take-more-than-you-could-possibly-ever-need establishment, that it would be prudent of you to refill your own glass.
Shalimar employs water boys, or a water boy, rather (looks like a boy, sounds like a boy, is in fact a man), who, I found out, takes his job very, very seriously. Even more so than Adam Sandler does, or did.
As I reached for the pitcher, a loud, snappy chirp bludgeoned my ear drums...
“Ex-CUSE me, sir! You will NOT pour yourself water! That is MY job!”
???
He first ripped the sweating pitcher out of my hand, then the glass out of my other. He marched back to where I was sitting, roughly 15 feet away, my arms still at a 90-degree angle to my body in a weird sort of abandoned pouring position from holding said items now taken, filled my glass, water spewing out of the container like Niagara, and slammed it down on the table – all the while never looking at what he was doing, but instead staring fiercely into me eyes.
Everyone in the tiny place had turned their heads to gawk, probably thinking I tried to hold up the buffet at gun point, maybe for money, maybe to cut in line. Who knows? They slowly directed their attention back to their plates, taking small sips from their glasses, scared shitless of having to ask for more.
On Yelp, Shalimar invites guests to “…indulge in a sweet temptation… there's no excuse!” Actually, Shalimar, I can think of one pretty good excuse, but I don’t know how to say his name. Let’s go with Water Boy. Water Boy is a pretty damn good excuse not to indulge in a sweet temptation or ever set foot in your cursed restaurant again.
Let us further examine the comments found on Yelp.
What a menace, that Water Boy - tyrant of the Indian buffet.
You Should Probably be Jealous of My Underpants
This is going to be hard for me to explain to you – accurately explain this feeling to its fullest potential – how happy I am sitting here, sitting here right now in my new underwear.
I was left with the following options:
1. Buy said skivvies and fashion openings with my box cutter, perhaps adding buttons later on (and learning how to sew in the process).
2. Continue as is, opting out of undergarments altogether.
3. Move on with my quest for the ultimate underwear.
Can you guess which one I chose? Wait, you already know the answer to that one don’t you? I moved on. My search ended when I entered STORE NAME WITHHELD (strange, never liked going in there). At first I was bummed to find plenty of underwear that would seal a gent off to the outside world. But then I noticed a limited selection of pairs with nice little diagrams on their packaging, indicating there was a diagonal opening for me to use. Joy! After examining the fabric, they also seemed like they’d be very cozy and not make me feel like I was being held hostage down there.
I got them, a bunch of them, and now I’m going back for the rest. Revel in my triumph,
An Open Letter to All Pigeons... Everywhere
Dear pigeons,
Golden Gate Park, for starters
Mundane Affair
Mundane Affair
Concerning San Francisco
Heels in the Men's Room
This has happened to me a couple of times in the past month. In our office building, women's restrooms are found on odd floors and men's restrooms are on the even floors. I work on the ninth floor, meaning I have to walk upstairs or downstairs whenever I need to answer a bodily request. Not a hard concept.
Ten has always been my floor of choice, but I've been trying out eight as of late - and eight is where all of this happened.
I was in a stall going about my normal business when I heard the door open very slowly.
"Hello?" The voice was high pitched, shrill and effeminate. "Is anybody in here?"
I froze. Was I in the wrong restroom? Had I walked down one too many flights of stairs in an early morning stuper? I peeked through the crack in the stall door and saw the men's urinal. I was momentarily relieved. What the hell was happening?
My first reaction should have been to shout "YEAH!", but I was busy checking if I was mistakenly using the women's restroom.
Then it happened.
Click... Clack... Click... Clack...
Pink toenails in pink heels. Right there. Walking across the tile with all the stealth, caution and calculated risk a soldier takes when crossing a field of land mines... and into the stall next to me.
Could she not walk up or down one measly flight of stairs? Yeah, someone is in here, honey. You'll find out soon when I flush this damn thing. Was she nursing? Was she newly transgendered? Still using the men's room, huh?
So I flushed much to her surprise. The timid little gasp on the other side of the stall wall led me to believe she was embarrassed. But the next week it almost happened again. Almost.
"Hello? Is anybody in here?"
"YES! ME! I AM IN HERE!"
No click clacking. She patiently waited outside for her turn to use the men's restroom while I deliberately stalled. I exited and saw here standing there. Waiting, moving past me when I headed for the stairs. I stopped in the lobby and could hear her put down the toilet seat.
But she didn't ask if anyone else was in the restroom.
Ten has always been my floor of choice, but I've been trying out eight as of late - and eight is where all of this happened.
I was in a stall going about my normal business when I heard the door open very slowly.
"Hello?" The voice was high pitched, shrill and effeminate. "Is anybody in here?"
I froze. Was I in the wrong restroom? Had I walked down one too many flights of stairs in an early morning stuper? I peeked through the crack in the stall door and saw the men's urinal. I was momentarily relieved. What the hell was happening?
My first reaction should have been to shout "YEAH!", but I was busy checking if I was mistakenly using the women's restroom.
Then it happened.
Click... Clack... Click... Clack...
Pink toenails in pink heels. Right there. Walking across the tile with all the stealth, caution and calculated risk a soldier takes when crossing a field of land mines... and into the stall next to me.
Could she not walk up or down one measly flight of stairs? Yeah, someone is in here, honey. You'll find out soon when I flush this damn thing. Was she nursing? Was she newly transgendered? Still using the men's room, huh?
So I flushed much to her surprise. The timid little gasp on the other side of the stall wall led me to believe she was embarrassed. But the next week it almost happened again. Almost.
"Hello? Is anybody in here?"
"YES! ME! I AM IN HERE!"
No click clacking. She patiently waited outside for her turn to use the men's restroom while I deliberately stalled. I exited and saw here standing there. Waiting, moving past me when I headed for the stairs. I stopped in the lobby and could hear her put down the toilet seat.
But she didn't ask if anyone else was in the restroom.
Trying to Eat
A ghastly sight is one of my coworkers eating. Or trying to eat. It's like watching a burn victim try to snake a tube down her own throat: unfamiliar and painful.
For her, eating is a slow, lethargic process that's open to the public. It almost looks like she hasn't been doing it for very long. Here, let me help you shovel that fork full of salad into that tiny little skull of yours, you beast. You're scaring everyone in the conference room. How have you made it this far in life? I'm getting you a bib. The last report I gave you was handed back to me with a dollop of salsa on it. Not cool. Not what I ordered.
For her, eating is a slow, lethargic process that's open to the public. It almost looks like she hasn't been doing it for very long. Here, let me help you shovel that fork full of salad into that tiny little skull of yours, you beast. You're scaring everyone in the conference room. How have you made it this far in life? I'm getting you a bib. The last report I gave you was handed back to me with a dollop of salsa on it. Not cool. Not what I ordered.
Sorry I Hit You (I Have to Go)
I'll always remember the day Walter Soine, then 90, smashed into the back of my car.
There I was, sitting at an intersection on a stretch of road that runs straight for a mile - the only car on the road. In broad daylight, Walter somehow failed to see the red light he was nearing or notice that I was stopped. About 30 yards before the intersection, Walter slammed on his brakes before plowing into me. (Insert loud screeching noises he probably couldn't hear.)
Walter and I still haven't officially met - largely because he didn't even get out of his car after hitting me. Not only that, he didn't even break his 10-and-two grip or put his car in park.
I didn't know if this was a display of arrogance, unawareness or confidence that his Buick (surprise) was not damaged (built like a brick shit house). Even if he would have killed me, wiped the road with my brains, I don't think he would remember my name because he's completely senile.
I was pissed off. Irate. I got out and approached Walter, oblivious, still sitting in his car. I had never been in an accident, and never did I imagine I'd have to explain to the other person what happened and why I was loitering around their car on a now-busy road. It seemed to me that both parties involved would understand the events that just took place... and get out of their cars.
I was wrong.
He thought I was one of those people collecting change for charity. Sorry, Walt, but I'm collecting for damages today.
Walter should not have a driver's license. He's clearly incapable of driving safely. I couldn't even communicate with the guy.
"Can I please get your driver's license and insurance information?"
I would assume that anyone in his position would be able to process my request, let alone understand what the hell I was asking for and why.
All I got was an, "Ehhhhhh?!"
Was he human? Looked like it. Maybe he was past his expiration date or something. Alas, 15 minutes later I think he finally caught on. Throughout the entire dilemma, he never put together a coherent sentence or used any real words for that matter. At one point I thought he tried to say "card" or "brake," but when I inquired about what he was saying he just continued to moan, "Ahhhhhh!"
Senior citizens like Walter, like my own grandparents, should have their driver's licenses revoked if they do not have the capacity to drive safely. For those who complain and argue their rights, they should be given large, red styrofoam cars incapable of harming anyone, even at top speeds.
There I was, sitting at an intersection on a stretch of road that runs straight for a mile - the only car on the road. In broad daylight, Walter somehow failed to see the red light he was nearing or notice that I was stopped. About 30 yards before the intersection, Walter slammed on his brakes before plowing into me. (Insert loud screeching noises he probably couldn't hear.)
Walter and I still haven't officially met - largely because he didn't even get out of his car after hitting me. Not only that, he didn't even break his 10-and-two grip or put his car in park.
I didn't know if this was a display of arrogance, unawareness or confidence that his Buick (surprise) was not damaged (built like a brick shit house). Even if he would have killed me, wiped the road with my brains, I don't think he would remember my name because he's completely senile.
I was pissed off. Irate. I got out and approached Walter, oblivious, still sitting in his car. I had never been in an accident, and never did I imagine I'd have to explain to the other person what happened and why I was loitering around their car on a now-busy road. It seemed to me that both parties involved would understand the events that just took place... and get out of their cars.
I was wrong.
He thought I was one of those people collecting change for charity. Sorry, Walt, but I'm collecting for damages today.
Walter should not have a driver's license. He's clearly incapable of driving safely. I couldn't even communicate with the guy.
"Can I please get your driver's license and insurance information?"
I would assume that anyone in his position would be able to process my request, let alone understand what the hell I was asking for and why.
All I got was an, "Ehhhhhh?!"
Was he human? Looked like it. Maybe he was past his expiration date or something. Alas, 15 minutes later I think he finally caught on. Throughout the entire dilemma, he never put together a coherent sentence or used any real words for that matter. At one point I thought he tried to say "card" or "brake," but when I inquired about what he was saying he just continued to moan, "Ahhhhhh!"
Senior citizens like Walter, like my own grandparents, should have their driver's licenses revoked if they do not have the capacity to drive safely. For those who complain and argue their rights, they should be given large, red styrofoam cars incapable of harming anyone, even at top speeds.
That’s "Mister" Laycock
In fifth grade, Brandon Laycock's dad visited our classroom as a guest speaker. I can’t remember what purpose it served, but he basically came to show us how smart he was. After he gathered all us kids around, he asked a girl to say the first word that came to her mind.
"Dolphins!" she shouted.
Mr. Laycock then tried to prove that no matter what word we said, he could give a five-minute speech on the subject. We swooned. The more I think about it, it's really not that amazing at all. But back then I was ready to believe anything.
Mr. Laycock was escorted into the classroom by our assistant teacher. He had not yet seen or met our real teacher, Mrs. Sabo. In the middle of a speech about land mines (turns out he was a veteran), in walked Mrs. Sabo.
What was his idea of beauty? I hadn't a clue. But apparently it looked a little like Mrs. Sabo did that day. Upon seeing her, standing before a crowd of kids seated on the floor, his penis began to grow hard beneath his tight Wranglers.
Instant reaction.
I didn't know if I had ever had a boner in my life. Christ. I barely even knew what the damn thing was for. As the crotch of his jeans began to protrude, his face turned red and he segued into a rant about being in the war and getting shot at by Charlie. I think his testosterone took over. God bless him.
I’m certain Mr. Laycock felt awkward, and you can bet us kids would have felt awkward too if we knew only what awkwardness was. There was a brief moment when Mr. Laycock, Mrs. Sabo and all the students were looking at his boner at the same time. The same time! Almost like paleontologists unearthing the fossils of an undiscovered dinosaur, we were briefly captivated by what we saw, what was happening right before our own eyes.
"What's in his pants?" the girl who cried "dolphins" inquired while pointing and attempting to stand up. "I saw something move in his pants!"
One of the cool kids, who obviously had older siblings, told us about erections. Then he shouted, "Brandon's dad wants to have sex with Mrs. Sabo!" Poor Brandon.
Some kids gasped, knowing the word to be taboo, while others such as myself were still stuck on the word “boner.” So we asked for Mr. Laycock's next speech to be about that. Boners.
It only now occurrs to me how fitting his last name is.
"Dolphins!" she shouted.
Mr. Laycock then tried to prove that no matter what word we said, he could give a five-minute speech on the subject. We swooned. The more I think about it, it's really not that amazing at all. But back then I was ready to believe anything.
Mr. Laycock was escorted into the classroom by our assistant teacher. He had not yet seen or met our real teacher, Mrs. Sabo. In the middle of a speech about land mines (turns out he was a veteran), in walked Mrs. Sabo.
What was his idea of beauty? I hadn't a clue. But apparently it looked a little like Mrs. Sabo did that day. Upon seeing her, standing before a crowd of kids seated on the floor, his penis began to grow hard beneath his tight Wranglers.
Instant reaction.
I didn't know if I had ever had a boner in my life. Christ. I barely even knew what the damn thing was for. As the crotch of his jeans began to protrude, his face turned red and he segued into a rant about being in the war and getting shot at by Charlie. I think his testosterone took over. God bless him.
I’m certain Mr. Laycock felt awkward, and you can bet us kids would have felt awkward too if we knew only what awkwardness was. There was a brief moment when Mr. Laycock, Mrs. Sabo and all the students were looking at his boner at the same time. The same time! Almost like paleontologists unearthing the fossils of an undiscovered dinosaur, we were briefly captivated by what we saw, what was happening right before our own eyes.
"What's in his pants?" the girl who cried "dolphins" inquired while pointing and attempting to stand up. "I saw something move in his pants!"
One of the cool kids, who obviously had older siblings, told us about erections. Then he shouted, "Brandon's dad wants to have sex with Mrs. Sabo!" Poor Brandon.
Some kids gasped, knowing the word to be taboo, while others such as myself were still stuck on the word “boner.” So we asked for Mr. Laycock's next speech to be about that. Boners.
It only now occurrs to me how fitting his last name is.
UGGbelievable
Hey, ladies. Chief Running Wolf and Pocahontas called: they want their boots back.
All over America, a confused generation of fashion-conscious females (this just in: males also) is roaming the countryside looking like they are on their way to the battle of Wounded Knee.
Footwear originally worn by Native Americans has apparently made a comeback, and at this rate the antiquated traditions of husking corn and ethnocide will be resurfacing any day now. When the Native American culture was systematically deconstructed and assimilated in 1890, little did the people know their spirit would live on...
in the form of overpriced, poorly made designer boots.
You all know UGG - the sexy, trendy name that pretty much summed up fiscal 2004 for footwear. Let me be the 75,000th person to say that if any Native Americans from the 19th century were still alive, a copyright lawsuit would be filed and UGG stock would hurl itself into an eternal abyss. The Sioux, the Apache, the Cherokee and the Iroquois are rolling over in their graves right now. Thanks to us retarded consumers, a once staple of their daily lives is now an accessory to our evenings.
Congratulations.
Now we can choose what color we want our little booties to be. Do you think Native Americans had a choice when they were going to war or preparing for winter? Hell no. They were worried about dying and freezing to death and chose brown by default - not because the other colors were out of stock or because brown was in style, but because brown was all that existed. Alas, 117 years later, women (this just in: men also) can choose between several colorful UGGs, ready and willing to pay an arm and a leg for the damn things.
So while we're at the height of capitalizing on the demise of other cultures, the uniforms Jews were forced to wear upon entering concentration camps were sort of cute too. I mean, I bet they had no idea at the time that the garments haunting their being would make a comeback and be worn by free people, but neither did Native Americans.
It's bad enough our ancestors killed off almost all indigenous people, the rightful proprietors of this land. But this is just insult to injury. Not only did we steal their soil, purge their culture and rape their women, but we also stole their sense of fashion.
Ladies.
All over America, a confused generation of fashion-conscious females (this just in: males also) is roaming the countryside looking like they are on their way to the battle of Wounded Knee.
Footwear originally worn by Native Americans has apparently made a comeback, and at this rate the antiquated traditions of husking corn and ethnocide will be resurfacing any day now. When the Native American culture was systematically deconstructed and assimilated in 1890, little did the people know their spirit would live on...
in the form of overpriced, poorly made designer boots.
You all know UGG - the sexy, trendy name that pretty much summed up fiscal 2004 for footwear. Let me be the 75,000th person to say that if any Native Americans from the 19th century were still alive, a copyright lawsuit would be filed and UGG stock would hurl itself into an eternal abyss. The Sioux, the Apache, the Cherokee and the Iroquois are rolling over in their graves right now. Thanks to us retarded consumers, a once staple of their daily lives is now an accessory to our evenings.
Congratulations.
Now we can choose what color we want our little booties to be. Do you think Native Americans had a choice when they were going to war or preparing for winter? Hell no. They were worried about dying and freezing to death and chose brown by default - not because the other colors were out of stock or because brown was in style, but because brown was all that existed. Alas, 117 years later, women (this just in: men also) can choose between several colorful UGGs, ready and willing to pay an arm and a leg for the damn things.
So while we're at the height of capitalizing on the demise of other cultures, the uniforms Jews were forced to wear upon entering concentration camps were sort of cute too. I mean, I bet they had no idea at the time that the garments haunting their being would make a comeback and be worn by free people, but neither did Native Americans.
It's bad enough our ancestors killed off almost all indigenous people, the rightful proprietors of this land. But this is just insult to injury. Not only did we steal their soil, purge their culture and rape their women, but we also stole their sense of fashion.
Ladies.
The First Illegal Garment?
Ski masks. Perhaps the one article of clothing most associated with crime (besides pantyhose).
When you stop to think about it, the ski mask is rather incredible. Designed with the good intention of keeping a person's face from freezing and falling off, this gem is now the face of armed robbery. Crooks all over the world are doing their part to make this the first illegal garment. Then there would actually be fashion police (and they'd have guns too).
Come to think of it, how far do you think you could walk into a bank while wearing a ski mask? If you somehow made it all the way up to the teller, can you imagine the look on his/her face when you defiantly slide your deposit ticket across the counter with one finger? You'd be the hero of every man, woman and child in the building.
Can someone please try this?
When you stop to think about it, the ski mask is rather incredible. Designed with the good intention of keeping a person's face from freezing and falling off, this gem is now the face of armed robbery. Crooks all over the world are doing their part to make this the first illegal garment. Then there would actually be fashion police (and they'd have guns too).
Come to think of it, how far do you think you could walk into a bank while wearing a ski mask? If you somehow made it all the way up to the teller, can you imagine the look on his/her face when you defiantly slide your deposit ticket across the counter with one finger? You'd be the hero of every man, woman and child in the building.
Can someone please try this?
Reason Not to Buy a Pontiac
There was a point in time when my car was acting up in big ways, and a series of unfortunate, unrelated events left me feeling uneasy about its reliability. Among other occurrences, I had been rear-ended and somehow my Grand Am managed to escape with no damages. I should have sold the heap immediately after this stroke of good luck, because what happened soon after, to put it mildly, made me never want to ride in a Pontiac again.
On my way home for another lame college spring break, there was a rather long traffic jam on the highway. Some background information: the Service Engine Soon light had been on for about a week, and fixing it was the focal point of my break. Riveting, I know.
What happened next was truly awesome. During the stop-and-go traffic, the ABS light came on. Seconds later, the battery light came on. I wasn't sure what all of this meant, but I knew it wasn't good. Traffic started to pick up, and I stepped on the accelerator. The airbag light came on. Next, the radio died. Then the power windows. All my gauges - speedometer, gas and the like - flatlined and fell.
At this point there was an eminent wave of destruction swelling around my car, forcing it into what appeared to be self-destruct mode. Finally, the entire car called it an early day and shut off entirely. There was no chance to pull over, so I was sitting in the middle of the left lane of the highway. Now I was the reason for the traffic jam.
I would estimate there was about two miles of traffic behind me. Low balling it. My life was put even more at risk when the jackass behind me passed me on the left shoulder while giving me the finger. Yes! He didn't choose to merge into the right lane of traffic to pass me. Wasn't having it, apparently. He was going left come hell or high water. As you might know, what the lead car does in a traffic jam can set a horrifying precedent. Traffic jams are notorious for conformity. I now had cars whizzing past me on my right, and to my left was a stream of pissed off people driving through the muddy median. Most honked their horns, and more fingers were raised. Yes, people. This was my intention: to park my car on the highway. Get over yourselves.
I couldn't get out of my car because I would've gotten run over. After taking a moment to myself, sitting in my shaking car, I elected to call 911.
"911 Emergency."
"Yeah, hi, um... god, I don't know how to say this. My car just died on the highway. I'm holding up a lot of traffic in the left lane.
"OK, sir, let me patch you through to a towing company."
"OK."
"Hi, this is 911, we've got a broken-down car on the shoulder of the highway at mile marker 110."
"Um, excuse me."
"Yes?"
"I'm not on the shoulder."
"Oh. Well that's what you said."
"No I didn't. I didn't say that."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah I'm sure! I am sitting in the left lane here, blocking a couple miles of traffic! You'd better come quick!"
"Oh my god. I am so sorry."
All I could do was wait for the tow truck. I stared out my rear-view mirror at the sea of cars behind me. Many drivers didn't notice my car sitting there or observe the stream of traffic bulging around me. I was almost rear-ended several different times.
Then a red semi truck pulled off the right shoulder. Out of the truck came a large burly man who resembled Santa Claus. I beheld my savior. Claus jumped into a small gap in traffic with both arms raised and waving. Tires screeched, and I could smell the burning rubber. That Claus.
"Stop! Stop!"
He ran over, opened the door and told me to put the car in neutral. In one effortless motion, Claus pushed my car into the median. He scampered back across traffic and got into his truck. This was all very surreal. He may as well have had a sack of toys slung over his shoulder.
Now that I was out of the car, everyone could put a face with the person who had been causing the delay. Tons of death stares. People are dicks.
Then the tow truck arrived. John. John started laughing and said he heard about me on the radio. I didn't know what this meant. He said he was listening to the radio before the 911 call came in, and a woman called the station and told the listeners on air that there was a crazy man with a death wish just sitting in his black Grand Am, blocking the left lane of the highway. This was not amusing.
For $250, we got the car hooked up to his truck. Then we drove. Fast.
I'm not sure how fast you think tow trucks go, or can go, but previously I had thought that all trucks in general stayed in the right lane and went about 50 mph. Not John. We were soon in the left lane doing 80 mph. That's 80 mph in a town truck, towing another car (my piece of crap car), passing other cars. I've never seen more confused faces in my life. Jaws dropped once they saw the truck passing them, and upon seeing we were also towing another vehicle, they blinked and shook their heads in disapproval.
I had to say something to break the ice, so I went with, "Wow, John... I've got to be honest with you. I really didn't think tow trucks went this fast." John admitted he had a proverbial lead foot that had gotten him into trouble many, many times before. He called the 50 mph truck speed limit "lame."
At our peak, we actually passed another tow truck that wasn't even towing anything. I saw the driver mouth "god damn it" as he eyed the mass of metal passing him.
Cool beans, huh? Not quite. Though we made it home in record-setting fashion, my car was seriously broken, and so was my trust in Pontiac.
On my way home for another lame college spring break, there was a rather long traffic jam on the highway. Some background information: the Service Engine Soon light had been on for about a week, and fixing it was the focal point of my break. Riveting, I know.
What happened next was truly awesome. During the stop-and-go traffic, the ABS light came on. Seconds later, the battery light came on. I wasn't sure what all of this meant, but I knew it wasn't good. Traffic started to pick up, and I stepped on the accelerator. The airbag light came on. Next, the radio died. Then the power windows. All my gauges - speedometer, gas and the like - flatlined and fell.
At this point there was an eminent wave of destruction swelling around my car, forcing it into what appeared to be self-destruct mode. Finally, the entire car called it an early day and shut off entirely. There was no chance to pull over, so I was sitting in the middle of the left lane of the highway. Now I was the reason for the traffic jam.
I would estimate there was about two miles of traffic behind me. Low balling it. My life was put even more at risk when the jackass behind me passed me on the left shoulder while giving me the finger. Yes! He didn't choose to merge into the right lane of traffic to pass me. Wasn't having it, apparently. He was going left come hell or high water. As you might know, what the lead car does in a traffic jam can set a horrifying precedent. Traffic jams are notorious for conformity. I now had cars whizzing past me on my right, and to my left was a stream of pissed off people driving through the muddy median. Most honked their horns, and more fingers were raised. Yes, people. This was my intention: to park my car on the highway. Get over yourselves.
I couldn't get out of my car because I would've gotten run over. After taking a moment to myself, sitting in my shaking car, I elected to call 911.
"911 Emergency."
"Yeah, hi, um... god, I don't know how to say this. My car just died on the highway. I'm holding up a lot of traffic in the left lane.
"OK, sir, let me patch you through to a towing company."
"OK."
"Hi, this is 911, we've got a broken-down car on the shoulder of the highway at mile marker 110."
"Um, excuse me."
"Yes?"
"I'm not on the shoulder."
"Oh. Well that's what you said."
"No I didn't. I didn't say that."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah I'm sure! I am sitting in the left lane here, blocking a couple miles of traffic! You'd better come quick!"
"Oh my god. I am so sorry."
All I could do was wait for the tow truck. I stared out my rear-view mirror at the sea of cars behind me. Many drivers didn't notice my car sitting there or observe the stream of traffic bulging around me. I was almost rear-ended several different times.
Then a red semi truck pulled off the right shoulder. Out of the truck came a large burly man who resembled Santa Claus. I beheld my savior. Claus jumped into a small gap in traffic with both arms raised and waving. Tires screeched, and I could smell the burning rubber. That Claus.
"Stop! Stop!"
He ran over, opened the door and told me to put the car in neutral. In one effortless motion, Claus pushed my car into the median. He scampered back across traffic and got into his truck. This was all very surreal. He may as well have had a sack of toys slung over his shoulder.
Now that I was out of the car, everyone could put a face with the person who had been causing the delay. Tons of death stares. People are dicks.
Then the tow truck arrived. John. John started laughing and said he heard about me on the radio. I didn't know what this meant. He said he was listening to the radio before the 911 call came in, and a woman called the station and told the listeners on air that there was a crazy man with a death wish just sitting in his black Grand Am, blocking the left lane of the highway. This was not amusing.
For $250, we got the car hooked up to his truck. Then we drove. Fast.
I'm not sure how fast you think tow trucks go, or can go, but previously I had thought that all trucks in general stayed in the right lane and went about 50 mph. Not John. We were soon in the left lane doing 80 mph. That's 80 mph in a town truck, towing another car (my piece of crap car), passing other cars. I've never seen more confused faces in my life. Jaws dropped once they saw the truck passing them, and upon seeing we were also towing another vehicle, they blinked and shook their heads in disapproval.
I had to say something to break the ice, so I went with, "Wow, John... I've got to be honest with you. I really didn't think tow trucks went this fast." John admitted he had a proverbial lead foot that had gotten him into trouble many, many times before. He called the 50 mph truck speed limit "lame."
At our peak, we actually passed another tow truck that wasn't even towing anything. I saw the driver mouth "god damn it" as he eyed the mass of metal passing him.
Cool beans, huh? Not quite. Though we made it home in record-setting fashion, my car was seriously broken, and so was my trust in Pontiac.
Biggest Mistakes of My Life: Mistake No. 1
Let's go way back. As a teenage dishwasher at a local golf course, I accepted the fact that I alone occupied the bottom strata of a blue-collar caste system - the lowest of the low on a semi-corporate totem poll. However, what I didn't realize was that my newly awarded "slave" status would soon lead me through a two-hour escapade into the heart of Detroit while harboring a criminal in my 1999 Pontiac Grand Am.
I miss that car. Actually, scratch that.
First and foremost, it is important you understand how menial my job was. I was a peon - just another kid who was looking to make some money before college and perhaps climb the ranks of social hierarchy. Dishwashers were treated like animals at the golf course. Filthy, rabid animals. Sad but true. Anyway, on my first day I was introduced to a cook, a man of superior status, a higher life form, named Jason. Right off the bat, I could tell Jason was bad news and even worse - white trash. It could have been the barbed-wire tattoo around his wrist, the fake gold chain around his neck, or the low-life ambiance that was emitted from his many missing teeth, but it was immediately clear to me that this guy sucked.
Fast forward to two months later. One Sunday, Jason and I were the only people working in the kitchen. This is when he saw an opportunity to take advantage of me. Not in that way, dipshit. But to take advantage of my occupation as a serf and my naivety. Up until this point, I was aware of the fact that Jason had no driver's license due to a couple of "bogus" DUIs. Sadly, I was unaware he frequently asked co-workers for rides home. As you can probably guess, Jason cornered me at work and started begging for a ride home. "It's not that far, man. Come on! Help a guy out." I agreed.
(OK, hold on a second. To help lighten the mood of this story, I'm going to start referring to Jason as "Dumbass.")
As we drove away from the golf course, Dumbass started directing me to his apartment. Upon arriving at his modest abode, he told me he was going to run inside real quick and get something he wanted to show me. I had no idea at the time, but I should have left. Dumbass came back and got into my car. "What are you doing?" I inquired. "I'm gonna need you to take me to see a friend of mine. He owes me some money, and I need to pay him a littlie visit. It's not a far trip, I'll pay you $50." Like a house on stilts in a hurricane, I crippled under pressure and followed the orders of upper management. Bad idea.
By this time in the story I was on the interstate, which is nowhere near the golf course. Turns out Dumbass lied. We neared a three-way split in the interstate: the left leading to downtown Detroit, the middle to Toledo, Ohio, and the right to Ann Arbor. I could sense this was the determining factor in where I would be spending the next hour of my life. I was praying for Ann Arbor. "Get in the left lane, we're going to Detroit," Dumbass mumbled. My heart sank.
Inner-city Detroit. Not the suburbs. Not I'm-from-Northville-yet-I-tell-people-I'm-from-Detroit-when-I'm-traveling-out-of-state Detroit. After exiting the highway, I drove down a road in what was probably a residential area, but looked more like a place where a bomb had recently gone off. Dumbass told me to slow down, and that the place we were looking for was five houses ahead. I glanced five "houses" ahead. On the left, there was a dilapidated yet quiet-looking home. On the right, there was a home with 10 black men crowded on a small lawn drinking beer and working on a Chevy Impala. I could sense what was coming. "OK, stop the car! It's the house on the right," Dumbass yelled. Fantastic news.
I received specific instructions from Dumbass to stay low and, this is still my favorite, to not draw attention to myself. Well, aren't those some comforting statements? "Stay low"? When does anyone need to stay low, save a war or a terrorist attack? "Stay low" is a bad command to give to someone - it will only make them nervous. The latter was even more impressive and easily outdid the former instrucion. "Don't draw attention to yourself." Thanks, Dumbass, I think you and I have already fucked this one up huge. After fiddling with something secured in his boot that I believed to be a knife, Dumbass set off into the sea of Detroit locals guarding the home. I was sweating profusely. Looking back on this whole bizarre scenario, I should have left him there to die. But then again, he probably would have paid me a visit next. So I waited.
What seemed like an eternity later, Dumbass came sprinting out of the house like a bat out of hell amid the confused-looking group of urbanites who started to shout, got into my car and yelled "Drive!" Again, telling someone to "Drive!" is something that should rarely, if ever, be done. If necessary, it should be used in moderation, for it implies that eminent danger is upon us and that driving very fast is the only chance we have to escape the coming certainty of death and/or injury. Nonetheless, I understood and chose to "Drive!" as fast as I could.
I didn't know what transpired in the house, but I had a better idea once we got back on the interstate. Dumbass pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and I told him I normally don't let people smoke in my car. He replied by shaking out five crack rocks into his hand from the empty pack. I was beside myself at this point - completely dismayed as to what had happened that day. As Dumbass broke up the rocks in his hand and snorted them, he proceeded to tell me how he recently moved to Michigan from Miami, where he used to deal cocaine. "They arrested my old man on a sting," Dumbass explained. "Fucking cops," he elaborated. After Dumbass enlightened me with more of his senseless stories, I learned that not only was I harboring a drug dealer, but an ex-convict as well. What a great way to spend a Sunday. The "Lord's" day. He did pay me though - $50 like he promised.
The next week, Dumbass robbed our work. That's right. He robbed the place. But since he didn't have a car, this made his getaway much less smooth than the average criminal. Apparently Dumbass had been stealing cash from the golf course for months and decided to take off running after stealing the last amount of the beer-cart money, leaving his cooking apron on the pavement of the parking lot during his mad dash to the nearest major road. Oh yeah, Dumbass also broke into our boss' house to steal a few items and held up a local video store at knife-point. He was apprehended later that week.
Needless to say, this was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I know you know this because you wasted your time reading my incredibly stupid story. I'm sorry. But I felt I owed it to you to let you know what a moron I was. I am convinced that I am a different person now, and that such horrible judgment and decision making is behind me. As for Dumbass, he's still in jail. If he dies in his cell, it's well deserved for being such a loser.
I miss that car. Actually, scratch that.
First and foremost, it is important you understand how menial my job was. I was a peon - just another kid who was looking to make some money before college and perhaps climb the ranks of social hierarchy. Dishwashers were treated like animals at the golf course. Filthy, rabid animals. Sad but true. Anyway, on my first day I was introduced to a cook, a man of superior status, a higher life form, named Jason. Right off the bat, I could tell Jason was bad news and even worse - white trash. It could have been the barbed-wire tattoo around his wrist, the fake gold chain around his neck, or the low-life ambiance that was emitted from his many missing teeth, but it was immediately clear to me that this guy sucked.
Fast forward to two months later. One Sunday, Jason and I were the only people working in the kitchen. This is when he saw an opportunity to take advantage of me. Not in that way, dipshit. But to take advantage of my occupation as a serf and my naivety. Up until this point, I was aware of the fact that Jason had no driver's license due to a couple of "bogus" DUIs. Sadly, I was unaware he frequently asked co-workers for rides home. As you can probably guess, Jason cornered me at work and started begging for a ride home. "It's not that far, man. Come on! Help a guy out." I agreed.
(OK, hold on a second. To help lighten the mood of this story, I'm going to start referring to Jason as "Dumbass.")
As we drove away from the golf course, Dumbass started directing me to his apartment. Upon arriving at his modest abode, he told me he was going to run inside real quick and get something he wanted to show me. I had no idea at the time, but I should have left. Dumbass came back and got into my car. "What are you doing?" I inquired. "I'm gonna need you to take me to see a friend of mine. He owes me some money, and I need to pay him a littlie visit. It's not a far trip, I'll pay you $50." Like a house on stilts in a hurricane, I crippled under pressure and followed the orders of upper management. Bad idea.
By this time in the story I was on the interstate, which is nowhere near the golf course. Turns out Dumbass lied. We neared a three-way split in the interstate: the left leading to downtown Detroit, the middle to Toledo, Ohio, and the right to Ann Arbor. I could sense this was the determining factor in where I would be spending the next hour of my life. I was praying for Ann Arbor. "Get in the left lane, we're going to Detroit," Dumbass mumbled. My heart sank.
Inner-city Detroit. Not the suburbs. Not I'm-from-Northville-yet-I-tell-people-I'm-from-Detroit-when-I'm-traveling-out-of-state Detroit. After exiting the highway, I drove down a road in what was probably a residential area, but looked more like a place where a bomb had recently gone off. Dumbass told me to slow down, and that the place we were looking for was five houses ahead. I glanced five "houses" ahead. On the left, there was a dilapidated yet quiet-looking home. On the right, there was a home with 10 black men crowded on a small lawn drinking beer and working on a Chevy Impala. I could sense what was coming. "OK, stop the car! It's the house on the right," Dumbass yelled. Fantastic news.
I received specific instructions from Dumbass to stay low and, this is still my favorite, to not draw attention to myself. Well, aren't those some comforting statements? "Stay low"? When does anyone need to stay low, save a war or a terrorist attack? "Stay low" is a bad command to give to someone - it will only make them nervous. The latter was even more impressive and easily outdid the former instrucion. "Don't draw attention to yourself." Thanks, Dumbass, I think you and I have already fucked this one up huge. After fiddling with something secured in his boot that I believed to be a knife, Dumbass set off into the sea of Detroit locals guarding the home. I was sweating profusely. Looking back on this whole bizarre scenario, I should have left him there to die. But then again, he probably would have paid me a visit next. So I waited.
What seemed like an eternity later, Dumbass came sprinting out of the house like a bat out of hell amid the confused-looking group of urbanites who started to shout, got into my car and yelled "Drive!" Again, telling someone to "Drive!" is something that should rarely, if ever, be done. If necessary, it should be used in moderation, for it implies that eminent danger is upon us and that driving very fast is the only chance we have to escape the coming certainty of death and/or injury. Nonetheless, I understood and chose to "Drive!" as fast as I could.
I didn't know what transpired in the house, but I had a better idea once we got back on the interstate. Dumbass pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and I told him I normally don't let people smoke in my car. He replied by shaking out five crack rocks into his hand from the empty pack. I was beside myself at this point - completely dismayed as to what had happened that day. As Dumbass broke up the rocks in his hand and snorted them, he proceeded to tell me how he recently moved to Michigan from Miami, where he used to deal cocaine. "They arrested my old man on a sting," Dumbass explained. "Fucking cops," he elaborated. After Dumbass enlightened me with more of his senseless stories, I learned that not only was I harboring a drug dealer, but an ex-convict as well. What a great way to spend a Sunday. The "Lord's" day. He did pay me though - $50 like he promised.
The next week, Dumbass robbed our work. That's right. He robbed the place. But since he didn't have a car, this made his getaway much less smooth than the average criminal. Apparently Dumbass had been stealing cash from the golf course for months and decided to take off running after stealing the last amount of the beer-cart money, leaving his cooking apron on the pavement of the parking lot during his mad dash to the nearest major road. Oh yeah, Dumbass also broke into our boss' house to steal a few items and held up a local video store at knife-point. He was apprehended later that week.
Needless to say, this was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I know you know this because you wasted your time reading my incredibly stupid story. I'm sorry. But I felt I owed it to you to let you know what a moron I was. I am convinced that I am a different person now, and that such horrible judgment and decision making is behind me. As for Dumbass, he's still in jail. If he dies in his cell, it's well deserved for being such a loser.
Welcome to Mundane Affair
Hello, and welcome to Mundane Affair. The good, the bad and the ugly: you'll read about it all here. Hopefully. Musings, morons, matter and milestones - this will be a look into what can happen in a given day.
Hope to see you around.
Hope to see you around.
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