I went to sleep with a glass of water on my night stand, and now there’s water on the floor. And when I got out of bed this morning I tripped over the laundry basket and by mistake I cut the under part of my nose while shaving. And I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day because when I got to Starbucks I asked for a chocolate doughnut, and I was told that they didn’t have those anymore, and that a plain one would have to do. And then they gave me a latte instead of a mocha, and when I sipped it I burned my tongue. And while I was arguing with the barista about my mocha, someone gave me a new door ding in the parking lot and then drove off. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, that’s what it was because after leaving Starbucks I had to sit in traffic for an hour and a half. Who gets out of bed at 6am to sit on the freeway for an hour and a half? ‘I hope you all own shares of BP!’ I shouted. ‘I hope that a dog totals your Prius!’ I shouted, shaking my steering wheel. All the shaking made my doughnut fall on the floor of the truck. I think I’ll move to Australia.
When I got to work, Mark had a Jelly roll with his Mocha. Brett had some lemon cookies and a cup of tea. Guess who still had a lonely, tepid latte? At meeting time the boss said that my numbers didn’t look right, and at the other meeting time I got action items. Who needs action items? ‘Make those numbers right by next week’ he said. ‘Next week’, I said, ‘I’m moving to Australia’.
I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I told everyone. No one even answered.
At lunch time I spilled soup on my shirt, I got pee on my pants, and I bit my tongue. The boss wants to go to the conference with Mark, not with me. And Brett took back the stapler he said I could keep, and the soda machine was out of diet coke, and I broke my pen.
When I went home I had to make mac and cheese for the kids, and I hate mac and cheese. And the baby needed changing, and I hate changing. And "Cupcake Wars' was on TV, and I hate 'Cupcake Wars'. And the school left a message that said that one of our kids was ‘a really neat kid’ but that they needed to talk with us about him. And Sally wants to sleep on her side of the bed, and not with me.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
...I guess some days are like that. Even in Australia.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Crash
After the dust had settled, Don opened his eyes and spied a tiny caterpillar just a few inches from his right cheek, almost hanging in mid-air as it was busily gnawing on a thin blade of grass that was bending slightly under the weight of the beast. You could almost hear it chewing in the silence that had fallen since the crash. Don sat and stared at it for a few seconds, and then made a face as if to mimic the caterpillar’s chewing - partly, I figure, to check to see that he was still alive, and partly to enjoy the simple things in life that people briefly re-discover after a near-death experience.
Most people would have assumed, and rightly so, that we had been out drinking again and in a fit of poor judgment decided to get in a vehicle and make it go – but this was not the case. What had been the case was that we were kinda checking out some ass on the way to a team building experience that our boss, in his infinite wisdom, forced us to go to. We really had no business going to this event in the first place, as everyone who sat within ear-shot of Don and myself had already made up their mind about whether they could stand working with us or not. Ordinarily, we might have downed a pint of liquor in the parking lot before-hand, and then followed some other poor bastard out to their car so that they could drive us to the event, all the while making obnoxious jokes and sounds, and seeing who could sound the most like Sam Kinnison. Don’s natural drunk voice was a cross between Jeff Foxworthy and Sam Kinnison, so he had an advantage in this area, but I could usually mimic him well enough to get him in trouble on conference calls and such, from time to time. But this is all beside the point, because as I said before, we were not drinking at all that day – we were checking out ass.
Ass comes in many shapes and sizes, and while the debate rages on over what the perfect ass looks like you can pretty much count on most guys to have the exact same reaction when confronted with a given ass. On the affirmative, the guy will either make a shortened ‘m’ sound, or potentially even go as far as to say ‘damn’, but this is rare and is also a call for any other guys in the area to stop what they are doing and have a gander as well, because it’s just that good. It’s a bonding thing. Conversely, on the negative a typical guy will usually stifle a kind of gagging sound, which is difficult to describe but often heard, while averting their eyes – sometimes going as far as to actually shield their eyes with one hand, just in case. Occasionally, there will be a negative of epic proportions at which point the guy will temporarily lose control of his diaphragm and utter a rather louder sound that is either similar to a retching noise, or, if he is more experienced, ‘Oh Gawd’. This is also, contrary to what you might think, a call for other guys in the vicinity to drop what they are doing to experience this with you. Again, it’s a bonding thing. Don’t ask. There are no asses in the middle. It’s a simple yes or no question.
Don was an ‘Oh Gawd’-er because he was more experienced at this than I was. He was also thrilled by the recent development of women taking to putting their names across their backs or butts on sweats because it made identifying and pointing out the ass in question much easier than in a normal girl-group situation. Plus, if you ever felt the urge to compliment someone on their derrier, it made that easier too. ‘Hey Williams!!!’ (pause) ‘Nice ass!!!’
Just kidding, he never did that - at least not with the windows rolled down anyway. Don probably thought it unusual that so many of the girls were named either ‘Juicy’ or ‘Pink’ though – speaking of which, why would you want the word ‘Juicy’ across your ass anyway? That’s just. So. Wrong.
So anyhow, where were we… O right, we were on our way to said team building event, listening to Jimmie Rodgers on the stereo (because we’re freaks) and checking out ass:
Me: ‘Abercrombie.’
Don: ‘m.’ *pause*
Stereo: ‘Um gonna buuuuy me a shotgun,’
Don: ‘Blondie there.’
Me: ‘Damn.’
Stereo: ‘Just as looooooong as I’m tall…’
Don: ‘What?’
Me: ‘Forrester, in the red there.’
Don: ‘Damn.’
Stereo: ‘Gonna buy me a shotgun,’
And this went on pretty much the whole trip, as we toodled down the road, until we came upon something that we did not entirely expect to be possible.
Me: ‘Juicy.’
Don: ‘m’.
Don (shielding his eyes): ‘O Gawd!’
Me (looking over): ‘What, I, *retch*, ack!’
Me (thinking quickly): ‘With her, or that big green one we saw a minute ago?’
Don (grimacing at the thought, but you have to answer –it’s the rule): ‘Green-ey’.
Me (laughing): ugh.
Don: ‘In grey, up ahead’.
Me: ‘I don’t see – ‘
Don: ‘Well, we’ll have to get closer to be sure.’
Me: ‘Oh there…’
Me: *pause*
Don: *pause*
And we paused there, at length, as if we were two yokels trying to make out the meaning of a Picasso painting, and we got closer and closer to the ass in question, but neither one of us said anything or took our eyes off it. It wasn’t a good ass, but it wasn’t a bad ass either. It was set dead-square in the middle, not bony or fat, not shapely but with shape, not huge and not small, and in fact there was absolutely nothing remarkable about it at all, except to say that it did indeed exist somewhere under those grey sweatpants, and upon discovering what can only be assumed to be the one ‘middle-of-the-road’ ass in the entire world, our brains simply stopped functioning as they went into an endless loop of analysis paralysis and
Don: ‘STAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWPPPP!!!!!’
Cue slow motion. I have had numerous near-death experiences before (almost drowning, nearly being hit by a train, motorcycle vs. Mack truck, etc.) and the one constant between them all is that the world seems to slow down for the duration of the experience. The world has now slowed down, which means that I am about to die unless I do something, so here goes…
I hear Don shout, and tear my face away from the ass dilemma to assess the situation. We are traveling about 50 MPH, and there is a line of stopped cars in front of us at what appears to be approximately 10 feet away (though I am sure it was really farther). I have a suspicion that it would be futile to hit the brakes at this point, and I doubt I could even touch the brake pedal before impact. I have to swerve, either into oncoming traffic or the shoulder. I’ll pick the shoulder. It might not be wide enough for the car, and I am not sure what lies beyond it because my eyes can’t see that far that fast, but all in all it sounds like a better plan than the oncoming traffic. And time begins to speed up. . .
WA-ZIZZZZZ!!! We managed to swerve fast enough to avoid hitting the car in front of us, and we were even in the shoulder, briefly, but apparently there was a lot of loose gravel or something in said shoulder which caused a total failure of traction because as I straightened out from the swerve our vehicle continued drifting slowly sideways, and we left the shoulder at the speed of still 50 mph, were momentarily airborne, and then began to descend and bottom out in a near perfect fashion in a canal which was beyond the shoulder of the road by a few feet, running parallel to it.
The car crunched perfectly into the rather narrow canal – like a slot car running on a track really, and we zoomed along the canal floor rather grandly as I stood on the brakes, and Jimmie was howling the whole way too:
Don: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!’
Stereo: ‘Gunna buy me a pistol…’
Don: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!’
Stereo: ‘With a big long shiny barrel…’
Don: ‘AAAAHHH!!!!’
We ultimately stopped a few feet short of a metal underpass pipe, and I reached over and turned off the stereo; the caterpillar chewed, and then Don made his chewing face, and then we assessed the situation. The canal was luckily empty, as the sides rose slightly above the roof of the car and had it been full we would have been unable to open the doors (because they butted up against the sides of the canal within a few inches either way), and the water surely would have shorted out the electrical system causing the sun roof to be inaccessible. Picture two guys slowly drowning as they frantically tried to position themselves in such a way as to kick through a windshield or sunroof from the inside of a car. Haha.. Fortunately, this did not happen, though we did have to climb out the sun roof to escape our current situation – which as it turns out had not gone entirely unnoticed by the rest of the motoring community, leaving us to sit on the roof of the car smiling and waving at everyone who had stopped to gawk and ask stupid questions while leaning out their windows like ‘Hao’d yoo doo thay-at?!?’
You would think that this embarrassment would be enough for one day, but alas, remember the ass-in-question that caused this whole mess? Well, it decided to walk over to see how we were doing:
Ass-in-question: ‘Hao’d yoo doo thay-at?!?’
Don (recovered now, and in his best Sam Kinnison voice): ‘Well, you SEE, ‘
Me (cutting Don off, so we don’t end up in jail): ‘We were just looking for, uh, free parking.’
Don (nodding): ‘Free parking.’
Ass-in-question (slowly): ‘Are you guys, uh, feeling ok?’
Me (looking at Don): ‘Oh sure, it’s all good. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Are you fine?’
Don: ‘Yup! Just fine!’
And the ass-in-question waves and walks away.
Me: ‘I think that one’s a ‘no’ for me.’
Don: ‘Yeah, it’s a no. The lighting must have been bad before.’
Me: ‘It’s not that bad, but I mean, no where near as good as Juicy was.’
Don: ‘Kind of saggy, really. I mean –‘
Cop: ‘Sir, step off the car please.’
Let me take a little break here to give you some background on my experiences to-date with the po po. Actually, they can be summed up quite simply: I never get away with anything. Nothing, nada, zip. I have tried various answers to the ‘do you know why I pulled you over, son?’ question, and none of them have ever caused an incident to end in a favorable manner. Allow me to recap a medley of events for you, briefly:
Cop: ‘Did you see that sign back there?’
Possible Answer: A) ‘Yes’
Response: ‘So you willfully disregarded the sign then. You know, all I ever see around here are accidents and blah blah blah.’
End Result: Ticket
Possible Answer: B) ‘No’
Response: ‘So, you’re a lousy driver and you aren’t paying attention to the road either, huh? I should cite you for blah blah blah blah.’
End Result: Ticket
Possible Answer: C) ‘Yes, but I guess that I made a judgement call, because everyone else wa-’
Response: ‘A what?!?? If everyone jumped off of a bridge would you? If everyone blah blah blah blah, would you!?’
End Result: Ticket
I fleetingly and fancifully thought about getting cheeky with the officer, since I knew I was going to get a ticket anyway, but resisted the temptation to answer in the affirmative. After all, if everyone is jumping off the bridge then there’s probably going to be a good reason (train coming, bridge on fire, etc), but I let that one slide because, well, I didn’t really need any new jewelry that day. Anyway, back to the present:
Cop: ‘Did you see that sign back there?’
Don: ‘Ack!’
Me (stepping off the car): ‘Hi Offi-‘
Cop: ‘Son, have you been drinking?’
Me: (I know the answer to this one, because I get asked all the time for some reason): ‘No sir!’
Cop: ‘License and registration.’
Me (after having retrieved it by shimmying through the sunroof, to the delight of onlookers): ‘Here it is.’
Cop: ‘What happened?’
Sam Kinnison: ‘Well, you SEE,’
Me (cutting Don off, so we don’t end up in bracelets): ‘I, uh, just got distracted, and umm, I guess we ended up here.’
Cop (writing things down and frowning at me): ‘I should cite you for reckless driving, but it looks like you have enough to worry about for right now.’
Me (in disbelief, as I have never gotten out of a ticket before in my life): ‘Uh… thanks.’
Cop: ‘You got a tow truck on the way, right?’
Me (I sure will in a minute here): ‘Yup!’
The cop then cheerfully proceeded to light about 15 road flares and sprinkle them all about the shoulder of the road, as if there was going to be some sort of party in our honor, and then gets in his car and leaves. This is truly excellent, because now anyone who might have missed a bright red Acura sitting at the bottom of a canal with two nimrods sitting on top of it is not going to make the same mistake when it’s surrounded by flares – oh no.
So I sit back down on top of the car to call a tow truck amid what has become every one else on the road’s personal reality TV show, and I think to myself: Do we have AAA? So I call my wife to ask, and if so what our account number is. The conversation went something like this:
* ring ring *
Her: ‘Hello.’
Me: ‘Hi, do we have AAA?’
Her: ‘No.’
Me: ‘Damn.’
Her: ‘Wait, what do you need AAA for?’
Me (cornered): ‘Errr.. Nothing!’
Her: ‘What did you do?’
Me: ‘Uhh… Well, we sort of like, drove into a ditch by accident.’
Her (pausing): ‘And how on earth did you do that?’
Don (who had been listening in - shouting): ‘We was checkin’ out ASS!!!’
Me: (covering the phone): ‘I don’t remember. I have to call a tow truck now though.’
Her: ‘There’s a sticker on your window, remember?’
* click *
Ahhh, that’s right. The auto manufacturer offered free roadside assistance for the first 48k miles. I had forgotten that! So I call them up and a guy with a two truck arrives in short order, winches the car out of the canal and what was a rakish 45 degree angle or more, and we are back on the road in no time. No visible damage to the car at all, save a couple paint scrapes that were caused by a patch of blackberries growing on the side of the canal. Amazing really. So we get back in the car and continue, though somewhat more cautiously and shakily, on to the team building event - which is half over by this point, but whatever.
Don: ‘Don’t fucking kill us this time.’
Me: ‘Okay.’
Don: ‘Pink.’
Me: ‘m’
We pulled in at the address a few minutes later. Turns out that the teambuilding event was, for real, a racing event hosted here: http://www.traxxracing.com/groups.asp .
We opted out.
Most people would have assumed, and rightly so, that we had been out drinking again and in a fit of poor judgment decided to get in a vehicle and make it go – but this was not the case. What had been the case was that we were kinda checking out some ass on the way to a team building experience that our boss, in his infinite wisdom, forced us to go to. We really had no business going to this event in the first place, as everyone who sat within ear-shot of Don and myself had already made up their mind about whether they could stand working with us or not. Ordinarily, we might have downed a pint of liquor in the parking lot before-hand, and then followed some other poor bastard out to their car so that they could drive us to the event, all the while making obnoxious jokes and sounds, and seeing who could sound the most like Sam Kinnison. Don’s natural drunk voice was a cross between Jeff Foxworthy and Sam Kinnison, so he had an advantage in this area, but I could usually mimic him well enough to get him in trouble on conference calls and such, from time to time. But this is all beside the point, because as I said before, we were not drinking at all that day – we were checking out ass.
Ass comes in many shapes and sizes, and while the debate rages on over what the perfect ass looks like you can pretty much count on most guys to have the exact same reaction when confronted with a given ass. On the affirmative, the guy will either make a shortened ‘m’ sound, or potentially even go as far as to say ‘damn’, but this is rare and is also a call for any other guys in the area to stop what they are doing and have a gander as well, because it’s just that good. It’s a bonding thing. Conversely, on the negative a typical guy will usually stifle a kind of gagging sound, which is difficult to describe but often heard, while averting their eyes – sometimes going as far as to actually shield their eyes with one hand, just in case. Occasionally, there will be a negative of epic proportions at which point the guy will temporarily lose control of his diaphragm and utter a rather louder sound that is either similar to a retching noise, or, if he is more experienced, ‘Oh Gawd’. This is also, contrary to what you might think, a call for other guys in the vicinity to drop what they are doing to experience this with you. Again, it’s a bonding thing. Don’t ask. There are no asses in the middle. It’s a simple yes or no question.
Don was an ‘Oh Gawd’-er because he was more experienced at this than I was. He was also thrilled by the recent development of women taking to putting their names across their backs or butts on sweats because it made identifying and pointing out the ass in question much easier than in a normal girl-group situation. Plus, if you ever felt the urge to compliment someone on their derrier, it made that easier too. ‘Hey Williams!!!’ (pause) ‘Nice ass!!!’
Just kidding, he never did that - at least not with the windows rolled down anyway. Don probably thought it unusual that so many of the girls were named either ‘Juicy’ or ‘Pink’ though – speaking of which, why would you want the word ‘Juicy’ across your ass anyway? That’s just. So. Wrong.
So anyhow, where were we… O right, we were on our way to said team building event, listening to Jimmie Rodgers on the stereo (because we’re freaks) and checking out ass:
Me: ‘Abercrombie.’
Don: ‘m.’ *pause*
Stereo: ‘Um gonna buuuuy me a shotgun,’
Don: ‘Blondie there.’
Me: ‘Damn.’
Stereo: ‘Just as looooooong as I’m tall…’
Don: ‘What?’
Me: ‘Forrester, in the red there.’
Don: ‘Damn.’
Stereo: ‘Gonna buy me a shotgun,’
And this went on pretty much the whole trip, as we toodled down the road, until we came upon something that we did not entirely expect to be possible.
Me: ‘Juicy.’
Don: ‘m’.
Don (shielding his eyes): ‘O Gawd!’
Me (looking over): ‘What, I, *retch*, ack!’
Me (thinking quickly): ‘With her, or that big green one we saw a minute ago?’
Don (grimacing at the thought, but you have to answer –it’s the rule): ‘Green-ey’.
Me (laughing): ugh.
Don: ‘In grey, up ahead’.
Me: ‘I don’t see – ‘
Don: ‘Well, we’ll have to get closer to be sure.’
Me: ‘Oh there…’
Me: *pause*
Don: *pause*
And we paused there, at length, as if we were two yokels trying to make out the meaning of a Picasso painting, and we got closer and closer to the ass in question, but neither one of us said anything or took our eyes off it. It wasn’t a good ass, but it wasn’t a bad ass either. It was set dead-square in the middle, not bony or fat, not shapely but with shape, not huge and not small, and in fact there was absolutely nothing remarkable about it at all, except to say that it did indeed exist somewhere under those grey sweatpants, and upon discovering what can only be assumed to be the one ‘middle-of-the-road’ ass in the entire world, our brains simply stopped functioning as they went into an endless loop of analysis paralysis and
Don: ‘STAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWPPPP!!!!!’
Cue slow motion. I have had numerous near-death experiences before (almost drowning, nearly being hit by a train, motorcycle vs. Mack truck, etc.) and the one constant between them all is that the world seems to slow down for the duration of the experience. The world has now slowed down, which means that I am about to die unless I do something, so here goes…
I hear Don shout, and tear my face away from the ass dilemma to assess the situation. We are traveling about 50 MPH, and there is a line of stopped cars in front of us at what appears to be approximately 10 feet away (though I am sure it was really farther). I have a suspicion that it would be futile to hit the brakes at this point, and I doubt I could even touch the brake pedal before impact. I have to swerve, either into oncoming traffic or the shoulder. I’ll pick the shoulder. It might not be wide enough for the car, and I am not sure what lies beyond it because my eyes can’t see that far that fast, but all in all it sounds like a better plan than the oncoming traffic. And time begins to speed up. . .
WA-ZIZZZZZ!!! We managed to swerve fast enough to avoid hitting the car in front of us, and we were even in the shoulder, briefly, but apparently there was a lot of loose gravel or something in said shoulder which caused a total failure of traction because as I straightened out from the swerve our vehicle continued drifting slowly sideways, and we left the shoulder at the speed of still 50 mph, were momentarily airborne, and then began to descend and bottom out in a near perfect fashion in a canal which was beyond the shoulder of the road by a few feet, running parallel to it.
The car crunched perfectly into the rather narrow canal – like a slot car running on a track really, and we zoomed along the canal floor rather grandly as I stood on the brakes, and Jimmie was howling the whole way too:
Don: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!’
Stereo: ‘Gunna buy me a pistol…’
Don: ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!’
Stereo: ‘With a big long shiny barrel…’
Don: ‘AAAAHHH!!!!’
We ultimately stopped a few feet short of a metal underpass pipe, and I reached over and turned off the stereo; the caterpillar chewed, and then Don made his chewing face, and then we assessed the situation. The canal was luckily empty, as the sides rose slightly above the roof of the car and had it been full we would have been unable to open the doors (because they butted up against the sides of the canal within a few inches either way), and the water surely would have shorted out the electrical system causing the sun roof to be inaccessible. Picture two guys slowly drowning as they frantically tried to position themselves in such a way as to kick through a windshield or sunroof from the inside of a car. Haha.. Fortunately, this did not happen, though we did have to climb out the sun roof to escape our current situation – which as it turns out had not gone entirely unnoticed by the rest of the motoring community, leaving us to sit on the roof of the car smiling and waving at everyone who had stopped to gawk and ask stupid questions while leaning out their windows like ‘Hao’d yoo doo thay-at?!?’
You would think that this embarrassment would be enough for one day, but alas, remember the ass-in-question that caused this whole mess? Well, it decided to walk over to see how we were doing:
Ass-in-question: ‘Hao’d yoo doo thay-at?!?’
Don (recovered now, and in his best Sam Kinnison voice): ‘Well, you SEE, ‘
Me (cutting Don off, so we don’t end up in jail): ‘We were just looking for, uh, free parking.’
Don (nodding): ‘Free parking.’
Ass-in-question (slowly): ‘Are you guys, uh, feeling ok?’
Me (looking at Don): ‘Oh sure, it’s all good. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Are you fine?’
Don: ‘Yup! Just fine!’
And the ass-in-question waves and walks away.
Me: ‘I think that one’s a ‘no’ for me.’
Don: ‘Yeah, it’s a no. The lighting must have been bad before.’
Me: ‘It’s not that bad, but I mean, no where near as good as Juicy was.’
Don: ‘Kind of saggy, really. I mean –‘
Cop: ‘Sir, step off the car please.’
Let me take a little break here to give you some background on my experiences to-date with the po po. Actually, they can be summed up quite simply: I never get away with anything. Nothing, nada, zip. I have tried various answers to the ‘do you know why I pulled you over, son?’ question, and none of them have ever caused an incident to end in a favorable manner. Allow me to recap a medley of events for you, briefly:
Cop: ‘Did you see that sign back there?’
Possible Answer: A) ‘Yes’
Response: ‘So you willfully disregarded the sign then. You know, all I ever see around here are accidents and blah blah blah.’
End Result: Ticket
Possible Answer: B) ‘No’
Response: ‘So, you’re a lousy driver and you aren’t paying attention to the road either, huh? I should cite you for blah blah blah blah.’
End Result: Ticket
Possible Answer: C) ‘Yes, but I guess that I made a judgement call, because everyone else wa-’
Response: ‘A what?!?? If everyone jumped off of a bridge would you? If everyone blah blah blah blah, would you!?’
End Result: Ticket
I fleetingly and fancifully thought about getting cheeky with the officer, since I knew I was going to get a ticket anyway, but resisted the temptation to answer in the affirmative. After all, if everyone is jumping off the bridge then there’s probably going to be a good reason (train coming, bridge on fire, etc), but I let that one slide because, well, I didn’t really need any new jewelry that day. Anyway, back to the present:
Cop: ‘Did you see that sign back there?’
Don: ‘Ack!’
Me (stepping off the car): ‘Hi Offi-‘
Cop: ‘Son, have you been drinking?’
Me: (I know the answer to this one, because I get asked all the time for some reason): ‘No sir!’
Cop: ‘License and registration.’
Me (after having retrieved it by shimmying through the sunroof, to the delight of onlookers): ‘Here it is.’
Cop: ‘What happened?’
Sam Kinnison: ‘Well, you SEE,’
Me (cutting Don off, so we don’t end up in bracelets): ‘I, uh, just got distracted, and umm, I guess we ended up here.’
Cop (writing things down and frowning at me): ‘I should cite you for reckless driving, but it looks like you have enough to worry about for right now.’
Me (in disbelief, as I have never gotten out of a ticket before in my life): ‘Uh… thanks.’
Cop: ‘You got a tow truck on the way, right?’
Me (I sure will in a minute here): ‘Yup!’
The cop then cheerfully proceeded to light about 15 road flares and sprinkle them all about the shoulder of the road, as if there was going to be some sort of party in our honor, and then gets in his car and leaves. This is truly excellent, because now anyone who might have missed a bright red Acura sitting at the bottom of a canal with two nimrods sitting on top of it is not going to make the same mistake when it’s surrounded by flares – oh no.
So I sit back down on top of the car to call a tow truck amid what has become every one else on the road’s personal reality TV show, and I think to myself: Do we have AAA? So I call my wife to ask, and if so what our account number is. The conversation went something like this:
* ring ring *
Her: ‘Hello.’
Me: ‘Hi, do we have AAA?’
Her: ‘No.’
Me: ‘Damn.’
Her: ‘Wait, what do you need AAA for?’
Me (cornered): ‘Errr.. Nothing!’
Her: ‘What did you do?’
Me: ‘Uhh… Well, we sort of like, drove into a ditch by accident.’
Her (pausing): ‘And how on earth did you do that?’
Don (who had been listening in - shouting): ‘We was checkin’ out ASS!!!’
Me: (covering the phone): ‘I don’t remember. I have to call a tow truck now though.’
Her: ‘There’s a sticker on your window, remember?’
* click *
Ahhh, that’s right. The auto manufacturer offered free roadside assistance for the first 48k miles. I had forgotten that! So I call them up and a guy with a two truck arrives in short order, winches the car out of the canal and what was a rakish 45 degree angle or more, and we are back on the road in no time. No visible damage to the car at all, save a couple paint scrapes that were caused by a patch of blackberries growing on the side of the canal. Amazing really. So we get back in the car and continue, though somewhat more cautiously and shakily, on to the team building event - which is half over by this point, but whatever.
Don: ‘Don’t fucking kill us this time.’
Me: ‘Okay.’
Don: ‘Pink.’
Me: ‘m’
We pulled in at the address a few minutes later. Turns out that the teambuilding event was, for real, a racing event hosted here: http://www.traxxracing.com/groups.asp .
We opted out.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Back in My Day. . .
I'm not quite old enough to bellow 'back in myyyy day' and proceed to tell a long and excruiatingly painful story about making soap by hand behind the barn with my brothers and sisters, concluding with a moral or values or something else long forgotten. Not quite yet anyway. I hope. Though I was in Target (I have my standards) the other day and over-heard a boy about 8 whine incessantly about not getting a new Wii game and ultimately fold his arms declaring that he was bored and that there was nothing to do. The parent subsequently caved. Now, aside from being privately flabbergasted and fondly reminiscing about the one time I tried throwing a tantrum in the store (which I am told (and only kinda remember) ended with my bare backside exposed to everyone in aisle 4, followed by a good long uncomfortable sit in a summertime Plymouth with blue vinyl seats), I thought back to what I did do when I was bored as a child. A small treasure trove of childhood memories burst forth, so I thought I would share :). Keep in mind we were a little bit poor, relatively speaking, but that we were far from a bunch of inbred hoochers living on the bayou - despite what you are about to read. So here goes, top 10 childhood memories about what we did when we were bored:
10) Rock fight. Pro: Easy to organize; rocks are cheap and abundant. Con: This always ends rather quickly with someone running home crying, and their mother subsequently shouting obscenities at others from the doorway.
9) Playing with fire. This actually has its own post, so for details on something that does not warrant repeating and probably should never have been posted in the first place, go here.
8) Making home-made radios. No wait! Allow me to explain! If you dig through the garbage (or your neighbor's garbage) you will eventually find an old can or a jar. If it's a jar with a lid, then you are indeed in luck that day - otherwise you'll have to make do with a can and something to cover the open end (tin foil, envelope, block of wood, etc). Mostly we found cans, and although cans had better acoustics than jars, they were also more dangerous. So get your can and follow me, and lets try to capture an unsuspecting flying insect and then we'll compare the sound of an angry yellow jacket vs. an angry hornet buzzing against the inside of your can. If it's a super-lucky day, then you might find a wasp instead - This is a real treat, because wasps have a sound all their own when irritated. How do you irritate them? Easy! Cover up your can and shake it up real hard. Put the metal side up to your ear. Hear all that buzzing? Now it's like you have a real walkman! No, of course no one ever got stung, repeatedly. . . :)
7) Digging. On a more industrious day, it would then turn into mixing the dirt in a pail with water to make mud. If you wanted to be more scientific about it, then you added a bit of sand, wood shavings, or whatever else you could find. Then we poured it back into the hole we dug it out of and smoothed it out like cement. This took hours.
6) Box car derby. This is probably not what you are thinking. Picture a little kid standing at the top of the stairs, a pampers box sitting at his feet. The pampers box is perched precariously at the edge of the first step, and is mostly empty except for a few diapers selectively arranged as a seat, and also inside, sitting upgright, his 9 month old sister. I am happy to report that there were no fatalities.
5) Roller derby. This is also probably not what you are thinking. Picture a slightly larger kid standing at the top of a long sloped driveway, with a cardboard packing barrel turned on its side, and held in place by a block of wood - and inside the barrel, lying on her stomach, his 4 year old sister. Once again, I am happy to report that there were no fatalities.
4) Mii Fit. Take one small water pail, such as only your grandmother would have, and one nasty old yellow tennis ball (also such as only your grandmother would have) and head out into the front yard. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to toss that nasty old tennis ball up on the roof to where it rolls high up, but does not go over to the other side. Now you track its trajectory as it heads back down the roof, anticipate the little bump and rise it gets from the gutter, and catch the ball in the pail. I am sorry to report that I chased that sad yellow ball around for hours at a time.
3) Doorjam magic. Find yourself a doorjam. Stand in it. No wait, there's more! Stand with your arms at your sides, then push up on the door jam with the backs of your hands as hrdasyoupsblycan andthencnt tosxty slwly. When you get to sixty, release, and walk out of the doorjam. Your arms will rise magically into the air for the next few seconds. It's magic! :)
2) What lives under this? If you have played this game, then you already know the appeal. If you haven't, then you probably won't get it anyway. It usually ended with a stomp fest, followed by carefully replacing the object of interest. My friend Rowdy (his real name), however, liked to poke worms and squeeze their brains right out of their little heads - then watch them wiggle uselessly on the ground. I didn't participate.
1) Build a fort. Boys love forts. Forts are everywhere. A fort could be as simple as a blanket draped over a piece of furniture in the house or as complicated as a wooden structure created from spare siding, a few nails, and some tall grass. One time we made a fort by cutting and stacking blocks of (essentially) ice with a snow shovel, after a massive snow-storm was followed by freezing rain in Idaho. A fort is your home away from home. A castle. A sanctuary, where you are free to sit and contemplate your existential state of being. Or perhaps sit clutching your knees, rocking back and forth chewing on your own hair, plotting the demise of all who have ever wronged you - real or imagined.
I was never really one for contemplation. ;)
Happy New Year!!
10) Rock fight. Pro: Easy to organize; rocks are cheap and abundant. Con: This always ends rather quickly with someone running home crying, and their mother subsequently shouting obscenities at others from the doorway.
9) Playing with fire. This actually has its own post, so for details on something that does not warrant repeating and probably should never have been posted in the first place, go here.
8) Making home-made radios. No wait! Allow me to explain! If you dig through the garbage (or your neighbor's garbage) you will eventually find an old can or a jar. If it's a jar with a lid, then you are indeed in luck that day - otherwise you'll have to make do with a can and something to cover the open end (tin foil, envelope, block of wood, etc). Mostly we found cans, and although cans had better acoustics than jars, they were also more dangerous. So get your can and follow me, and lets try to capture an unsuspecting flying insect and then we'll compare the sound of an angry yellow jacket vs. an angry hornet buzzing against the inside of your can. If it's a super-lucky day, then you might find a wasp instead - This is a real treat, because wasps have a sound all their own when irritated. How do you irritate them? Easy! Cover up your can and shake it up real hard. Put the metal side up to your ear. Hear all that buzzing? Now it's like you have a real walkman! No, of course no one ever got stung, repeatedly. . . :)
7) Digging. On a more industrious day, it would then turn into mixing the dirt in a pail with water to make mud. If you wanted to be more scientific about it, then you added a bit of sand, wood shavings, or whatever else you could find. Then we poured it back into the hole we dug it out of and smoothed it out like cement. This took hours.
6) Box car derby. This is probably not what you are thinking. Picture a little kid standing at the top of the stairs, a pampers box sitting at his feet. The pampers box is perched precariously at the edge of the first step, and is mostly empty except for a few diapers selectively arranged as a seat, and also inside, sitting upgright, his 9 month old sister. I am happy to report that there were no fatalities.
5) Roller derby. This is also probably not what you are thinking. Picture a slightly larger kid standing at the top of a long sloped driveway, with a cardboard packing barrel turned on its side, and held in place by a block of wood - and inside the barrel, lying on her stomach, his 4 year old sister. Once again, I am happy to report that there were no fatalities.
4) Mii Fit. Take one small water pail, such as only your grandmother would have, and one nasty old yellow tennis ball (also such as only your grandmother would have) and head out into the front yard. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to toss that nasty old tennis ball up on the roof to where it rolls high up, but does not go over to the other side. Now you track its trajectory as it heads back down the roof, anticipate the little bump and rise it gets from the gutter, and catch the ball in the pail. I am sorry to report that I chased that sad yellow ball around for hours at a time.
3) Doorjam magic. Find yourself a doorjam. Stand in it. No wait, there's more! Stand with your arms at your sides, then push up on the door jam with the backs of your hands as hrdasyoupsblycan andthencnt tosxty slwly. When you get to sixty, release, and walk out of the doorjam. Your arms will rise magically into the air for the next few seconds. It's magic! :)
2) What lives under this? If you have played this game, then you already know the appeal. If you haven't, then you probably won't get it anyway. It usually ended with a stomp fest, followed by carefully replacing the object of interest. My friend Rowdy (his real name), however, liked to poke worms and squeeze their brains right out of their little heads - then watch them wiggle uselessly on the ground. I didn't participate.
1) Build a fort. Boys love forts. Forts are everywhere. A fort could be as simple as a blanket draped over a piece of furniture in the house or as complicated as a wooden structure created from spare siding, a few nails, and some tall grass. One time we made a fort by cutting and stacking blocks of (essentially) ice with a snow shovel, after a massive snow-storm was followed by freezing rain in Idaho. A fort is your home away from home. A castle. A sanctuary, where you are free to sit and contemplate your existential state of being. Or perhaps sit clutching your knees, rocking back and forth chewing on your own hair, plotting the demise of all who have ever wronged you - real or imagined.
I was never really one for contemplation. ;)
Happy New Year!!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Man . . .
I have sometimes wondered whether the dim bulbs who work at the K-Mart are drawn there by a mystical force, or if they are otherwise ordinary people who, little by little, get their brains along with their will to live literally sucked out of them by their environment.
One could reason that, when given a choice to work at, say, Target or K-Mart, a person with more than a room temperature IQ would choose Target every time. In fact, one would think that anyone capable of fogging a mirror would choose Target. This would seem to suggest that either only a select few are choosing to work at the K-Mart freely or there is a hidden and overwhelming factor that tips the scales in favor of the K-Mart employment experience. Perhaps an extra 25 cents an hour?
I bring it up because that's the route I went about 18 months ago. Oh, not literally to the K-Mart, and it certainly wasn't for an extra 25 cents an hour, but chasing dollars is what ultimately led to this blog being virtually abandoned. I'm happy to report that the dollar chasing has ended in favor of, well, having a life - and as a result, for better or for worse, you'll likely be seeing more going on here from now on.
Now, that being said, this having a life thing may be a bit optimistic. All it may really mean is that I can squeeze in the vacuuming every weekend instead of every other weekend. Okay, so really once a month, plus once about an hour before house guests come over. Well, new house guests anyway. I've already shared my thoughts on the vacuum in an earlier post, but I will say that you can have a lot of fun chasing around a toddler with a vacuum though. It's kinda like playing with your child and cleaning the house all at the same time, and as a bonus the whirring of the vacuum drowns out the screaming pretty good too. Yup, father of the year.
Anyhoo, I made a song to celebrate my new found free (house-cleaning) time, and put it over there on the right (Man I Feel Like a Woman). In the original, Shania and pals go out and have a night on the town, and girl power, and maybe they get a fro-yo or something afterwards, I dunno... This song is a parody of that one, and would represent the flip side. I hope you like it.
Cheers!!
One could reason that, when given a choice to work at, say, Target or K-Mart, a person with more than a room temperature IQ would choose Target every time. In fact, one would think that anyone capable of fogging a mirror would choose Target. This would seem to suggest that either only a select few are choosing to work at the K-Mart freely or there is a hidden and overwhelming factor that tips the scales in favor of the K-Mart employment experience. Perhaps an extra 25 cents an hour?
I bring it up because that's the route I went about 18 months ago. Oh, not literally to the K-Mart, and it certainly wasn't for an extra 25 cents an hour, but chasing dollars is what ultimately led to this blog being virtually abandoned. I'm happy to report that the dollar chasing has ended in favor of, well, having a life - and as a result, for better or for worse, you'll likely be seeing more going on here from now on.
Now, that being said, this having a life thing may be a bit optimistic. All it may really mean is that I can squeeze in the vacuuming every weekend instead of every other weekend. Okay, so really once a month, plus once about an hour before house guests come over. Well, new house guests anyway. I've already shared my thoughts on the vacuum in an earlier post, but I will say that you can have a lot of fun chasing around a toddler with a vacuum though. It's kinda like playing with your child and cleaning the house all at the same time, and as a bonus the whirring of the vacuum drowns out the screaming pretty good too. Yup, father of the year.
Anyhoo, I made a song to celebrate my new found free (house-cleaning) time, and put it over there on the right (Man I Feel Like a Woman). In the original, Shania and pals go out and have a night on the town, and girl power, and maybe they get a fro-yo or something afterwards, I dunno... This song is a parody of that one, and would represent the flip side. I hope you like it.
Cheers!!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Saga of Larry Long
Today, I would like to talk about Larry. Not soft, cuddly, polo shirt-wearing, burn-your-nut-hair-off Larry, but a different Larry. Larry Long. You see, one of the first jobs that I ever held was working in an independent video store. At this job, I would be expected to check videos in and out, make recommendations for customers, abuse the rent-to-own stereo system, and then vacuum up at the end of the day. Sometimes I got additional tasks to help break up my day, like, you know, like setting up displays to advertise new releases and such. It was while I was setting up one of these displays (a life-sized cardboard image of Cary Elwes, grabbing his nuts(?)) that I was introduced to what would be my most deplorable task at my new job, and his name was Larry Long. I have not changed his name. His name really was Larry Long, and do you know why I haven't changed his name? Because Larry Long was, and probably still is, illiterate - so he won't be reading this anyway. How do I know he's illiterate? Keep reading, brave internet friend, and I will tell you the tale.
The video store owner introduced me to Larry Long one day shortly after I started, and we shook hands. To describe Larry without using cliché' is difficult, but I will try. The first thing I noticed about Larry was that he was kind of yellow. Not yellow in a healthy Chinese sort of way - more yellow in an 'I drink myself to sleep every night, and have never brushed my teeth' kind of way. The pit stains in Larry's wife-beater were quite prominent, and were as yellow as his teeth. Larry's eyes were yellow, his hands were yellow, hell, even his breath was yellow - though it’s hard to say if his hands were yellow because of a liver problem or because he smoked so much that the nicotine stains wouldn't wash off anymore - assuming that he washed at all. Larry was sweaty. Larry was not given to kindness. Larry hadn't eaten a meal out other than 7-11 for years - and he wasn't much of a cook either. Larry's idea of treating a date was squirting a couple extra farts-worth of liquid cheese on the nachos when the store clerk wasn't looking. Larry could have easily been an extra on any episode of COPS, playing the part of 'guy without shirt wearing gold chain' who stands in his front yard screaming 'he done it! he done it!' and pointing deliberately and quite unnecessarily as the COPS tazer and drag off some other unfortunate chap like the lawnmowner man.
Please don't think I am being hard on Larry, or that I have any disdain for those who can't read. I don't. I'm just trying to give you a decent mental picture of what I, at 17, am about to have to deal with on a weekly basis until I grow a pair and quit this stupid job.
As I mentioned, Larry was yellowish, and he was also rather short. Five foot four, I would estimate. Five foot four, but he was all man. Larry would proceed to show up at the video store every other week for the next several months, reeking of beer and cigarettes, and we would begin what would be, by today's standards, a rather inappropriate relationship upon our first meeting. The relationship started like this:
Store owner (Vern): 'Hey, come here, I have a job for you.'
Me (and yes, her name really was Vern): 'Ok.'
Vern: 'See that guy at the counter? That's Larry.'
Me (Looking around, and spying Larry, who is leaning on a thirty-pack of Budweiser that he slung up on the rental counter just a moment ago): 'Ahhh... okay.'
Vern: 'Larry needs help picking out movies.'
Me (having made suggestions for customers a million times before): 'Oh, okay, no problem.'
Vern (lowering her voice): 'Larry can't read.'
Vern (continuing): 'You'll need to print out his rental history, and follow him around. Find some movies that he hasn't seen yet, and...'
Me: 'And? ...'
Vern: 'Just help out, okay?'
Me (hm, this is unusual): 'Erraky, sure....'
So I print out Larry's rental history, and it's one of those old dot-matrix printers that takes forever, and Larry looks to have rented about half the store so far, so I have some time to kill here.
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit.'
Me: 'Hey Larry.'
Larry (making a little upwards nod): 'Mnh.'
Me (gesturing towards the intellectually-painful Cary Elwes display I just set up): 'So uhh, have you seen 'Men in Tights?'
Larry: 'I don't do dude movies.'
Me (waiting patiently in slow-printer hell): 'Uh. Okay.'
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit!'
Glancing at the list, I could see that Larry loved his ass some porn. Loved it. Lived for it. Loved it, lived for it, rented it, watched it, and copied each and every one into his own personal porn library. Every-other week. Only on paydays. And he never missed a payday either.
About seven hundred zits later we're done, and I follow Larry. Larry heads straight back to the porno section of the store. Now, as a teenager, I had of course watched my share of porn - but never really discussed them in any kind of detail with another guy. 'Cause eww. This one time, over at Desi Fajardo's house (true story), we watched a great porno together while we drank his father's kahlua and smoked his father's camels, but that was four years ago - and we never felt the need to say more than 'oh, that's nice' during certain parts of the movie. It was not really a sharing kind of thing, and after that I was pretty much solo when watching porn - it's a guy thing I think.
Larry had no such inhibitions, and he crashed through the saloon-style swinging doors to the porno section (in which people under 18 - i.e. me are not allowed) with the bravado of someone who owned this section of the store (and in fact, as I was soon to find out, he essentially did, by virtue of somehow managing to afford two VCRs. . . yet still no deodorant). Larry studies the wall intently, and then holds up a video 'I got this one?' he asks.
Me: 'Uh.. Let’s see, Eight is not Enough...'
Me (damning myself for not printing out Larry's list in alphabetical order - it was by date instead): 'Looks like, last September, uhh.. yes.'
Larry, somewhat nonplussed, put the video back on the shelf and kept browsing. He picked up another and popped the question again. 'This?' he asked, holding it up.
Me (mumbling to myself): 'Postman always bangs twice.. Postman.. Bang..'
Me: 'Ah, yup, yup, sorry Larry, you've seen it already.'
And based on the length of the list that I was scanning, I sensed that this would go on forever unless I took the initiative and started pre-finding movies that Larry hadn't already watched. I looked along with Larry and he began recounting some of the movies he had seen and what he liked in rather horrifically fine detail for anyone within earshot, which I judged to be about 50% of the store given that all that was between us and the children's section was a pair of swinging doors and a six-foot section of painted plywood. I listened, involuntarily, as Larry recounted his weekend living room conquests and picked up on his likes and dislikes, and scurried around trying to find a movie with identical twins, in jail, with a billy club-wielding, red-head dominatrix warden on the cover, all the meanwhile looking up titles that Larry was tossing my way. 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' he asked, as he flung porno after porno my way faster than I could look up his choices: 'Hannah Does Her Sisters', 'Buffy the Vampire Layer', 'The Great Muppet Raper', no, no, no... Sorry, Larry, - you've seen them all.
Larry: 'Fuuuck.'
Me (in my head): 'Yeah, that pretty much sums up our afternoon here...'
Me (outloud): 'You're living the dream man, what can I say?'
It was looking hopeless, and just then another guy came busting through the swinging doors. Larry looked up.
Guy: 'I got the stuff. Huh huh huh'
Larry: 'Heh heh heh'
Guy (showing Larry something in his pocket (I hope to God)): 'Huh huh huh,'
Larry (big smile, looking in the guys pocket - maybe his pants, I dunno): 'Heh heh heh'
Me (holding up the last video that Larry threw me): 'Hay, you haven't seen this one yet!'
Larry (squinting intently): 'Whadsat?'
Guy: 'That's... Dude. That's a dude movie!!!'
Me (looking again at the title): 'Drill Bill?'
Larry: 'I toll you I ain't into dudes!!'
Larry (quickly): 'Why'd you pick that!?'
Me (thinking that I couldn't get out of this gracefully): 'Oh, sorry...'
Guy: 'Dude.'
Larry: 'Dude.'
So we (Larry) ended up getting 'When Harry Ate Sally', 'Titty Titty Bang Bang', and 'Bonfire of the Panties' - which as it turns out, was actually switched with 'Bonfire of the Vanities' by mistake. Larry objected when I tried to exchange the movie for his chosen title, until I asked if he enjoyed Brian De Palma as much as I did, which sounded enough like a dude movie to Larry that he finally shut up.
So Larry announces rather loudly that he has to 'go have a squirt', and proceeds to weave his way over to the mens room, followed closely by his friend, leaving me to take the videos up to the register solo, and ring them up. And, as I was walking up to the register, hoping that by 'have a squirt' Larry had meant that he needed to pee rather than anything else, I bumped into Kari (who's Kari ) Editorial note: It wasn't really Kari, as I had already moved three times since knowing her - but it just as well could have been, and for the purposes of this story, it shall be.
Kari (staring at the pile of porn in my arms): 'O M G!' <-- she talked in acronyms sometimes.
Kari's Friends (conveniently, and exactly, one foot away): 'O M G!!' <-- So did they, apparently.
Kari and her friends: *whisper whisper -freak- whisper whisper*
Me: .. (Ah, what's the point... Is carrying around a depraved psycho’s porn for him any better than buying it myself?): 'Hi.'
I kept walking. They kept whispering and giggling. I set Larry's porn next to his case-or-more of beer on the counter and waited. Larry came out of the bathroom, followed by his friend, and rather non-chalantly and with a touch of practiced flair, picked up three blank video cassettes on his way to the register. Kari, oblivious to this, pantomimed a guy beating off - just for me, and then she and her friends turned and walked out of the store.
Guy (looking back towards the bathroom): 'I wouldn't go in there if I was you. Heh heh heh.'
Larry (grinning): 'Huh Huh Huh.'
Larry (gesturing to Kari as she walked out the door): 'Nice can on nat one nair.'
Larry: *belch*
Guy (all horned up, and dry-humping the counter): 'Ohh-h-h, she's bang-a-licous! Bang! Bang! Baaang!'
Me (having raised my hands off the counter, 'cause, I mean, hey): 'Yeah, um... She sure is... Yeah, like.. like a screen door in a hurricane, right?' <--I'm trying to fit in here, really.
Larry: ???
Guy: ???
Me: 'You know, like a screen door, when it's really windy and it... You know what, nevermind. Total's $18.50'
Larry pays with a twenty, belches once more for good measure, takes his change, and walks out the door - but not before I hear him mumbling to his friend 'Screen door. . . Must be a dude movie thing, I think he likes dude movies, hell I dunno.'
Kari and friends walk by moments later and make a gesture into the air as they pass by the outside store windows; they look as if they are giving a low-flying midget a hand job as he passes overhead.
I get to re-live this at school on Monday.
I get to clean the video store bathroom later tonight.
As a result, I get so intimately acquainted with Larry's tastes that when new pornos come in that I know he'll like (which is almost all of them), I add them to Larry's watchin' list, which is now duct-taped to the plywood wall inside the porno room - all so that Larry (and me) will never have to spend longer than 5 minutes in the video store picking out porn - hoping, perhaps, that this will spare me whatever small amount of dignity that I have left.
Larry showed up every-other week for nearly a year before I finally left for college. Every meeting presented some new and horrifying glimpse into the private life of a man who lived for nothing but cataloging imaginary poon - despite the 'Larry watchin' list'. This one time though, right before I left for college, I managed to sneak a copy of 'Homo Alone' into his weekend pile. I hope he had friends over that night.
And I never did get a date with Kari... Though, looking back on it now, I don't think that I really wanted one either...
The video store owner introduced me to Larry Long one day shortly after I started, and we shook hands. To describe Larry without using cliché' is difficult, but I will try. The first thing I noticed about Larry was that he was kind of yellow. Not yellow in a healthy Chinese sort of way - more yellow in an 'I drink myself to sleep every night, and have never brushed my teeth' kind of way. The pit stains in Larry's wife-beater were quite prominent, and were as yellow as his teeth. Larry's eyes were yellow, his hands were yellow, hell, even his breath was yellow - though it’s hard to say if his hands were yellow because of a liver problem or because he smoked so much that the nicotine stains wouldn't wash off anymore - assuming that he washed at all. Larry was sweaty. Larry was not given to kindness. Larry hadn't eaten a meal out other than 7-11 for years - and he wasn't much of a cook either. Larry's idea of treating a date was squirting a couple extra farts-worth of liquid cheese on the nachos when the store clerk wasn't looking. Larry could have easily been an extra on any episode of COPS, playing the part of 'guy without shirt wearing gold chain' who stands in his front yard screaming 'he done it! he done it!' and pointing deliberately and quite unnecessarily as the COPS tazer and drag off some other unfortunate chap like the lawnmowner man.
Please don't think I am being hard on Larry, or that I have any disdain for those who can't read. I don't. I'm just trying to give you a decent mental picture of what I, at 17, am about to have to deal with on a weekly basis until I grow a pair and quit this stupid job.
As I mentioned, Larry was yellowish, and he was also rather short. Five foot four, I would estimate. Five foot four, but he was all man. Larry would proceed to show up at the video store every other week for the next several months, reeking of beer and cigarettes, and we would begin what would be, by today's standards, a rather inappropriate relationship upon our first meeting. The relationship started like this:
Store owner (Vern): 'Hey, come here, I have a job for you.'
Me (and yes, her name really was Vern): 'Ok.'
Vern: 'See that guy at the counter? That's Larry.'
Me (Looking around, and spying Larry, who is leaning on a thirty-pack of Budweiser that he slung up on the rental counter just a moment ago): 'Ahhh... okay.'
Vern: 'Larry needs help picking out movies.'
Me (having made suggestions for customers a million times before): 'Oh, okay, no problem.'
Vern (lowering her voice): 'Larry can't read.'
Vern (continuing): 'You'll need to print out his rental history, and follow him around. Find some movies that he hasn't seen yet, and...'
Me: 'And? ...'
Vern: 'Just help out, okay?'
Me (hm, this is unusual): 'Erraky, sure....'
So I print out Larry's rental history, and it's one of those old dot-matrix printers that takes forever, and Larry looks to have rented about half the store so far, so I have some time to kill here.
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit.'
Me: 'Hey Larry.'
Larry (making a little upwards nod): 'Mnh.'
Me (gesturing towards the intellectually-painful Cary Elwes display I just set up): 'So uhh, have you seen 'Men in Tights?'
Larry: 'I don't do dude movies.'
Me (waiting patiently in slow-printer hell): 'Uh. Okay.'
Printer: 'zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzit!'
Glancing at the list, I could see that Larry loved his ass some porn. Loved it. Lived for it. Loved it, lived for it, rented it, watched it, and copied each and every one into his own personal porn library. Every-other week. Only on paydays. And he never missed a payday either.
About seven hundred zits later we're done, and I follow Larry. Larry heads straight back to the porno section of the store. Now, as a teenager, I had of course watched my share of porn - but never really discussed them in any kind of detail with another guy. 'Cause eww. This one time, over at Desi Fajardo's house (true story), we watched a great porno together while we drank his father's kahlua and smoked his father's camels, but that was four years ago - and we never felt the need to say more than 'oh, that's nice' during certain parts of the movie. It was not really a sharing kind of thing, and after that I was pretty much solo when watching porn - it's a guy thing I think.
Larry had no such inhibitions, and he crashed through the saloon-style swinging doors to the porno section (in which people under 18 - i.e. me are not allowed) with the bravado of someone who owned this section of the store (and in fact, as I was soon to find out, he essentially did, by virtue of somehow managing to afford two VCRs. . . yet still no deodorant). Larry studies the wall intently, and then holds up a video 'I got this one?' he asks.
Me: 'Uh.. Let’s see, Eight is not Enough...'
Me (damning myself for not printing out Larry's list in alphabetical order - it was by date instead): 'Looks like, last September, uhh.. yes.'
Larry, somewhat nonplussed, put the video back on the shelf and kept browsing. He picked up another and popped the question again. 'This?' he asked, holding it up.
Me (mumbling to myself): 'Postman always bangs twice.. Postman.. Bang..'
Me: 'Ah, yup, yup, sorry Larry, you've seen it already.'
And based on the length of the list that I was scanning, I sensed that this would go on forever unless I took the initiative and started pre-finding movies that Larry hadn't already watched. I looked along with Larry and he began recounting some of the movies he had seen and what he liked in rather horrifically fine detail for anyone within earshot, which I judged to be about 50% of the store given that all that was between us and the children's section was a pair of swinging doors and a six-foot section of painted plywood. I listened, involuntarily, as Larry recounted his weekend living room conquests and picked up on his likes and dislikes, and scurried around trying to find a movie with identical twins, in jail, with a billy club-wielding, red-head dominatrix warden on the cover, all the meanwhile looking up titles that Larry was tossing my way. 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' 'This?' he asked, as he flung porno after porno my way faster than I could look up his choices: 'Hannah Does Her Sisters', 'Buffy the Vampire Layer', 'The Great Muppet Raper', no, no, no... Sorry, Larry, - you've seen them all.
Larry: 'Fuuuck.'
Me (in my head): 'Yeah, that pretty much sums up our afternoon here...'
Me (outloud): 'You're living the dream man, what can I say?'
It was looking hopeless, and just then another guy came busting through the swinging doors. Larry looked up.
Guy: 'I got the stuff. Huh huh huh'
Larry: 'Heh heh heh'
Guy (showing Larry something in his pocket (I hope to God)): 'Huh huh huh,'
Larry (big smile, looking in the guys pocket - maybe his pants, I dunno): 'Heh heh heh'
Me (holding up the last video that Larry threw me): 'Hay, you haven't seen this one yet!'
Larry (squinting intently): 'Whadsat?'
Guy: 'That's... Dude. That's a dude movie!!!'
Me (looking again at the title): 'Drill Bill?'
Larry: 'I toll you I ain't into dudes!!'
Larry (quickly): 'Why'd you pick that!?'
Me (thinking that I couldn't get out of this gracefully): 'Oh, sorry...'
Guy: 'Dude.'
Larry: 'Dude.'
So we (Larry) ended up getting 'When Harry Ate Sally', 'Titty Titty Bang Bang', and 'Bonfire of the Panties' - which as it turns out, was actually switched with 'Bonfire of the Vanities' by mistake. Larry objected when I tried to exchange the movie for his chosen title, until I asked if he enjoyed Brian De Palma as much as I did, which sounded enough like a dude movie to Larry that he finally shut up.
So Larry announces rather loudly that he has to 'go have a squirt', and proceeds to weave his way over to the mens room, followed closely by his friend, leaving me to take the videos up to the register solo, and ring them up. And, as I was walking up to the register, hoping that by 'have a squirt' Larry had meant that he needed to pee rather than anything else, I bumped into Kari (who's Kari ) Editorial note: It wasn't really Kari, as I had already moved three times since knowing her - but it just as well could have been, and for the purposes of this story, it shall be.
Kari (staring at the pile of porn in my arms): 'O M G!' <-- she talked in acronyms sometimes.
Kari's Friends (conveniently, and exactly, one foot away): 'O M G!!' <-- So did they, apparently.
Kari and her friends: *whisper whisper -freak- whisper whisper*
Me: .. (Ah, what's the point... Is carrying around a depraved psycho’s porn for him any better than buying it myself?): 'Hi.'
I kept walking. They kept whispering and giggling. I set Larry's porn next to his case-or-more of beer on the counter and waited. Larry came out of the bathroom, followed by his friend, and rather non-chalantly and with a touch of practiced flair, picked up three blank video cassettes on his way to the register. Kari, oblivious to this, pantomimed a guy beating off - just for me, and then she and her friends turned and walked out of the store.
Guy (looking back towards the bathroom): 'I wouldn't go in there if I was you. Heh heh heh.'
Larry (grinning): 'Huh Huh Huh.'
Larry (gesturing to Kari as she walked out the door): 'Nice can on nat one nair.'
Larry: *belch*
Guy (all horned up, and dry-humping the counter): 'Ohh-h-h, she's bang-a-licous! Bang! Bang! Baaang!'
Me (having raised my hands off the counter, 'cause, I mean, hey): 'Yeah, um... She sure is... Yeah, like.. like a screen door in a hurricane, right?' <--I'm trying to fit in here, really.
Larry: ???
Guy: ???
Me: 'You know, like a screen door, when it's really windy and it... You know what, nevermind. Total's $18.50'
Larry pays with a twenty, belches once more for good measure, takes his change, and walks out the door - but not before I hear him mumbling to his friend 'Screen door. . . Must be a dude movie thing, I think he likes dude movies, hell I dunno.'
Kari and friends walk by moments later and make a gesture into the air as they pass by the outside store windows; they look as if they are giving a low-flying midget a hand job as he passes overhead.
I get to re-live this at school on Monday.
I get to clean the video store bathroom later tonight.
As a result, I get so intimately acquainted with Larry's tastes that when new pornos come in that I know he'll like (which is almost all of them), I add them to Larry's watchin' list, which is now duct-taped to the plywood wall inside the porno room - all so that Larry (and me) will never have to spend longer than 5 minutes in the video store picking out porn - hoping, perhaps, that this will spare me whatever small amount of dignity that I have left.
Larry showed up every-other week for nearly a year before I finally left for college. Every meeting presented some new and horrifying glimpse into the private life of a man who lived for nothing but cataloging imaginary poon - despite the 'Larry watchin' list'. This one time though, right before I left for college, I managed to sneak a copy of 'Homo Alone' into his weekend pile. I hope he had friends over that night.
And I never did get a date with Kari... Though, looking back on it now, I don't think that I really wanted one either...
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Mistakes have been made, others will be blamed. . .
I find myself, as a new parent, regretting some of the decisions that I made during the first couple of years raising the boy. Oh, not the major ones, I got those down: Read to your child 15 minutes a day, don't spike the milk, change their diapers daily, you know - my regrets are rather minor I guess, on a more personal level. Maybe 'regret' is the wrong word, maybe it would be better to say 'knowing what I know now, I wouldn't. . .', yeah, that's it. . . Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't ever be:1) Trying to substitute 'malk' for 'milk' - or really any basement brand food for the real deal. Let's face it, Oaty-o's do not equal Cheerios, and everyone knows it - even the 18 month old - and the perfect time to not discover the emerging pallate of your child is while driving through the middle of the California desert with 72 oz of Oaty-o's strewn across the back seat, 90 minutes away from the next rest stop with something sounding roughly equivalent in pitch and volume to a fire engine's siren coming from your back seat. Buy the damn Cheerios and save yourself the headache. The only potential benefit of buying basement (and I am making a distiction here between so-called bargain brands and basement, btw. Bargain hotdogs, for instance, are just rubbery and kinda nasty. Basement hotdogs turn your tongue magenta.) brands is the amusement of watching the child's face as he or she naively tries the new brand in front of you. The best I got from our 2-yr old was an immediate grimmace, and an audible 'plah', following by a 'da's yucky, papa' - and this was for freezer-o-pops, by the way. Who would have thought that you could screw up frozen sugar-water?
2) Encouraging solid foods too early. I always looked down upon those parents who sat with and fussed over their child during the first several months of solid food - scraping the pureed peas off of their chin back onto the spoon and placing it back in their mouth only to have half of it come back out again along with gurgling, when clearly their must be a better, less time-consuming way. I'll call my method 'the fish-feeding' method. I reasoned that, since this little guy was capable of crawling around and attempting to shove anything in his little mouth that he could find - and I believe that he in fact considered it his job, then the most reasonable method of feeding him would be to go along with a box of Cheerios and shake some out all over the floor in front of him, and wait for him to a) discover and b) eat them. Seriously. My wife nixed this idea, but suggested that we could put some on a paper plate on the ground and wait to see what happened. She expressed some concern that he might get a Cheerio stuck in his mouth and gag, but was willing to give it a shot. I poured the Cheerios on to a paper plate and waited. The discovery phase of the operation went fine - no problem in fact, but as the first Cheerio entered his mouth there was a gagging and wheezing sound, followed shortly by a jar of semi-digested pureed peas errupting from out of nowhere, in a near-perfect arc, showering the floor in a sickly green ooze. My wife had been videotaping at the time, so we have this moment for posterity. I haven't been able to live this one down yet.
3) Trusting the diaper. There will come a time when you rely on the diaper, and it will let your ass down (and often in a spectacular fashion). My time was 2:30 am September 1st, 2005. The kid was awake, in the middle of the night, because he was hungry, or so I had guessed. So I zombie'd my ass out of bed, got the stupid milk bottle, and went to take care of business. We sat, he fussed, but ultimately agreed to the milk. About half way through he seemed to be done, and as I went to sit him up to burp there was a horrendous sound which originiated from his back-end that propelled him skyward, eviscerating the diaper in the process. When he came down, I caught him - and everything else that came along with him. If you had happened on the scene 5 minutes later you would have seen something that looked as if the entire baby food aisle at the grocery store decided to empty itself on some poor chaps floor, a set of footprints leading away from said emptying, and distantly, the sound of running water, a screaming baby, and a cacophony of cuss words which would cling to the bathroom walls like so much baby food for weeks to come - which reminds me, I also wouldn't be:
4) Swearing in front of them. Oh, it's cute when you hit your thumb with a hammer and say 'dammit', and then they look up at you, make a crude attempt at a thumbs up (mimicking you) and say 'dabbit', but sometimes they pick up more than you might think, and will then wait for the perfect time to spring it on you. Like this one:
Grandma: 'Oh, darn-it, I meant to grab some malk at the store.'
Kid (admonishing Grandma, with the gravest of seriousness he can muster, shaking his head): 'We don't say that word Grandma. . . We don't say that fucking word.'
And his pronunciation of 'fucking' was bloody perfect, which was bloody hard to explain!
Why my wife objects to him saying 'darn-it' I'll never know, but whatever. It's better than mispronouncing words sometimes I guess. Right now we're working really hard on 'finger', becuase it comes out 'neeeeger' instead of 'finger' - and since we all hold hands everywhere we go, and since his hand is too small to hold an entire adult-sized hand, he is often heard to ask (in his outside voice, of course): 'Where my [finger]??', 'Okay, got my [finger]!!' as we're crossing the street or whatever. . . We're just waiting for that one to drop at the wrong time . . .
Saturday, July 26, 2008
The Lawnmower Man
http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/07/25/mower.madness.ap/index.html
Now... You might be tempted to look at this guy and think, my God, what a pathetic waste of human life, but I bet that you're not exactly seeing him at his best. At least I hope not. It's my contention that this fellow probably grew up fairly normal (whatever that is these days), and then somewhere along the line from then until now he probably just got jacked with one too many times until he finally snapped. You all know someone on a similar path - that crazy checker at the grocery store, or that co-worker who has put on 40 lbs in the past year and always comes back from lunch smelling like gin, maybe that one old guy who lives on the corner who methodically digs up little squares of his front lawn and sifts through the dirt (but only at night, by floodlight) - you know someone who some day is going to get fucked in the drive-thru one too many times and will go absolutely bug-nutz crazy and plow their car through the drive-thru window and scream 'but it said drive thru!!! It said drive thru!!!' as the cops taser him and carry him off to jail. The point is that this guy was probably relatively normal at some point in his life but that the continual stress of living in our society made him cave in one day and say 'fuck it.'
The idea that some people may be put on this Earth to simply serve as an example for others has crossed my mind more than once, so to that end I suggest using this story for something positive. When you have identified that one person in your life who is going to snap at any time, then email them this story. And then tell them, next time someone readeatedly kicks the back of their chair in the theater, next time they get cut-off in traffic, next time they only hear the second flush, and the sound of running water on the hard wood floor, along with the words 'uh oh' to remember what happened to The Lawnmower Man, and maybe it will make it all better :).
Now... You might be tempted to look at this guy and think, my God, what a pathetic waste of human life, but I bet that you're not exactly seeing him at his best. At least I hope not. It's my contention that this fellow probably grew up fairly normal (whatever that is these days), and then somewhere along the line from then until now he probably just got jacked with one too many times until he finally snapped. You all know someone on a similar path - that crazy checker at the grocery store, or that co-worker who has put on 40 lbs in the past year and always comes back from lunch smelling like gin, maybe that one old guy who lives on the corner who methodically digs up little squares of his front lawn and sifts through the dirt (but only at night, by floodlight) - you know someone who some day is going to get fucked in the drive-thru one too many times and will go absolutely bug-nutz crazy and plow their car through the drive-thru window and scream 'but it said drive thru!!! It said drive thru!!!' as the cops taser him and carry him off to jail. The point is that this guy was probably relatively normal at some point in his life but that the continual stress of living in our society made him cave in one day and say 'fuck it.'
The idea that some people may be put on this Earth to simply serve as an example for others has crossed my mind more than once, so to that end I suggest using this story for something positive. When you have identified that one person in your life who is going to snap at any time, then email them this story. And then tell them, next time someone readeatedly kicks the back of their chair in the theater, next time they get cut-off in traffic, next time they only hear the second flush, and the sound of running water on the hard wood floor, along with the words 'uh oh' to remember what happened to The Lawnmower Man, and maybe it will make it all better :).
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Len and the Art of Interviewing
"Successful job interviews are an artform that is easily learned but which is difficult to master. The successful interview is much like dance where two partners engage each other in a rhythmic pattern of mutual discovery until, at the climax of the music, a mutually beneficial arrangement is achieved" the book read. It sounded like smut then, and it sounds like smut now. The book then rambled on for pages about the virtues of punctuality, picking the right tie, researching the company, and other academic and largely useless interview checklist items. I didn't know how irrelevant most of this would be at the time, so I continued reading and collecting these little droppings until both my pockets were full and something didn't smell too great. I then got a good night sleep, woke bright and early, showered, dressed appropriately, and went on my first ever post-college interview. You know, the big one, the one where you're supposed to land a real job instead of working the teacup ride for a traveling carnival. The one that's supposed to show off that going off to college made sense.
Let's back up a minute. I had just graduated college with a degree in Biochemistry. A good private college too, not one of those wussy state schools where the final exams are multiple choice *cough* UMN *cough* so I actually did know how to do some pretty amazing (to me, at the time at least) stuff despite my B- average there. Want to know if that DNA matches? Need an HIV test? Want to grow mutant corn? No problemo! So, needless to say, I thought that I was pretty hot stuff. Obviously, I needed to find myself a hot stuff job. So, having an a) girlfriend heading to Minneapolis and b) a big head filled with very little sense, I decided to pack up our (100% her) stuff in a U-Haul truck and head out there with her. Hm? Oh, no, I didn't have a job waiting there for me. Place to stay? Well, no, not as such. Money? Well, enough to last a few weeks I guess, as long as you like all four flavors of Ramen. The truck? Well, yes, they'll want it back after we arrive in Minneapolis. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. So in essence we had a place to stay (Super 8) and store our stuff (back of the U-Haul) for about 48 hours after our arrival, after which point we would either need to have an apartment or a garage sale. Surprisingly, the stars aligned and all went well, and that's how I came to be sitting in Minneapolis, reading the most useless interviewing guide on the planet made up by some total fuck-wit who was probably a free-lance writer and as such had never been offered nor held a real job in his whole life.
Now I had been on several job interviews before, but they were all for really crappy jobs where the interview was more of a formality than anything - sometimes only consisting of two words in the case of farm labor ('ju wanna?). A nod in the affirmative was all that one took - and, as most of my co-workers at the time either didn't speak English, or were people that you didn't want to spend any more time within arm's reach of than it took to say ' 'ju wanna?', I understood why.
Now, since Monster.com was in its infancy at the time, the best way to look for a job was still in classified ads for the most part. Unfortunately, since news papers charged by the word, some of the ads were quite brief, leaving much to the imagination of the reader. This is how I came to be sitting across from Len the next morning, completely unprepared for what was about to happen. I think the ad went something like this:
*******************************************************
* Asst. Mgr for rapid grow hi-tech company. Will train,
* no exp nec up to 68k to start 612-555-haha
*******************************************************
Ah, management already, excellent. I like delegating, and I'm all about hi-tech stuff. 68k, that's not too shabby either, in fact better than I was expecting for my first job. So I call and make an interview appointment with 'Len', drive up at the appointed time, and get out of the car looking for the address. It's in a strip mall... Okay, fine. Hm. 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' the sign read. Okay, well, I guess that sounds kind of high tech. Assistant manager for the Electrolux corporation, hah, won't my college buddies be jealous when they find out. So I put on my interview face (chapter 9), and push open the door to find a display room full of vacuum cleaners. Big grey ugly vacuum cleaners. I step out and scrutinize the outside of the door again. . . 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' it reads. 'Hmm. Maybe they are having the carpets cleaned or something...' I think, as I go back inside. 'Hello?' I say, in my confident, polite, and pleasing interview voice (chapter 6). A strange little man with a very dated suit and bow tie comes walking out from the back room, smiles at me, and then continues walking out the front door dragging a vacuum behind him. He kinda reminded me of that claymation-puppet host guy for those 1970's-era Santa, Frosty, and Rudolph shows that they drag out every year around Christmas. We really need new Christmas shows, don't we? I digress... At any rate, I walked cautiously towards the back room, dully wondering if this is a joke. 'Come in' says a heavy set man with a comb-over and coke-bottle glasses. 'I'm Len' he breathed. 'Hi, I -' I start, but Len cuts in 'Sit down. You see those over there?' he says, grunting towards a wall of ugly grey vacuum cleaners.
Me: 'Yah, th-'
Len: 'That's the new model 55. The chassis is a replica of the original models sold back in 55.'
Me: 'Oh, I-'
Len: 'They're the big seller right now and we push more units than any other store in the Midwest.'
Me: 'That's v-'
Len: 'A lot of folks don't know who we are these days, but if you go knocking on doors of the older generation then you'll see a smile and a wink, because they know quality when they see it.'
Me: 'I'm here about the assistant manager job?'
Len (continuing): 'You know, we use the same technology in these model 55s as jet aero-planes. There's not another vacuum in the world that can make the same claim.'
Me: 'I-'
Len: 'A lot of people will tell you that they can get by with less, but the beauty of an Electrolux vacuum is power and durability.'
Me (in my head, while looking them over): 'Well, the beauty certainly isn't in the chassis...'
Len: 'People don't know what they need in a vacuum anymore. They go for looks, or portability, or because it's quiet, but what they don't know is that it's not picking up all the dirt from their carpet. You don't want a dirty carpet do you?
Me: 'N-'
Len (pounding his fist on the table): 'No one wants a dirty carpet!'
Me (resume still in hand): 'I-'
Len (continuing to pound): 'For $800 today, you'll never have a dirty carpet again!'
Me: 'I'll just go ahead and see myself out...'
Len (talking over me, oblivious to the fact I am leaving): 'This is the finest machine ever built! Could put a man on the moon with the parts inside it!'
Sooo, I emerge from Electrolux a little wiser in the ways of the world, and as it happens we already owned a lovely little green Hoover at the time that even did the stairs. It cost (her) $100 and lasted 9 years before we threw it out - chiefly because she was taken in by the pretty colors of the new Dysons - not because the Hoover was giving out. Secretly, I still miss the Hoover. It was a total whore of a vacuum, sucking up anything that it came across without a single complaint. The new Dyson, by comparison, is kinda prissy. Anyhoo, since the whole Len thing was a failure, I started reading the paper again.
*******************************************************
* Exp cash handler for evening work. Must have reliab
* trans. Apply in person at Minn. Mariott Hotel
*******************************************************
Okay, so it's not Biochemistry exactly, but it could pay the bills while I get a real job eh? So I go down to the Mariott and walk up to the front desk - got four copies of my resume, got two pens, suit - check, tie - check, lookin' good, smellin', well, ok, and here we go!
Me: 'Hi, my name is Hammy, and I'm here to apply for the position posted in the Minnesota Crapper (or whatever their paper was called - I dunno).
She (handing me an application): 'Here, fill this out. I'll let them know you are here.'
Me: 'Thanks.'
So I sit down, and as I am debating whether blue or black ink would be more appropriate for this application - as it was copied on blue paper, I get a tap on the shoulder.
Him: 'Hey, you can leave that here. Follow me.'
Me: 'Okay, nice to meet you, I'm Hammy.'
Him (not looking at me): 'I'm Big Tony.'
He must have noticed my impeccable dress (Chapter 3) and resumes ready in hand (Chapter 4), and that's why I didn't have to fill out or bring the application with me. Yes, he knows how to spot a fellow professional when he sees one (Appendix A), for sure.
Big Tony proceeded to lead us down the hallway, across the hotel, and to the elevator. Were we going to a conference room? Was he giving me a tour of the hotel?
Big Tony (as if sensing my confusion): 'There's a guy you gotta meet.'
Me: 'Okay, sure.'
We get out on the second floor, and walk to a nearby hotel room. Big Tony stops and knocks twice. 'Who is it?' comes from inside. 'It's Big Tony' says Big Tony. 'Yeah, alright.' the inside voice says, and the door opens and we proceed into the room. It's just a room. A hotel room. And not even a suite. My spider sense begins to tingle. Rut Roh Raggy. . .
'Siddown' the guy says. 'I'm Frankie, youse here for da gig, right?'
Me (hesitantly): 'Yes, here is my resume.'
Frankie: 'You're a funny guy.'
Me (naively): 'Thanks, I -'
Frankie: 'Hey Big Tony, getta loada dis guy, here's my resume.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Me (uncomfortable, restoring to my 'memorized questions to get the interview back on track' (chapter 15)): 'So uhh, what would you say is the most challenging aspect of this position?'
Frankie: 'Getting the clients to pay regular.'
Big Tony: 'Haaaa Ha.'
Me '..?'
Frankie: 'We sell insurance.'
Me (showing interest with related follow-up questions (chapter 16)): 'Oh, you mean like State Farm, or -'
Frankie: 'Hey Tony, dis guys bustin' me up here, like State Farm, that's rich.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Frankie: 'Yeah, like State Farm, only we sells door to door, see?'
Me (in my head): 'Oh dear God...'
Me (outloud): 'So I would be -'
Frankie: 'You do collections. We collect door to door every week.'
Me: 'I see.'
Frankie: 'Some clients don't pay unless you motivate them. You got skills?'
Me: 'I-uh-huh?!'
Frankie: 'Are you tryin' to break my balls here? What am I, an asshole here?'
Big Tony: 'I'll get this -'
Frankie: 'Get dis guy outta here!'
And I was summarily gotten out of there. And I'm still not really clear on what the job was, except that it was probably painful, illegal, and quite unnecessary. Thankfully, I eventually managed to grab a job at the local University being a lab rat for some cancer research team. The pay was horrible, the tasks repetitive, and the prospects for advancement were dismal - as there were PhD's sitting across from my lab bench doing the exact same work that I was - but at least it paid the rent. It wasn't until later that I slowly gathered some real secrets for good interviewing, a few of which I will attempt to summarize for you here today. The following recommendations are based on being on both sides of the interview table approximately 100 times in the past 5 years - take them for whatever you think they're worth:
1) Dress appropriately to the job that you are applying for. Dress as if you were ready to step out of the interview and start working right away. Any more, and people might think that you're pompous or over-compensating - any less, and you appear not to care about or respect the position. Most interviewees fret about potential employers discovering weaknesses in their skill sets, but when I look across the table at someone I find myself asking 'Will they fit in?' just as often as 'Are they an idiot?'. Dress like you'll fit in.
2) Don't be afraid to admit ignorance of a topic or question asked. The interviewer likely already knows both the textbook answer and the real answer to whatever question they are asking, so don't bother trying to fake it. You'll sound like an idiot, kill your chances for the job, and likely provide endless entertainment for the interviewer's co-workers later that day. Say something like: 'Well, I don't have a lot of experience in that area, but if I had to guess, then I would say [...]' Even if you're wrong, you'll score points for demonstrating an ability to know your own limitations. This engenders trust. Editorial note: Don't try to use this on every question.
3) Have an answer ready for the following interview question: 'So, knowing what you know about our company now, tell me, what can you do to help us reach our goals?' Sounds stupid, yeah, especially if it's McDonalds, but if you go in with a clear picture of what the company is and how you fit in, then the answers you give to any other interview questions will paint a consistent and cohesive picture. If you have a good interviewer, then they will note this - and you will move up the list. If they ask this question straight away (only happened to me once), and you answer it with any kind of eloquence, then you just got the job. Congrats.
4) Have a few questions ready to ask the interviewer. You can stay generic here if you want, though pointed questions are better. Generic? 'So what do you envision the key contributions for this position to be?' 'What do you see as the most challenging aspects of this position?' 'What is a typical day-in-the-life like for your team?' You know, just stuff. Stuff that helps you learn about what kind of chaotic hell-hole you'll be (potentially) thrust into on a Monday coming soon. If you have no questions, then you have no apparent interest, and you'll move down the list fast.
5) Don't say anything stupid. Bad interviewers, especially, are looking for reasons to not hire you rather than looking for reasons to suspect that you will be a star at their company. If you need to keep a mouse in your pocket and stroke him when you get nervous, then the interview is not the best time to mention this. Shut the hell up, keep the mouse in your pocket, and smile.
6) When and if the inevitable subject of salary requirements ever comes up, the company will try to sign you for as little as possible. Oh, they may say that they are working with you to find a 'mutually beneficial' (Chapter 18) arrangement - or some other crap like that, but the fact of that matter is that if you would sign a piece of paper saying that you would do the job for $5 a year, then that would, all of a sudden, become the most beneficial arrangement. When they ask what you want, then you need to respond like this:
Company (wink wink): 'So, what's it going to take to get you to work here, today?'
You: 'Well, that's an excellent question. What are you prepared to offer your best candidate?'
Company (with a suddenly fake, plastic smile): 'Come on, now.'
You: 'Come on, now.'
Company (no matter what they say): 'Blah blah blah.'
You: 'Show me the money.'
Stick to those basics and you'll avoid a lot of uncomfortable situations. Most uncomfortable situation I have ever been in? Sure. I was interviewing at McDonalds just before my senior year of college in order to make ends meet. They had assistant manager positions open which were paying more than anything else at that point, so I decided to lie my way into an interview. 'No, no, I've had enough of college. I'm giving it up one year short of my degree to join your fine organization where I'll happily be the modern-day equivalent of an indentured servant for the rest of my life' I said, or the equivalent, and was invited to interview. During the interview I met with a current McDonald’s manager and listened to him talk about the goals of the company, and McDonald's University, and the training program, and all the other company lines. He indicated that there were several stations that I would have to work my way through and spend about 6 weeks working each until I had attained a mastery of each one. This seemed kind of.. dumb? to me, so I tried to make light of the requirement by saying 'Well, yeah, but do you really need six weeks salting fries? I mean, how can you screw up salting fries?' And this little mistake (don't say anything stupid, see #5 above) cost me approximately 30 of the most uncomfortable minutes in my life (that I will never get back) where we had to go over the proper procedure for salting fries in painstaking detail, as well as anything that could possibly go wrong with the process. To sum up: You salt forwards, back, and then forwards one more time. Three passes, and you try not to get salt in the oil, because it will break down the oil - which I say is complete BS, but I didn't want to get into it with him because I didn't need to spend an hour discussing intermolecular bonding theories with someone who was probably a burger flipper six weeks ago. I actually thanked him for his time and left after our little salting lesson, because no matter what happened next I couldn't see being successful there - even for three months. Some things should just be too damned stupid to be allowed. I went and delivered pizzas instead - and that's another story. :)
Let's back up a minute. I had just graduated college with a degree in Biochemistry. A good private college too, not one of those wussy state schools where the final exams are multiple choice *cough* UMN *cough* so I actually did know how to do some pretty amazing (to me, at the time at least) stuff despite my B- average there. Want to know if that DNA matches? Need an HIV test? Want to grow mutant corn? No problemo! So, needless to say, I thought that I was pretty hot stuff. Obviously, I needed to find myself a hot stuff job. So, having an a) girlfriend heading to Minneapolis and b) a big head filled with very little sense, I decided to pack up our (100% her) stuff in a U-Haul truck and head out there with her. Hm? Oh, no, I didn't have a job waiting there for me. Place to stay? Well, no, not as such. Money? Well, enough to last a few weeks I guess, as long as you like all four flavors of Ramen. The truck? Well, yes, they'll want it back after we arrive in Minneapolis. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah. So in essence we had a place to stay (Super 8) and store our stuff (back of the U-Haul) for about 48 hours after our arrival, after which point we would either need to have an apartment or a garage sale. Surprisingly, the stars aligned and all went well, and that's how I came to be sitting in Minneapolis, reading the most useless interviewing guide on the planet made up by some total fuck-wit who was probably a free-lance writer and as such had never been offered nor held a real job in his whole life.
Now I had been on several job interviews before, but they were all for really crappy jobs where the interview was more of a formality than anything - sometimes only consisting of two words in the case of farm labor ('ju wanna?). A nod in the affirmative was all that one took - and, as most of my co-workers at the time either didn't speak English, or were people that you didn't want to spend any more time within arm's reach of than it took to say ' 'ju wanna?', I understood why.
Now, since Monster.com was in its infancy at the time, the best way to look for a job was still in classified ads for the most part. Unfortunately, since news papers charged by the word, some of the ads were quite brief, leaving much to the imagination of the reader. This is how I came to be sitting across from Len the next morning, completely unprepared for what was about to happen. I think the ad went something like this:
*******************************************************
* Asst. Mgr for rapid grow hi-tech company. Will train,
* no exp nec up to 68k to start 612-555-haha
*******************************************************
Ah, management already, excellent. I like delegating, and I'm all about hi-tech stuff. 68k, that's not too shabby either, in fact better than I was expecting for my first job. So I call and make an interview appointment with 'Len', drive up at the appointed time, and get out of the car looking for the address. It's in a strip mall... Okay, fine. Hm. 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' the sign read. Okay, well, I guess that sounds kind of high tech. Assistant manager for the Electrolux corporation, hah, won't my college buddies be jealous when they find out. So I put on my interview face (chapter 9), and push open the door to find a display room full of vacuum cleaners. Big grey ugly vacuum cleaners. I step out and scrutinize the outside of the door again. . . 'E-L-E-C-T-R-O-L-U-X' it reads. 'Hmm. Maybe they are having the carpets cleaned or something...' I think, as I go back inside. 'Hello?' I say, in my confident, polite, and pleasing interview voice (chapter 6). A strange little man with a very dated suit and bow tie comes walking out from the back room, smiles at me, and then continues walking out the front door dragging a vacuum behind him. He kinda reminded me of that claymation-puppet host guy for those 1970's-era Santa, Frosty, and Rudolph shows that they drag out every year around Christmas. We really need new Christmas shows, don't we? I digress... At any rate, I walked cautiously towards the back room, dully wondering if this is a joke. 'Come in' says a heavy set man with a comb-over and coke-bottle glasses. 'I'm Len' he breathed. 'Hi, I -' I start, but Len cuts in 'Sit down. You see those over there?' he says, grunting towards a wall of ugly grey vacuum cleaners.
Me: 'Yah, th-'
Len: 'That's the new model 55. The chassis is a replica of the original models sold back in 55.'
Me: 'Oh, I-'
Len: 'They're the big seller right now and we push more units than any other store in the Midwest.'
Me: 'That's v-'
Len: 'A lot of folks don't know who we are these days, but if you go knocking on doors of the older generation then you'll see a smile and a wink, because they know quality when they see it.'
Me: 'I'm here about the assistant manager job?'
Len (continuing): 'You know, we use the same technology in these model 55s as jet aero-planes. There's not another vacuum in the world that can make the same claim.'
Me: 'I-'
Len: 'A lot of people will tell you that they can get by with less, but the beauty of an Electrolux vacuum is power and durability.'
Me (in my head, while looking them over): 'Well, the beauty certainly isn't in the chassis...'
Len: 'People don't know what they need in a vacuum anymore. They go for looks, or portability, or because it's quiet, but what they don't know is that it's not picking up all the dirt from their carpet. You don't want a dirty carpet do you?
Me: 'N-'
Len (pounding his fist on the table): 'No one wants a dirty carpet!'
Me (resume still in hand): 'I-'
Len (continuing to pound): 'For $800 today, you'll never have a dirty carpet again!'
Me: 'I'll just go ahead and see myself out...'
Len (talking over me, oblivious to the fact I am leaving): 'This is the finest machine ever built! Could put a man on the moon with the parts inside it!'
Sooo, I emerge from Electrolux a little wiser in the ways of the world, and as it happens we already owned a lovely little green Hoover at the time that even did the stairs. It cost (her) $100 and lasted 9 years before we threw it out - chiefly because she was taken in by the pretty colors of the new Dysons - not because the Hoover was giving out. Secretly, I still miss the Hoover. It was a total whore of a vacuum, sucking up anything that it came across without a single complaint. The new Dyson, by comparison, is kinda prissy. Anyhoo, since the whole Len thing was a failure, I started reading the paper again.
*******************************************************
* Exp cash handler for evening work. Must have reliab
* trans. Apply in person at Minn. Mariott Hotel
*******************************************************
Okay, so it's not Biochemistry exactly, but it could pay the bills while I get a real job eh? So I go down to the Mariott and walk up to the front desk - got four copies of my resume, got two pens, suit - check, tie - check, lookin' good, smellin', well, ok, and here we go!
Me: 'Hi, my name is Hammy, and I'm here to apply for the position posted in the Minnesota Crapper (or whatever their paper was called - I dunno).
She (handing me an application): 'Here, fill this out. I'll let them know you are here.'
Me: 'Thanks.'
So I sit down, and as I am debating whether blue or black ink would be more appropriate for this application - as it was copied on blue paper, I get a tap on the shoulder.
Him: 'Hey, you can leave that here. Follow me.'
Me: 'Okay, nice to meet you, I'm Hammy.'
Him (not looking at me): 'I'm Big Tony.'
He must have noticed my impeccable dress (Chapter 3) and resumes ready in hand (Chapter 4), and that's why I didn't have to fill out or bring the application with me. Yes, he knows how to spot a fellow professional when he sees one (Appendix A), for sure.
Big Tony proceeded to lead us down the hallway, across the hotel, and to the elevator. Were we going to a conference room? Was he giving me a tour of the hotel?
Big Tony (as if sensing my confusion): 'There's a guy you gotta meet.'
Me: 'Okay, sure.'
We get out on the second floor, and walk to a nearby hotel room. Big Tony stops and knocks twice. 'Who is it?' comes from inside. 'It's Big Tony' says Big Tony. 'Yeah, alright.' the inside voice says, and the door opens and we proceed into the room. It's just a room. A hotel room. And not even a suite. My spider sense begins to tingle. Rut Roh Raggy. . .
'Siddown' the guy says. 'I'm Frankie, youse here for da gig, right?'
Me (hesitantly): 'Yes, here is my resume.'
Frankie: 'You're a funny guy.'
Me (naively): 'Thanks, I -'
Frankie: 'Hey Big Tony, getta loada dis guy, here's my resume.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Me (uncomfortable, restoring to my 'memorized questions to get the interview back on track' (chapter 15)): 'So uhh, what would you say is the most challenging aspect of this position?'
Frankie: 'Getting the clients to pay regular.'
Big Tony: 'Haaaa Ha.'
Me '..?'
Frankie: 'We sell insurance.'
Me (showing interest with related follow-up questions (chapter 16)): 'Oh, you mean like State Farm, or -'
Frankie: 'Hey Tony, dis guys bustin' me up here, like State Farm, that's rich.'
Big Tony: 'Ha ha ha.'
Frankie: 'Yeah, like State Farm, only we sells door to door, see?'
Me (in my head): 'Oh dear God...'
Me (outloud): 'So I would be -'
Frankie: 'You do collections. We collect door to door every week.'
Me: 'I see.'
Frankie: 'Some clients don't pay unless you motivate them. You got skills?'
Me: 'I-uh-huh?!'
Frankie: 'Are you tryin' to break my balls here? What am I, an asshole here?'
Big Tony: 'I'll get this -'
Frankie: 'Get dis guy outta here!'
And I was summarily gotten out of there. And I'm still not really clear on what the job was, except that it was probably painful, illegal, and quite unnecessary. Thankfully, I eventually managed to grab a job at the local University being a lab rat for some cancer research team. The pay was horrible, the tasks repetitive, and the prospects for advancement were dismal - as there were PhD's sitting across from my lab bench doing the exact same work that I was - but at least it paid the rent. It wasn't until later that I slowly gathered some real secrets for good interviewing, a few of which I will attempt to summarize for you here today. The following recommendations are based on being on both sides of the interview table approximately 100 times in the past 5 years - take them for whatever you think they're worth:
1) Dress appropriately to the job that you are applying for. Dress as if you were ready to step out of the interview and start working right away. Any more, and people might think that you're pompous or over-compensating - any less, and you appear not to care about or respect the position. Most interviewees fret about potential employers discovering weaknesses in their skill sets, but when I look across the table at someone I find myself asking 'Will they fit in?' just as often as 'Are they an idiot?'. Dress like you'll fit in.
2) Don't be afraid to admit ignorance of a topic or question asked. The interviewer likely already knows both the textbook answer and the real answer to whatever question they are asking, so don't bother trying to fake it. You'll sound like an idiot, kill your chances for the job, and likely provide endless entertainment for the interviewer's co-workers later that day. Say something like: 'Well, I don't have a lot of experience in that area, but if I had to guess, then I would say [...]' Even if you're wrong, you'll score points for demonstrating an ability to know your own limitations. This engenders trust. Editorial note: Don't try to use this on every question.
3) Have an answer ready for the following interview question: 'So, knowing what you know about our company now, tell me, what can you do to help us reach our goals?' Sounds stupid, yeah, especially if it's McDonalds, but if you go in with a clear picture of what the company is and how you fit in, then the answers you give to any other interview questions will paint a consistent and cohesive picture. If you have a good interviewer, then they will note this - and you will move up the list. If they ask this question straight away (only happened to me once), and you answer it with any kind of eloquence, then you just got the job. Congrats.
4) Have a few questions ready to ask the interviewer. You can stay generic here if you want, though pointed questions are better. Generic? 'So what do you envision the key contributions for this position to be?' 'What do you see as the most challenging aspects of this position?' 'What is a typical day-in-the-life like for your team?' You know, just stuff. Stuff that helps you learn about what kind of chaotic hell-hole you'll be (potentially) thrust into on a Monday coming soon. If you have no questions, then you have no apparent interest, and you'll move down the list fast.
5) Don't say anything stupid. Bad interviewers, especially, are looking for reasons to not hire you rather than looking for reasons to suspect that you will be a star at their company. If you need to keep a mouse in your pocket and stroke him when you get nervous, then the interview is not the best time to mention this. Shut the hell up, keep the mouse in your pocket, and smile.
6) When and if the inevitable subject of salary requirements ever comes up, the company will try to sign you for as little as possible. Oh, they may say that they are working with you to find a 'mutually beneficial' (Chapter 18) arrangement - or some other crap like that, but the fact of that matter is that if you would sign a piece of paper saying that you would do the job for $5 a year, then that would, all of a sudden, become the most beneficial arrangement. When they ask what you want, then you need to respond like this:
Company (wink wink): 'So, what's it going to take to get you to work here, today?'
You: 'Well, that's an excellent question. What are you prepared to offer your best candidate?'
Company (with a suddenly fake, plastic smile): 'Come on, now.'
You: 'Come on, now.'
Company (no matter what they say): 'Blah blah blah.'
You: 'Show me the money.'
Stick to those basics and you'll avoid a lot of uncomfortable situations. Most uncomfortable situation I have ever been in? Sure. I was interviewing at McDonalds just before my senior year of college in order to make ends meet. They had assistant manager positions open which were paying more than anything else at that point, so I decided to lie my way into an interview. 'No, no, I've had enough of college. I'm giving it up one year short of my degree to join your fine organization where I'll happily be the modern-day equivalent of an indentured servant for the rest of my life' I said, or the equivalent, and was invited to interview. During the interview I met with a current McDonald’s manager and listened to him talk about the goals of the company, and McDonald's University, and the training program, and all the other company lines. He indicated that there were several stations that I would have to work my way through and spend about 6 weeks working each until I had attained a mastery of each one. This seemed kind of.. dumb? to me, so I tried to make light of the requirement by saying 'Well, yeah, but do you really need six weeks salting fries? I mean, how can you screw up salting fries?' And this little mistake (don't say anything stupid, see #5 above) cost me approximately 30 of the most uncomfortable minutes in my life (that I will never get back) where we had to go over the proper procedure for salting fries in painstaking detail, as well as anything that could possibly go wrong with the process. To sum up: You salt forwards, back, and then forwards one more time. Three passes, and you try not to get salt in the oil, because it will break down the oil - which I say is complete BS, but I didn't want to get into it with him because I didn't need to spend an hour discussing intermolecular bonding theories with someone who was probably a burger flipper six weeks ago. I actually thanked him for his time and left after our little salting lesson, because no matter what happened next I couldn't see being successful there - even for three months. Some things should just be too damned stupid to be allowed. I went and delivered pizzas instead - and that's another story. :)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Quick Update aka the Cop Out
Yes, I am copping out this week. Actually, it's been about two weeks, hasn't it? I'm sorry, I have been adjusting to a new job and the result is that I haven't had much time to work on music or write anything remotely interesting on here for the last couple of months. I accept the blame.
At any rate, I wanted to make an entry to let y'all know that 1) I am not dead, as Perez Hilton reported earlier, and 2) That I am thankful for the hundreds of you that have gone on to iTunes or Amazon and bought a song. You have inspired me to keep going. Over the past several weeks I have managed to actually finish writing the full-length album that I want to put out, and now it's just a matter of finding the time to record all of the parts that go into it. It will be out this year, even if I have to squeak it by in December. I'm hoping for late summer myself though.
Sooo, highlights of the last few months include:
- Receiving a bottle of simple syrup in the mail from a couple readers in Europe (who must have felt some sympathy for that Simple Syrup story) - thanks guys!!!
- Getting 3 nice 'atta-boys' on the iTunes reviews page (woo hoo!)
- Happily reporting to my wife that the 'I met My Wife at a Strip Club' story is the most popular read on this blog, despite her protests
- Seeing that music video to the right there has received over 300,000 views (combined) from all of the sites that have hosted it. W-O-W!
So, if you'll accept a cop-out for this week, I humbly offer the following joke (which is not mine) for your amusement:
C, E-flat, and G walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So, the E-flat leaves, and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished; the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. A D comes into the bar and heads straight for the bathroom saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." An A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims, "Get out now! You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight." The E-flat, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next night in a 3-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender says: "You're looking sharp tonight, come on in! This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the E-flat takes off the suit, and everything else, and is now au naturel. Eventually, the C sobers up, and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, is found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all accusations to the contrary are bassless. . .
Y'all remember not to take things too seriously, if only for today.
Cheers!
At any rate, I wanted to make an entry to let y'all know that 1) I am not dead, as Perez Hilton reported earlier, and 2) That I am thankful for the hundreds of you that have gone on to iTunes or Amazon and bought a song. You have inspired me to keep going. Over the past several weeks I have managed to actually finish writing the full-length album that I want to put out, and now it's just a matter of finding the time to record all of the parts that go into it. It will be out this year, even if I have to squeak it by in December. I'm hoping for late summer myself though.
Sooo, highlights of the last few months include:
- Receiving a bottle of simple syrup in the mail from a couple readers in Europe (who must have felt some sympathy for that Simple Syrup story) - thanks guys!!!
- Getting 3 nice 'atta-boys' on the iTunes reviews page (woo hoo!)
- Happily reporting to my wife that the 'I met My Wife at a Strip Club' story is the most popular read on this blog, despite her protests
- Seeing that music video to the right there has received over 300,000 views (combined) from all of the sites that have hosted it. W-O-W!
So, if you'll accept a cop-out for this week, I humbly offer the following joke (which is not mine) for your amusement:
C, E-flat, and G walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So, the E-flat leaves, and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished; the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. A D comes into the bar and heads straight for the bathroom saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." An A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims, "Get out now! You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight." The E-flat, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next night in a 3-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender says: "You're looking sharp tonight, come on in! This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the E-flat takes off the suit, and everything else, and is now au naturel. Eventually, the C sobers up, and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, is found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all accusations to the contrary are bassless. . .
Y'all remember not to take things too seriously, if only for today.
Cheers!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
A Modest Proposal
So, you've probably read about (how I met my wife), but did you hear about how I proposed? It's actually our anniverssary this week, so I've been thinking back to that day long ago. Let's rewind a few years, and I'll tell you the tale. . .
It's November, and it's buttfucking cold. No, not kind of cold, not really cold, it's geniune, wholesale, buttfucking cold because we're in Minnesota in the winter time, and they've been 'having a bit of a cold front moving in'. Editorial note: This means that it might climb into single digits for the high today, but with the wind-chill it will really be about -40.
News anchor: 'It's gonna be a little chilly today, for shooore!'
Co-anchor: 'Oooh yah, for shooore. Better button up those little ones, yah!'
News anchor: 'That's right, we're looking at an intra-day high of seven today, but the wind-chill means that any bare skin will die within a few minutes of exposure!'
Co-anchor: 'Yah, yah, scarves and hats at the bus stop this morning kids!'
News Anchor (nodding): 'Ooh, yah, that's a good idea Margey'
Co-anchor (nodding): 'Ooh yah.'
News Anchor (nodding back): 'Yah.'
Why are we in Minnesota you ask? Why is anyone in Minnesota you ask? That's a very good question, and the latter had something to do with even the Native Americans not wanting it, and the former to do with, as my father put it, 'chasing that skirt cross-country'. Apparently, if you're from northern Scandanavia, then Minnesota is pretty good living, so the Scandanavians decided to move in, and no one felt the need to stop them. Okay, I might be over-simplifying American immigration a tad, but in a nutshell that's what happened. So yah, you best button up those little ones, yah.
So the wife-to-be had been hinting that she was interested in tying the knot, so to speak. Our coffee table had begun to be taken over with magazines from Ben Bridge, Zales, The Shane Company, and other diamond hawkers who seem to hold some mystical power over the psyche of a woman which convinces them that something that a criminal dug out of the mud is somehow worth two months of your salary. * cough * whataloadofshit * cough * Sooooo, we're sitting there having dinner one night and the subject inevitably comes up:
She (dropping the hint): 'You know, I was talking with [someone] today, and she said that they have really great merchandise at The Shane Company, I think we should go...'
Me (looking up with a mouthful of Ramen, unaware): 'Hmph?'
She: 'Yes, it looks like they are open until 8, well it's settled then.'
Me (thankful that whatever it is is settled): 'Mowkay.'
So, half an hour later I am driving around in the snow, trying to find The Shane Company. 'Don't worry, I'll leave my purse in the car', she says. Now somehow we managed to buy her (our) first cat, who is still living with us by the way, while her purse was still in the car, but I don't remember this until much later - which is a pity because it would have made for great foreshadowing. We find The Shane Company. I park. We walk in, and are greeted with a dazzling display of diamonds adorning any kind of jewelry that you would ever want to wear.
Sales girl: 'Can I help you?'
The wife (giving the sales girl a certain, secret look): 'Oh... We're just looking...'
Sales girl (knowingly): 'Come right this way.'
Now, inside my mind I start to wonder, and I begin to piece together what has happened and what is about to happen, but much too slowly to be of any use or to head-off what is, at this point, absolutely certain to happen.
Future wife: (turning around, eyes beaming): 'Don't you looove it??'
Sales girl: 'That's a quality diamond right there Hammy. Hey, have you heard about the four C's?'
Future wife (fighting back a little dance of joy, and holding the ring up high, admiring it from every angle): 'Tell us about the four C's Carol!!'
Me (in my head): 'Carol, who's Ca --- Oh.'
Carol: 'Well, I'm glad you asked, the four C's are Color, Clarity, Blah, and blah blah blah blah.'
Carol blah blah blah'd for about an hour and a half, after which I found myself sitting in the car with a happy wife and no money spent. Awesome. We went home, and all seemed well. Then the next day we were sitting around after dinner, and she was all of a sudden unhappy. I can tell because she always makes these little over-obvious sighs which are designed to get me to look up from whatever I am doing and ask 'What's wrong honey?', at which point she will usually say something that is long, agonizing, and can't be solved by a man. It's usually something like she has this friend, and this friend said something insensitive to her other friend. So now her other friend isn't talking to the first friend, but the first friend doesn't know, and there's this party next week, and she couldn't possibly invite them both, and blah and blah and omg, I need another beer. Viva la penis, that's all I gotta say.
Anyway, she sighs, and sighs again, and then a third time, so I know I have to bite:
Me (perfectly disguised dread): 'Is something wrong honey?' *cringe *
Her: 'I just, I just hope no one else gets that ring, I love it soooo much.'
Me (in my head): 'Ring? What ring?'
Me (dismissive): 'Oh, I'm sure it will all be okay honey...'
Her: 'I didn't see anything else I liked, and they only had one.'
Me (dawning): 'Yeah, ummm, it sure was pretty.'
Me (in my head): 'Who the f--- was that sales girl again?'
Her (distraught): ...
So needless to say, I go back to The Shane Company the next day, find Kristi or Carlie or whatever the hell her name is, and say 'Hi, what was that one ring again?'. And she knows, and do you know what? I knew that she would know, because of that secret-look thing that went on earlier in the week. I had half-fancied that her and my future wife would hook up in some torrid affair before my bedroom eyes, but now I understood exactly what that secret look meant. It meant: 'Help me part my man from his money'. And thus she did, swiftly and efficiently, and for my $$$$$ (ouch) I got to leave with a teeny little piece of metal and rock, smaller than a quarter, dressed up nicely in a little felt box. Hoo-freaking-ray.
The days went by, and my wife seemed to grow more distant, more despondant, and more irritable by the day. I decided that, if I was going to propose to her before she garnished my dinner with rat poison, that I would have to do it rather quickly. So I picked a night in late November, and as we sat watching television I brought it up. Now, I had heard of spectacular proposals before. Proposals where people went up together in hot air balloons and when flying over a particular ridge at just the break of day the guy had his idiot friends light a bunch of hay bales on fire in the middle of a field that spelled out 'WILL YOU MARRY ME?' The guy was thrown in jail, his friends fined $1000 each, but she did say yes, and I bet the memory is worth more to them than any misdemeanors on his record. Some people had proposed at a baseball game on TV, some people at a nice dinner out with an acapella song, some people didn't have the guts for these kinds of proposals, but they nonetheless found a way to make that night special for their bride-to-be.
So I start scheming. Maybe I could get her to take a hot air balloon ride. Maybe I could sing at a piano bar. Maybe we could just go for a nice walk, and at the right moment I could pop the question. I try to be subtle. Don't want to tip my hand...
Me: 'So, uhh, what do you feel like doing tonight?'
Her (laying on the couch, mad): 'I'm doing it.'
TV Guy: 'Looks like we're in for more chills tonight, with lows reaching the minus teens...'
Me: 'How about we go for a walk and look at Christmas lights?'
Her: 'No.'
TV Girl: 'That's right yah. Time to plug in those cars, yah, for shooore.' <--Editorial note: They don't mean electric cars. In some parts of Minnesota it gets so cold that on a chilly morning, if you go outside to start your car then the sudden temperature change in the engine block will actually crack the steel. Plugging in your car keeps the engine block warm. How fucked up is this?
Me: 'Errkay, umm. Hey, we could go out for a nice dinner instead of cooking tonight.'
Her: 'I already thawed hamburger.'
TV Guy (nodding): 'Ooh, yah, that's a good idea there Margey.'
Me: 'Well, is there anything you would like to do other than -'
Her: 'I want to go to K-Mart and get a new litter box.'
TV Girl (nodding back): 'Ooh yah.'
Me (trying to work this out somehow): 'Errkay. . . '
So we go to Kmart, and before walking in we are greeted by a bell-ringer (Salvation Army), and my wife sticks out her hand (as is custom) for my spare change to put in the pot. Actually, what she says is 'Give me something shiney to put in the pot', well, usually, but not this time on account of her mood - which is a pity because that would have been a good time to present the ring. I dig around and hand her what I have. I still have one more chance when we come out of the store though - as she likes to get me both coming and going. She throws my money in the pot and stalks off into the store, very much on a mission for that new cat box. I can't blame her really, the old cat box does smell like ass, and it's not like I'm going to wash it out either. It's a good thing I didn't give her the ring right then, actually, because I would have had to spend the next twenty minutes with a store-bought screw-driver prying open the pot over the objections of the Salvation Army guy.
I check my pocket, for like the fourth time, because inside is an envelope (left the box at home to be more stealthy) with her ring in it. A ring that I paid more for than anything else in my life to that date, and if it falls out of my pocket then I may as well hang myself because I'll be out the money and no other ring will ever do. Losing the ring would be grounds for saying 'screw it', and joining a traveling carnival, really. So I check it again, and it's there, thank God.
She picks out a beauty of a new cat box, and we go to the register. I fidget more. She looks back at me kind of annoyed (I later learn that she thinks I am shoplifting gum or something, as I am nervously feeling around in my pockets and trying to open the envelope with one hand, unbeknownst to her). And we start to walk out. The bare ring is in hand now, and I am walking right behind her. And she doesn't stop at the bell ringer for some reason. She usually can't pass up a bell ringer with a little pot, so this is unusual for her. She didn't stop at the bloody bell ringer, now what the hell am I supposed to do? My big plan is ruined!
In a panic I chase her into the parking lot a few steps and call out to her 'Hey, I've got something shiney for the pot!' And she turns around really kind of pissed off that I am delaying our departure, because as I said before, it's buttfucking cold out. 'Fine.' she says, and starts to grab for my hand as I get down on one knee, in the parking lot of the K-Mart with the ever-present ice crystals floating in the air, illuminated by the headlights of on-coming K-Mart shoppers - who pause just briefly to witness this event. '[Name of future wife], Will you marry me?' I ask. And my hands are shaking from the cold, as my gloves are off and my arms are stretched into the air. And the knee of my jeans is stuck to the ice on the asphalt of the parking lot on account of the cold, and she looks at me and smiles for the first time in days, and says 'Yes'. Thank God.
We left the cat box in the middle of the parking lot by accident, but we went back for it. A cat box is, after all, a cat box. Then went back home and finished the news, only it was a happier news this time:
TV Girl: 'Ooh, looks like it's going to warm up a bit next week.'
TV Guy: 'Yah Margey, into the teens it looks like, yah.'
TV Girl: 'Are we going to be looking at some thunder-snow then there?'
TV Guy: 'Ooh yeah, could be thunder-snow, for shooore, yah.'
TV Girl (nodding): 'Best stay in side then, yah.'
TV Guy (nodding back): 'Ooh, yah.'
Me: 'What the hell is thunder-snow?'
Future-wife (content): 'It doesn't matter.'
It's November, and it's buttfucking cold. No, not kind of cold, not really cold, it's geniune, wholesale, buttfucking cold because we're in Minnesota in the winter time, and they've been 'having a bit of a cold front moving in'. Editorial note: This means that it might climb into single digits for the high today, but with the wind-chill it will really be about -40.
News anchor: 'It's gonna be a little chilly today, for shooore!'
Co-anchor: 'Oooh yah, for shooore. Better button up those little ones, yah!'
News anchor: 'That's right, we're looking at an intra-day high of seven today, but the wind-chill means that any bare skin will die within a few minutes of exposure!'
Co-anchor: 'Yah, yah, scarves and hats at the bus stop this morning kids!'
News Anchor (nodding): 'Ooh, yah, that's a good idea Margey'
Co-anchor (nodding): 'Ooh yah.'
News Anchor (nodding back): 'Yah.'
Why are we in Minnesota you ask? Why is anyone in Minnesota you ask? That's a very good question, and the latter had something to do with even the Native Americans not wanting it, and the former to do with, as my father put it, 'chasing that skirt cross-country'. Apparently, if you're from northern Scandanavia, then Minnesota is pretty good living, so the Scandanavians decided to move in, and no one felt the need to stop them. Okay, I might be over-simplifying American immigration a tad, but in a nutshell that's what happened. So yah, you best button up those little ones, yah.
So the wife-to-be had been hinting that she was interested in tying the knot, so to speak. Our coffee table had begun to be taken over with magazines from Ben Bridge, Zales, The Shane Company, and other diamond hawkers who seem to hold some mystical power over the psyche of a woman which convinces them that something that a criminal dug out of the mud is somehow worth two months of your salary. * cough * whataloadofshit * cough * Sooooo, we're sitting there having dinner one night and the subject inevitably comes up:
She (dropping the hint): 'You know, I was talking with [someone] today, and she said that they have really great merchandise at The Shane Company, I think we should go...'
Me (looking up with a mouthful of Ramen, unaware): 'Hmph?'
She: 'Yes, it looks like they are open until 8, well it's settled then.'
Me (thankful that whatever it is is settled): 'Mowkay.'
So, half an hour later I am driving around in the snow, trying to find The Shane Company. 'Don't worry, I'll leave my purse in the car', she says. Now somehow we managed to buy her (our) first cat, who is still living with us by the way, while her purse was still in the car, but I don't remember this until much later - which is a pity because it would have made for great foreshadowing. We find The Shane Company. I park. We walk in, and are greeted with a dazzling display of diamonds adorning any kind of jewelry that you would ever want to wear.
Sales girl: 'Can I help you?'
The wife (giving the sales girl a certain, secret look): 'Oh... We're just looking...'
Sales girl (knowingly): 'Come right this way.'
Now, inside my mind I start to wonder, and I begin to piece together what has happened and what is about to happen, but much too slowly to be of any use or to head-off what is, at this point, absolutely certain to happen.
Future wife: (turning around, eyes beaming): 'Don't you looove it??'
Sales girl: 'That's a quality diamond right there Hammy. Hey, have you heard about the four C's?'
Future wife (fighting back a little dance of joy, and holding the ring up high, admiring it from every angle): 'Tell us about the four C's Carol!!'
Me (in my head): 'Carol, who's Ca --- Oh.'
Carol: 'Well, I'm glad you asked, the four C's are Color, Clarity, Blah, and blah blah blah blah.'
Carol blah blah blah'd for about an hour and a half, after which I found myself sitting in the car with a happy wife and no money spent. Awesome. We went home, and all seemed well. Then the next day we were sitting around after dinner, and she was all of a sudden unhappy. I can tell because she always makes these little over-obvious sighs which are designed to get me to look up from whatever I am doing and ask 'What's wrong honey?', at which point she will usually say something that is long, agonizing, and can't be solved by a man. It's usually something like she has this friend, and this friend said something insensitive to her other friend. So now her other friend isn't talking to the first friend, but the first friend doesn't know, and there's this party next week, and she couldn't possibly invite them both, and blah and blah and omg, I need another beer. Viva la penis, that's all I gotta say.
Anyway, she sighs, and sighs again, and then a third time, so I know I have to bite:
Me (perfectly disguised dread): 'Is something wrong honey?' *cringe *
Her: 'I just, I just hope no one else gets that ring, I love it soooo much.'
Me (in my head): 'Ring? What ring?'
Me (dismissive): 'Oh, I'm sure it will all be okay honey...'
Her: 'I didn't see anything else I liked, and they only had one.'
Me (dawning): 'Yeah, ummm, it sure was pretty.'
Me (in my head): 'Who the f--- was that sales girl again?'
Her (distraught): ...
So needless to say, I go back to The Shane Company the next day, find Kristi or Carlie or whatever the hell her name is, and say 'Hi, what was that one ring again?'. And she knows, and do you know what? I knew that she would know, because of that secret-look thing that went on earlier in the week. I had half-fancied that her and my future wife would hook up in some torrid affair before my bedroom eyes, but now I understood exactly what that secret look meant. It meant: 'Help me part my man from his money'. And thus she did, swiftly and efficiently, and for my $$$$$ (ouch) I got to leave with a teeny little piece of metal and rock, smaller than a quarter, dressed up nicely in a little felt box. Hoo-freaking-ray.
The days went by, and my wife seemed to grow more distant, more despondant, and more irritable by the day. I decided that, if I was going to propose to her before she garnished my dinner with rat poison, that I would have to do it rather quickly. So I picked a night in late November, and as we sat watching television I brought it up. Now, I had heard of spectacular proposals before. Proposals where people went up together in hot air balloons and when flying over a particular ridge at just the break of day the guy had his idiot friends light a bunch of hay bales on fire in the middle of a field that spelled out 'WILL YOU MARRY ME?' The guy was thrown in jail, his friends fined $1000 each, but she did say yes, and I bet the memory is worth more to them than any misdemeanors on his record. Some people had proposed at a baseball game on TV, some people at a nice dinner out with an acapella song, some people didn't have the guts for these kinds of proposals, but they nonetheless found a way to make that night special for their bride-to-be.
So I start scheming. Maybe I could get her to take a hot air balloon ride. Maybe I could sing at a piano bar. Maybe we could just go for a nice walk, and at the right moment I could pop the question. I try to be subtle. Don't want to tip my hand...
Me: 'So, uhh, what do you feel like doing tonight?'
Her (laying on the couch, mad): 'I'm doing it.'
TV Guy: 'Looks like we're in for more chills tonight, with lows reaching the minus teens...'
Me: 'How about we go for a walk and look at Christmas lights?'
Her: 'No.'
TV Girl: 'That's right yah. Time to plug in those cars, yah, for shooore.' <--Editorial note: They don't mean electric cars. In some parts of Minnesota it gets so cold that on a chilly morning, if you go outside to start your car then the sudden temperature change in the engine block will actually crack the steel. Plugging in your car keeps the engine block warm. How fucked up is this?
Me: 'Errkay, umm. Hey, we could go out for a nice dinner instead of cooking tonight.'
Her: 'I already thawed hamburger.'
TV Guy (nodding): 'Ooh, yah, that's a good idea there Margey.'
Me: 'Well, is there anything you would like to do other than -'
Her: 'I want to go to K-Mart and get a new litter box.'
TV Girl (nodding back): 'Ooh yah.'
Me (trying to work this out somehow): 'Errkay. . . '
So we go to Kmart, and before walking in we are greeted by a bell-ringer (Salvation Army), and my wife sticks out her hand (as is custom) for my spare change to put in the pot. Actually, what she says is 'Give me something shiney to put in the pot', well, usually, but not this time on account of her mood - which is a pity because that would have been a good time to present the ring. I dig around and hand her what I have. I still have one more chance when we come out of the store though - as she likes to get me both coming and going. She throws my money in the pot and stalks off into the store, very much on a mission for that new cat box. I can't blame her really, the old cat box does smell like ass, and it's not like I'm going to wash it out either. It's a good thing I didn't give her the ring right then, actually, because I would have had to spend the next twenty minutes with a store-bought screw-driver prying open the pot over the objections of the Salvation Army guy.
I check my pocket, for like the fourth time, because inside is an envelope (left the box at home to be more stealthy) with her ring in it. A ring that I paid more for than anything else in my life to that date, and if it falls out of my pocket then I may as well hang myself because I'll be out the money and no other ring will ever do. Losing the ring would be grounds for saying 'screw it', and joining a traveling carnival, really. So I check it again, and it's there, thank God.
She picks out a beauty of a new cat box, and we go to the register. I fidget more. She looks back at me kind of annoyed (I later learn that she thinks I am shoplifting gum or something, as I am nervously feeling around in my pockets and trying to open the envelope with one hand, unbeknownst to her). And we start to walk out. The bare ring is in hand now, and I am walking right behind her. And she doesn't stop at the bell ringer for some reason. She usually can't pass up a bell ringer with a little pot, so this is unusual for her. She didn't stop at the bloody bell ringer, now what the hell am I supposed to do? My big plan is ruined!
In a panic I chase her into the parking lot a few steps and call out to her 'Hey, I've got something shiney for the pot!' And she turns around really kind of pissed off that I am delaying our departure, because as I said before, it's buttfucking cold out. 'Fine.' she says, and starts to grab for my hand as I get down on one knee, in the parking lot of the K-Mart with the ever-present ice crystals floating in the air, illuminated by the headlights of on-coming K-Mart shoppers - who pause just briefly to witness this event. '[Name of future wife], Will you marry me?' I ask. And my hands are shaking from the cold, as my gloves are off and my arms are stretched into the air. And the knee of my jeans is stuck to the ice on the asphalt of the parking lot on account of the cold, and she looks at me and smiles for the first time in days, and says 'Yes'. Thank God.
We left the cat box in the middle of the parking lot by accident, but we went back for it. A cat box is, after all, a cat box. Then went back home and finished the news, only it was a happier news this time:
TV Girl: 'Ooh, looks like it's going to warm up a bit next week.'
TV Guy: 'Yah Margey, into the teens it looks like, yah.'
TV Girl: 'Are we going to be looking at some thunder-snow then there?'
TV Guy: 'Ooh yeah, could be thunder-snow, for shooore, yah.'
TV Girl (nodding): 'Best stay in side then, yah.'
TV Guy (nodding back): 'Ooh, yah.'
Me: 'What the hell is thunder-snow?'
Future-wife (content): 'It doesn't matter.'
Sunday, June 8, 2008
In Retrospect
http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/06/07/thong.bandits.ap/index.html
Now, having lived in what basically amounted to an immigrant housing project for the last couple years of college, I, at the risk of stereotyping, have found Hispanic people living in America to be fun, easy going, and resourceful (generally speaking). Based on my limited experience I would say that they, as a whole, usually don't take themselves too seriously, and they can often figure out how to do something cheaper, faster, and better than you would ordinarily think possible.
Case in point - one time I had a car that I needed to get emissions testing done for. It was a mess of a car (Pontiac Sunbird - only slightly less trouble than the Fiero was), and it had several issues in the engine department and wouldn't pass inspection for anything. I took it to a local shop where the guy started listing off what would need doing - adjust the idle, replace some vacuum tubing, something was up with the distributor, etc, etc.
Total cost: $Hundreds
He can fit me in: Monday
Being a poor teenager, and discouraged at this news, I decided to look around for alternatives. I needed to pass emissions to be able to drive my car, after all, and there was no way I could meet that bill for at least a few months. Now, why a seven-yr old coupe needs to pass emissions and a mostly-empty diesel-spewing bus doesn't is beyond me, but that's a separate rant. After driving around for a while I saw a non-descript service station of sorts that se habla'd Espanol, and so I decided to investigate. Pablo (yes, he really was named Pablo) came out with his friend (whose name I do not recall), and looked over the car with his bud and then came over to me and said something like this (and I am dead serious here):
Pablo: 'Okay, so we feex the car like theees, okay. You leeesin now.'
Me: 'Si.'
Pablo: 'I am going to file theeese connektors, si?'
Me: 'Si.'
Pablo: 'And then my essay over there, he eez going to [something, I don't know].'
Me (Well, it sounded like car talk): 'Si.'
Pablo: 'And then I take this screw, and tweeeest it in the tubing, si?'
Me: 'Si.'
Pablo: 'Don't let the inspector guy see this screw, or you will be fucked, si?'
Me: 'Si. Si. Cuanto es?'
Pablo: '¿Qué? '
Me (embarassed): 'Uhh, sorry, umm.. How much will it be, and when can you guys do the work?'
Pablo: 'Eet's already done essay, eets $20.'
And the inspectors never found the screw, or any of the other 'modifications' made in the engine, and I passed emissions, and all was well. For $20! Can you beat that?!
And there are other examples I could give where I have seen or been a part of schemes that involved similar 'simplification' of ordinarily complex tasks - from buying beer without ID to landscaping tricks to SAT preparation. So it strikes me as a bit, well, odd that the story above ever came to pass. In other words, what the hell were they thinking?
I figure that the conversation must have gone wrong somewhere along the line, and that's how these two ended up in jail hoping to hell that their fellow inmates don't discover that they like to dress in women's underwear. Maybe the conversation went something like this:
Guy #1: 'Man, essay, I could reeeelly go for some cervezas right now.'
Guy #2: 'Yeah man, but we don't got no money, man.'
Guy #1: 'I don't get paid until Wednesday man, what are we going to do?'
Guy #2: 'Hey man, I got a peestola, we could go rob the store and then get some beers after, man.'
Guy #1: 'Yeah, we could do that. But how will we disguise ourselves, essay?'
Guy #2: 'We could wear your seeester's panties on our faces!(?)'
Guy #1: 'Yeah man, that sounds like a good idea!' <---- Here's where it must have gone wrong.
Guy #2: 'Let's go.'
Like it or not, the conversation had to go something like that. Maybe we could substitute baby formula and hard times for beers and carelessness, but at some point the panties had to be brought up and agreed upon. Now, as much as I am a fan of thongs (God bless them), I would not try to conceal my face with one - well, unless maybe it was some kind of kinky litt --- you know what, I'll finish that thought privately.... Anyway, if I was forced to choose underwear for the job then I would probably cut eye holes in some granny panties and just go for it - but you can't possibly be constrained to underwear as your only concealment option right? I get if you're not a regular criminal (good for you!) and as such don't own a couple ski masks, but what about hankerchiefs? What about shop rags? What about rolling up a turtleneck and putting on a hat? What about a Halloween mask? What about wrapping an ace-bandage around your head - ala the mummy? What about a combination of scratch and sniff stickers and sun-glasses? What about using a goddamned shopping bag and cutting eye-holes in it - you could probably even find one of those in the parking lot or in the dumpster outside. Something had to be better than thongs, right guys? I mean, come on... Well... I guess everything gets clearer in retrospect, doesn't it? ;)
Now, having lived in what basically amounted to an immigrant housing project for the last couple years of college, I, at the risk of stereotyping, have found Hispanic people living in America to be fun, easy going, and resourceful (generally speaking). Based on my limited experience I would say that they, as a whole, usually don't take themselves too seriously, and they can often figure out how to do something cheaper, faster, and better than you would ordinarily think possible.
Case in point - one time I had a car that I needed to get emissions testing done for. It was a mess of a car (Pontiac Sunbird - only slightly less trouble than the Fiero was), and it had several issues in the engine department and wouldn't pass inspection for anything. I took it to a local shop where the guy started listing off what would need doing - adjust the idle, replace some vacuum tubing, something was up with the distributor, etc, etc.
Total cost: $Hundreds
He can fit me in: Monday
Being a poor teenager, and discouraged at this news, I decided to look around for alternatives. I needed to pass emissions to be able to drive my car, after all, and there was no way I could meet that bill for at least a few months. Now, why a seven-yr old coupe needs to pass emissions and a mostly-empty diesel-spewing bus doesn't is beyond me, but that's a separate rant. After driving around for a while I saw a non-descript service station of sorts that se habla'd Espanol, and so I decided to investigate. Pablo (yes, he really was named Pablo) came out with his friend (whose name I do not recall), and looked over the car with his bud and then came over to me and said something like this (and I am dead serious here):
Pablo: 'Okay, so we feex the car like theees, okay. You leeesin now.'
Me: 'Si.'
Pablo: 'I am going to file theeese connektors, si?'
Me: 'Si.'
Pablo: 'And then my essay over there, he eez going to [something, I don't know].'
Me (Well, it sounded like car talk): 'Si.'
Pablo: 'And then I take this screw, and tweeeest it in the tubing, si?'
Me: 'Si.'
Pablo: 'Don't let the inspector guy see this screw, or you will be fucked, si?'
Me: 'Si. Si. Cuanto es?'
Pablo: '¿Qué? '
Me (embarassed): 'Uhh, sorry, umm.. How much will it be, and when can you guys do the work?'
Pablo: 'Eet's already done essay, eets $20.'
And the inspectors never found the screw, or any of the other 'modifications' made in the engine, and I passed emissions, and all was well. For $20! Can you beat that?!
And there are other examples I could give where I have seen or been a part of schemes that involved similar 'simplification' of ordinarily complex tasks - from buying beer without ID to landscaping tricks to SAT preparation. So it strikes me as a bit, well, odd that the story above ever came to pass. In other words, what the hell were they thinking?
I figure that the conversation must have gone wrong somewhere along the line, and that's how these two ended up in jail hoping to hell that their fellow inmates don't discover that they like to dress in women's underwear. Maybe the conversation went something like this:
Guy #1: 'Man, essay, I could reeeelly go for some cervezas right now.'
Guy #2: 'Yeah man, but we don't got no money, man.'
Guy #1: 'I don't get paid until Wednesday man, what are we going to do?'
Guy #2: 'Hey man, I got a peestola, we could go rob the store and then get some beers after, man.'
Guy #1: 'Yeah, we could do that. But how will we disguise ourselves, essay?'
Guy #2: 'We could wear your seeester's panties on our faces!(?)'
Guy #1: 'Yeah man, that sounds like a good idea!' <---- Here's where it must have gone wrong.
Guy #2: 'Let's go.'
Like it or not, the conversation had to go something like that. Maybe we could substitute baby formula and hard times for beers and carelessness, but at some point the panties had to be brought up and agreed upon. Now, as much as I am a fan of thongs (God bless them), I would not try to conceal my face with one - well, unless maybe it was some kind of kinky litt --- you know what, I'll finish that thought privately.... Anyway, if I was forced to choose underwear for the job then I would probably cut eye holes in some granny panties and just go for it - but you can't possibly be constrained to underwear as your only concealment option right? I get if you're not a regular criminal (good for you!) and as such don't own a couple ski masks, but what about hankerchiefs? What about shop rags? What about rolling up a turtleneck and putting on a hat? What about a Halloween mask? What about wrapping an ace-bandage around your head - ala the mummy? What about a combination of scratch and sniff stickers and sun-glasses? What about using a goddamned shopping bag and cutting eye-holes in it - you could probably even find one of those in the parking lot or in the dumpster outside. Something had to be better than thongs, right guys? I mean, come on... Well... I guess everything gets clearer in retrospect, doesn't it? ;)
Sunday, May 18, 2008
What to Expect When You're Expecting
No, we're not expecting. But we have been twice before. When I say 'we', I mean 'she' - because I had no idea what to expect. She had books to help her along the way. She had friends who had been expecting before. I had nothing, and as a result my journey into 'expecting' was much like being bandied about the head with an axe-handle. It was painful, disorienting, and I hoped that it would soon stop. If I were to write a book for guys, about what to expect when you're expecting, then they would never read it - 'cause I mean come on, we're guys, but if I were to make some cliff notes on the book in an effort to help prepare the average guy for what to expect, then they would be as follows:
1) Strange books will begin to appear on your coffee table. Lots of them. Hundreds of dollars worth of books - and she will want you to read them along with her. You will want to resist this - but not to the point of appearing uninvolved or disinterested. Some books have excrutiating details in them which are best left to the doctors and the babies, and some are little journal-type things that you write in (i.e. Day 63: I thought I felt you kick today, but it turned out that it was just those fajitas we had last night. I realize that you aren't capable of kicking me yet, but you are such a little miracle and blah, and blah, and blah.) One possible compromise is to have her read the book aloud to you in the evenings while you're sipping your beer. If she resists, then remind her that studies show that babies are comforted by their mothers voice while in the womb and that ears begin to form at only 8 weeks into pregnancy, and wouldn't-this-be-a-great-family-bonding-thing-for-all-of-you? :) Then all you have to do is try to not grimance when she announces rather proudly that her mucus plug is about to come in. Tip: If she thinks that you are disinterested then you can save yourself by putting your ear to her stomach and listening to the fajitas digesting for a few minutes. Don't ask me why.
2) She will begin 'nesting' if she hasn't already. You thought the books were expensive? Having a baby is the world's best reason to go on a shopping spree - and it never ends! She will buy things. A lot of things. Things that the child will have no use for until they are three years old. Things that are cute. Things that are on sale. Things that her friends thought were cute. Things that you kind of need, but that could be put off for another 6 months easily. She will buy two of some things in case the baby likes one of them better. Then there will probably be something called a baby registry too, where all of her friends can join in the excitement and buy multiple copies of things that the baby will have no interest in. Take heart - at least the financial strain will be spread around somewhat. There's really no way to stop this without appearing to be the world's biggest prick, so my advice is just to plan ahead and let it happen and defend as much of your territory as possible. If you're not having the baby for another six months, then you don't need to have the car seat in the back of your car just in case. Did she get an inflatable kiddie pool on sale? Don't blow it up yet, just smile and compliment her shopping ability, and then stick it in the garage.
3) She will change. Physically, obviously, but that's easily dealt with by using the phrase: 'You're just glowing honey, and it's the greatest thing ever that you can bring our child into this world.' Just repeat it at least three times out loud, right now, and remember it. That phrase will save you from just about any arguments or drama about what's happening with her body - and if you're convincing enough, then you'll score some bonus 'good daddy' points out of the gate. Trust me, those are more easily earned now rather than later. Emotionally speaking she will also change, and could have umm.. mood swings.. and cravings.. It's kinda fun waking up not knowing whether the bacon and eggs that you made her for breakfast will make you a star for the day or whether you'll be the devil's spawn who is making her fat (insert glowing statement here) and then she'll start crying and call her friend to bitch about this and all of the other stupid things that you've done during this trimester. Cravings are handled easily enough, you just have to make sure that you get enough of whatever it is that she wants. Think one pint of Ben & Jerry's is enough? Think again. Get three. Worried about waste? Over a $3 pint of ice cream? When you now own two changing tables that go for $400 a pop? Get real. I once had to drag my ass out of bed at midnight (so cliche', but I'm serious) to go find a store that was still open and that had peach yogurt and pink lady apples (nothing else would do). I filled the damn shopping basket after that. Fool me once.
4) She will become, uhh, irrational at times. Some of this is the fault of the books from #1 - at least one of which outlaws all sugar while pregnant and suggests that you reward yourself with an organic fruit-juice-sweetened cookie no more than once a week if you just can't live without it. Of all the tripe to put in a pregnancy book. She may read things like this (unbeknownst to you), second-guess herself, try, fail, and cry, at which point you will need to step up and do something or you risk being the insensitive jerk who ruined her life. Remind her that her mother smoked, drank, and probably ate her weight in doughnuts while she was in the womb and look how beautiful and smart she turned out (insert glowing statement from #3 here - are you seeing how useful it is yet?). You won't be able to fight some of the irrationality though, as it tends to resist reason very well - such as why the spare room upstairs, which has had fine white walls for the last five years suddenly needs to be a different color for the baby. It's for the baby. The baby needs a yellow nursery. The baby needs it. Don't try reasoning through this; don't try fighting back. Yes, it's true that the baby likely wont be able to appreciate interior decorating for quite some time, yes it's true that they may prefer white to yellow, it's almost certainly true that the room doesn't need to be painted right now - but you won't win this one. Just suck it up, go to Home Depot, and get the paint that she picked out. Reward yourself with a new power tool while you're there - and if you get called on it, then say it's for the baby. A new router? Say it's for engraving the baby's name on the crib or the changing table or something. New saw? Well, you need it for the detail work on the rocking horse you were planning on surprising her with. You know.
5) A lot of books say that she may become very horny during the second trimester. Heh. I wouldn't bank on that. . .
Anyway, if you can weather the storm then when you get to the hospital and witness the miracle of birth you will be greatly rewarded. Cherish the arrival of the baby. Cherish the look on your wife's face as the baby is presented to her. Cherish the look on your wife's face as you tell her that you forgot to put the car seat in the back of the car that you drove to the hospital. Cherish the urine as it drips from your chin, because soon this little person will call you 'dada' and then it's all over. :)
That's it, in a nutshell, hope it helps!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Away with the Circus
I was a carnie once, I'll admit it. Briefly. This unfortunate turn of events was due to the fact that I needed money prior to taking off for college, and I had just recently been fired from my prior job for 'horse play', whatever that is :).
So, at my Dad's insistence, I read through the paper to find myself a job for the last few weeks of summer before school started. I think the ad went something like this:
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$
$ RIDE OPERATORS WANTED, NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY !!
$
$ Must speak and understand English, must be able to lift 50 lbs.
$
$ Get started TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
$
$ Show up on Friday at the field on 5th and Vine before 9am.
$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
And as you might have guessed from their rather stringent set of requirements, this turned out to be quite a fascinating and dynamic organization to become a part of. I showed up at 8:30 am on Friday, and stood next to a couple of other sorry-looking individuals and surveyed the once-vacant lot - which now seemed to be taken over by trailers, tents, and other assorted vehicles and contraptions that, when all taken in during the early morning fog, made this seem more like the set of a Stephen King movie rather than a place to bring the family. It was a chilly morning, but I waited. At about 9:20 a girl(?) came walking up to us and simply said (gruffly) 'CommON', and led us all into the maze of trailers that we had been staring at. The trail of smoke left by her cigar made it easy to follow her into the mist, and she sat us all down under a tent and went on.
Carnie Girl (handing us paper): 'Fill these out.'
Us (fumbling around for pens or whatever): ...
Carnie Girl: 'Oh Jesus Christ, CommON!'
From behind the trailer: 'Bev, where's my shorts!?'
Carnie Girl: 'I TOLL you I don't know, get-the-hell-outta my trailer!!'
Us (scribbling now): ...?
Bev (I guess): 'Don't you mind that now, y'all can fill those out later, CommON!'
Bev (mumbling): 'Somebitch better notta got me pregnant.'
One of us (not me): 'Is there going to be an interview, or.. ?'
Bev (walking off): 'CommON I SAID!'
And Bev walked us around to the various contraptions that were being set up in the field, and started pointing her cigar at them and calling out names (sort of). 'Blondie' she said, gesturing towards the Haunted House 'You're over there.' 'Freckles, on the canoe ride'. 'Sweet cheeks' she said, looking at me, 'You're on the teacups'. 'But I...' I started, 'CommON and git!' she said, and I scurried over to the ride and tried to figure out where to stand so that I at least looked like I knew what I was doing. 'I'll be back' she barked, and stomped her way off to one of the tents behind the line of trailers.
I stood in place, not daring to move, and looked over at the other new carnies-to-be. No one said anything, but it was easy to see by their similarly rigid stances that the the three of us had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into. 'Up time!' I heard Bev grunting, as she rounded the line of trailers again. 'Up time!' she shouted, kicking the sides of the trailers as she went, causing them to shake back and forth to wake their occupants. 'UP TIME!' One by one a small herd of hung-over, red-vested carnies emerged from their trailers and went almost robotically to their assigned attractions. There would be no introductions. Bev handed each of the three of us a not-so-clean red vest, and a few words of encouragement 'Don't go making trouble'.
Me (putting on my vest): 'So umm.. How do you work the ride?'
Bev (incredulous, pointing to some buttons): 'Green means go, Red means stop. You know your colors right?'
Me: 'Err, yeah. So um.. What do I do if someone falls off or gets hurt or. . .'
Bev: 'Are you Makein TROUBLE?!'
Me (cowering): 'No!'
Bev: 'Look, there's only one thing you gotta know. Each cup has a weight limit of 140 pounds. Anything more than that, and it goes bad. Keep the fat fucks off it.'
Me (in my head): How the hell am I supposed to know how much someone weighs just by looking? I mean, what does a group of three 8 year-olds weigh? I better err on the side of caution here. . .
Me: (in my outside voice, with a thumbs up): 'You got it boss.'
Bev (handing me a towel): 'Here's your towel.'
Me: 'Umm (?)'
Bev (walking off, over her shoulder): 'You'll figger it.'
I seem to be the only one with a towel. Blondie and freckles didn't get towels. Hm. Before I had time to ponder this any further, people began making their way down the midway and out into the field to survey the shoddily-maintained death-tra- I mean, attractions. I didn't actually see them come down the midway, per se, I just heard the carnies start shouting at them as the walked - 'come on and who's gonna win - who's a winner here - you a winner sir? Step riiiight up!' My first customers were on the way. Two little kids and their mom. Mentally, I play the weight game before they arrive.
Two little kids: maybe 60 or 70 pounds total
Mom: Ugh. 200? I don't know.
I collect their tickets, pull back the chain on the corral, and they mooooove on to the teacup floor. 'Excuse me ma'am', I say, as she goes to hand me her tickets better think of something fast - think-think-think!, 'but this ride is just for little kids.' yeah! that's it! you go boy! 'Oh, okay' she gruffs, and I help her kids into the teacup. I push the green button, spin the little suckers around for a few minutes to their sheer delight, and then hit the red button, lead them back to mom, and then they stumble off giggling. 'Okay' I think. This is easy, no sweat! Next comes a family of four - mom and dad didn't even want to get on the stupid teacups - no problem! Gaggle of giggling girls? No problem! An entire cub scout troop? No problem! This ride isn't cool enough for anyone over 12 it seems, so this has been cake walk for the most part.
'Break' I hear from behind me, and turn around to see Bev bending over to get something in the grass at my feet (turns out it was a dime). And I tried not to look, but because I am a guy, I couldn't help it - it was totally involuntary. And I looked, and I saw a thin blue line of fabric popping out along the top of Bev's pants. Underwear. 'Now that's a surprise', I thought to myself, 'I would have figured her for going commando'.
Bev: 'What you lookin at?'
Me: 'Nothing!'
Bev: 'Git! And be back here in 20 minutes, less you want trouble, sweet cheeks!'
Me: 'Okay boss!'
And I take off my vest and scoot off towards the midway, looking for a hamburger or something to eat for lunch. Following the smoke, I find a little shack doing popcorn, hamburgers, and hot dogs with a short line gathering around it. I wait. And someone in a red vest nudges me and points over to a table where there were a bunch of other people, who could only be carnies, gathered. Every single one of them had a hot dog. So... I guess I am getting a hot dog too.
Me: 'One hot dog please.'
They: 'ONE HOT DOG!!!'
They: 'You with the show?'
Me: 'Huh? Err.. yeah. '
They (shaking their head and looking skyward): 'Here ya go.'
I go and sit at the table with all the other carnies, none of whose names I remember, but if you picture a bunch of alcoholic 40-yr olds who look like they spent the last 10 years in prison, then you wouldn't be too far off. The clamor of the midway and the smoke from the grill adds a touch of elegance and sense of occasion to the meal.
From the midway: 'and who's gonna win - who's a winner here - you a winner sir? Step riiiight up!'
Some old Carnie: 'Go git 'em son!!! Booyeah!!!'
Me (trying to be more carnie than I can reasonably pull off): 'Why y'all got hot dogs for anyhows?'
Old Carnie: 'Hot dogs is new on Friday.'
Me: 'So... I mean.. Do they ever get .. old?'
Carnies: (laughter)
Old Carnie (gesturing to the hot dog machine): 'See dat roller up air?'
Me: 'Yeah.'
Old Carnie: 'They load 'er up when we pull into town, and the hot dogs last all week.'
Me (epiphany): 'Ooooohhh, right then.'
Old Carnie: 'No dogs past Sunday, that's the rule. I been here near twenty years, and the only time I ever got sick was on dogs past Sunday.'
Me: 'What about, like, the other people who come here an-'
Old Carnie: 'Hey! Are you tryin' to make trouble?!'
Me (quickly): 'No!'
And I scarf my hot dog, make a mental note to switch to hamburgers on Monday, and scurry back to Bev who looks to be busy instructing the kids on the finer points of riding on my ride.
Bev: 'Heet-up on in there now! Here we go! CommON!'
Me: 'I'm back!'
Bev (pulling some Skoal out of her pocket): 'Great. You got a cigarette? I'll trade ya a dip.'
Me (because I smoked when I was 18): 'Here, just, take it. It's cool.'
Bev (all of a sudden turning nice): 'Well, thanks, they don't let us smoke when we're workin'.'
Bev (pausing to spit on the side of the ride): 'So I make do with this.'
And with that I actually saw Bev smile as she threw off her vest and lit up my cigarette. The cigarette could have easily rested in half a dozen different pockets between her remaining teeth, but she didn't seem to notice my awkward gawking. Then after a short pause and a big drag, she looked at me and said 'see ya.'
So I put my vest back on and stepped up to the ride. More people were coming now, it was a zoo in the afternoon. And across the field I see a mom with three kids coming up. Again, the pre-emptive weight game -
Kids #1 and #2: About 80 lbs I reckon
Kid #3: maybe 100 lbs
Mom: Milf-tastic! She'd fit under the limit with room to spare!
I open the door, take the tickets, and divvy everyone up into their cups, and awaaay we go! And a line forms as everyone is spinning around, and I now realize that I just lost my good excuse for keeping the ride weight under control. Shit. And as the ride ends, and as I say goodbye to Ms. Milf-tastic, we take on more riders, and the line continues to grow. So far so good. And we start/stop and load up again, and this time there is trouble.
Me: 'I'm sorry Ma'am, but this is a ride for little kids.'
300: 'It is not. I saw another mother riding with her kids just a minute ago.'
Me (in my head): I am so, so fucked.
Me (trying to sell it): 'No you didn't.'
300: 'Don't be tellin' me what I saw, and I don't see no sign that sa-'
Me (transformation complete): 'HAY! You tryin' to make TROUBLE?!?'
300 (in utter shock): 'No!'
It worked!! And the ride went on, and no one else in line said shit after that! Awesome! And the day went on without issue, and well into the evening until it was almost time to close down for the day. And then I got me another gaggle of giggling girls. And they were fine, and they climbed in and rode, and as the ride was coming to a stop the cutest among them said 'Hey, can we just go again?' Now, I am a total sucker for cute little girls. I can't help it. Want an ice cream cone? A pony? College tuition? Okay, just smile and blink your eyes at me, that's all it takes, and I'll cave. They need to make a pill for this, obviously. And since the carnival is emptying out, and since no one else is in line, I say 'Sure!', and I spin them again. And a few minutes later the ride comes to a stop, and again she asks 'Hey, can we go just one more time?'
Me (sucker): 'Ohhh, okay.'
Them: 'Woo hoo!'
It's not like anyone is counting my tickets anyway, right? And they spin and spin and spin, and then. for. some. reason. they. want. to. stop. So. we. stop, and they all get out and start heading in fairly random directions and collapse on the grass. No more giggles. Then slowly they regain their feet, and the cute one waves goodbye to me. The littlest one just looks at me and says 'sorry' before scurrying off to join her friends. Sorry? Sorry about what (?), I wonder. And then the smell hits me. And I creep up to the teacup where she had been sitting. And it's everywhere. Looks like it might have been pizza about an hour ago (?). And now I understand what the towel is for. So I get to work cleaning up, and Bev brings me by a bucket of water. 'Come back tomorrow, sweet cheeks' she says, before dropping the bucket and heading off to her trailer for the night.
And I do, and all the rest of that week too, until Thursday rolls around and it's time to pack up. I help with the packing up, and Bev comes over and hands me a wad of cash -
Bev: 'That's for the week. You headin' out with us?'
Me: 'Thanks. I don't think so, I have other-'
Bev (rocking back on her heels and flashing her six sexy teeth): 'Aw come on. You can sleep in my trailer if you don't got none.'
Me (putting it in terms that I think she can understand): 'Thanks really, but I think I'll be movin' on now.'
Bev (pausing to drag on her cigar): 'Arright then. See ya sweet cheeks!'
And then she smacked me on the ass, turned, and walked away.
So, at my Dad's insistence, I read through the paper to find myself a job for the last few weeks of summer before school started. I think the ad went something like this:
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$
$ RIDE OPERATORS WANTED, NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY !!
$
$ Must speak and understand English, must be able to lift 50 lbs.
$
$ Get started TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
$
$ Show up on Friday at the field on 5th and Vine before 9am.
$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
And as you might have guessed from their rather stringent set of requirements, this turned out to be quite a fascinating and dynamic organization to become a part of. I showed up at 8:30 am on Friday, and stood next to a couple of other sorry-looking individuals and surveyed the once-vacant lot - which now seemed to be taken over by trailers, tents, and other assorted vehicles and contraptions that, when all taken in during the early morning fog, made this seem more like the set of a Stephen King movie rather than a place to bring the family. It was a chilly morning, but I waited. At about 9:20 a girl(?) came walking up to us and simply said (gruffly) 'CommON', and led us all into the maze of trailers that we had been staring at. The trail of smoke left by her cigar made it easy to follow her into the mist, and she sat us all down under a tent and went on.
Carnie Girl (handing us paper): 'Fill these out.'
Us (fumbling around for pens or whatever): ...
Carnie Girl: 'Oh Jesus Christ, CommON!'
From behind the trailer: 'Bev, where's my shorts!?'
Carnie Girl: 'I TOLL you I don't know, get-the-hell-outta my trailer!!'
Us (scribbling now): ...?
Bev (I guess): 'Don't you mind that now, y'all can fill those out later, CommON!'
Bev (mumbling): 'Somebitch better notta got me pregnant.'
One of us (not me): 'Is there going to be an interview, or.. ?'
Bev (walking off): 'CommON I SAID!'
And Bev walked us around to the various contraptions that were being set up in the field, and started pointing her cigar at them and calling out names (sort of). 'Blondie' she said, gesturing towards the Haunted House 'You're over there.' 'Freckles, on the canoe ride'. 'Sweet cheeks' she said, looking at me, 'You're on the teacups'. 'But I...' I started, 'CommON and git!' she said, and I scurried over to the ride and tried to figure out where to stand so that I at least looked like I knew what I was doing. 'I'll be back' she barked, and stomped her way off to one of the tents behind the line of trailers.
I stood in place, not daring to move, and looked over at the other new carnies-to-be. No one said anything, but it was easy to see by their similarly rigid stances that the the three of us had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into. 'Up time!' I heard Bev grunting, as she rounded the line of trailers again. 'Up time!' she shouted, kicking the sides of the trailers as she went, causing them to shake back and forth to wake their occupants. 'UP TIME!' One by one a small herd of hung-over, red-vested carnies emerged from their trailers and went almost robotically to their assigned attractions. There would be no introductions. Bev handed each of the three of us a not-so-clean red vest, and a few words of encouragement 'Don't go making trouble'.
Me (putting on my vest): 'So umm.. How do you work the ride?'
Bev (incredulous, pointing to some buttons): 'Green means go, Red means stop. You know your colors right?'
Me: 'Err, yeah. So um.. What do I do if someone falls off or gets hurt or. . .'
Bev: 'Are you Makein TROUBLE?!'
Me (cowering): 'No!'
Bev: 'Look, there's only one thing you gotta know. Each cup has a weight limit of 140 pounds. Anything more than that, and it goes bad. Keep the fat fucks off it.'
Me (in my head): How the hell am I supposed to know how much someone weighs just by looking? I mean, what does a group of three 8 year-olds weigh? I better err on the side of caution here. . .
Me: (in my outside voice, with a thumbs up): 'You got it boss.'
Bev (handing me a towel): 'Here's your towel.'
Me: 'Umm (?)'
Bev (walking off, over her shoulder): 'You'll figger it.'
I seem to be the only one with a towel. Blondie and freckles didn't get towels. Hm. Before I had time to ponder this any further, people began making their way down the midway and out into the field to survey the shoddily-maintained death-tra- I mean, attractions. I didn't actually see them come down the midway, per se, I just heard the carnies start shouting at them as the walked - 'come on and who's gonna win - who's a winner here - you a winner sir? Step riiiight up!' My first customers were on the way. Two little kids and their mom. Mentally, I play the weight game before they arrive.
Two little kids: maybe 60 or 70 pounds total
Mom: Ugh. 200? I don't know.
I collect their tickets, pull back the chain on the corral, and they mooooove on to the teacup floor. 'Excuse me ma'am', I say, as she goes to hand me her tickets better think of something fast - think-think-think!, 'but this ride is just for little kids.' yeah! that's it! you go boy! 'Oh, okay' she gruffs, and I help her kids into the teacup. I push the green button, spin the little suckers around for a few minutes to their sheer delight, and then hit the red button, lead them back to mom, and then they stumble off giggling. 'Okay' I think. This is easy, no sweat! Next comes a family of four - mom and dad didn't even want to get on the stupid teacups - no problem! Gaggle of giggling girls? No problem! An entire cub scout troop? No problem! This ride isn't cool enough for anyone over 12 it seems, so this has been cake walk for the most part.
'Break' I hear from behind me, and turn around to see Bev bending over to get something in the grass at my feet (turns out it was a dime). And I tried not to look, but because I am a guy, I couldn't help it - it was totally involuntary. And I looked, and I saw a thin blue line of fabric popping out along the top of Bev's pants. Underwear. 'Now that's a surprise', I thought to myself, 'I would have figured her for going commando'.
Bev: 'What you lookin at?'
Me: 'Nothing!'
Bev: 'Git! And be back here in 20 minutes, less you want trouble, sweet cheeks!'
Me: 'Okay boss!'
And I take off my vest and scoot off towards the midway, looking for a hamburger or something to eat for lunch. Following the smoke, I find a little shack doing popcorn, hamburgers, and hot dogs with a short line gathering around it. I wait. And someone in a red vest nudges me and points over to a table where there were a bunch of other people, who could only be carnies, gathered. Every single one of them had a hot dog. So... I guess I am getting a hot dog too.
Me: 'One hot dog please.'
They: 'ONE HOT DOG!!!'
They: 'You with the show?'
Me: 'Huh? Err.. yeah. '
They (shaking their head and looking skyward): 'Here ya go.'
I go and sit at the table with all the other carnies, none of whose names I remember, but if you picture a bunch of alcoholic 40-yr olds who look like they spent the last 10 years in prison, then you wouldn't be too far off. The clamor of the midway and the smoke from the grill adds a touch of elegance and sense of occasion to the meal.
From the midway: 'and who's gonna win - who's a winner here - you a winner sir? Step riiiight up!'
Some old Carnie: 'Go git 'em son!!! Booyeah!!!'
Me (trying to be more carnie than I can reasonably pull off): 'Why y'all got hot dogs for anyhows?'
Old Carnie: 'Hot dogs is new on Friday.'
Me: 'So... I mean.. Do they ever get .. old?'
Carnies: (laughter)
Old Carnie (gesturing to the hot dog machine): 'See dat roller up air?'
Me: 'Yeah.'
Old Carnie: 'They load 'er up when we pull into town, and the hot dogs last all week.'
Me (epiphany): 'Ooooohhh, right then.'
Old Carnie: 'No dogs past Sunday, that's the rule. I been here near twenty years, and the only time I ever got sick was on dogs past Sunday.'
Me: 'What about, like, the other people who come here an-'
Old Carnie: 'Hey! Are you tryin' to make trouble?!'
Me (quickly): 'No!'
And I scarf my hot dog, make a mental note to switch to hamburgers on Monday, and scurry back to Bev who looks to be busy instructing the kids on the finer points of riding on my ride.
Bev: 'Heet-up on in there now! Here we go! CommON!'
Me: 'I'm back!'
Bev (pulling some Skoal out of her pocket): 'Great. You got a cigarette? I'll trade ya a dip.'
Me (because I smoked when I was 18): 'Here, just, take it. It's cool.'
Bev (all of a sudden turning nice): 'Well, thanks, they don't let us smoke when we're workin'.'
Bev (pausing to spit on the side of the ride): 'So I make do with this.'
And with that I actually saw Bev smile as she threw off her vest and lit up my cigarette. The cigarette could have easily rested in half a dozen different pockets between her remaining teeth, but she didn't seem to notice my awkward gawking. Then after a short pause and a big drag, she looked at me and said 'see ya.'
So I put my vest back on and stepped up to the ride. More people were coming now, it was a zoo in the afternoon. And across the field I see a mom with three kids coming up. Again, the pre-emptive weight game -
Kids #1 and #2: About 80 lbs I reckon
Kid #3: maybe 100 lbs
Mom: Milf-tastic! She'd fit under the limit with room to spare!
I open the door, take the tickets, and divvy everyone up into their cups, and awaaay we go! And a line forms as everyone is spinning around, and I now realize that I just lost my good excuse for keeping the ride weight under control. Shit. And as the ride ends, and as I say goodbye to Ms. Milf-tastic, we take on more riders, and the line continues to grow. So far so good. And we start/stop and load up again, and this time there is trouble.
Me: 'I'm sorry Ma'am, but this is a ride for little kids.'
300: 'It is not. I saw another mother riding with her kids just a minute ago.'
Me (in my head): I am so, so fucked.
Me (trying to sell it): 'No you didn't.'
300: 'Don't be tellin' me what I saw, and I don't see no sign that sa-'
Me (transformation complete): 'HAY! You tryin' to make TROUBLE?!?'
300 (in utter shock): 'No!'
It worked!! And the ride went on, and no one else in line said shit after that! Awesome! And the day went on without issue, and well into the evening until it was almost time to close down for the day. And then I got me another gaggle of giggling girls. And they were fine, and they climbed in and rode, and as the ride was coming to a stop the cutest among them said 'Hey, can we just go again?' Now, I am a total sucker for cute little girls. I can't help it. Want an ice cream cone? A pony? College tuition? Okay, just smile and blink your eyes at me, that's all it takes, and I'll cave. They need to make a pill for this, obviously. And since the carnival is emptying out, and since no one else is in line, I say 'Sure!', and I spin them again. And a few minutes later the ride comes to a stop, and again she asks 'Hey, can we go just one more time?'
Me (sucker): 'Ohhh, okay.'
Them: 'Woo hoo!'
It's not like anyone is counting my tickets anyway, right? And they spin and spin and spin, and then. for. some. reason. they. want. to. stop. So. we. stop, and they all get out and start heading in fairly random directions and collapse on the grass. No more giggles. Then slowly they regain their feet, and the cute one waves goodbye to me. The littlest one just looks at me and says 'sorry' before scurrying off to join her friends. Sorry? Sorry about what (?), I wonder. And then the smell hits me. And I creep up to the teacup where she had been sitting. And it's everywhere. Looks like it might have been pizza about an hour ago (?). And now I understand what the towel is for. So I get to work cleaning up, and Bev brings me by a bucket of water. 'Come back tomorrow, sweet cheeks' she says, before dropping the bucket and heading off to her trailer for the night.
And I do, and all the rest of that week too, until Thursday rolls around and it's time to pack up. I help with the packing up, and Bev comes over and hands me a wad of cash -
Bev: 'That's for the week. You headin' out with us?'
Me: 'Thanks. I don't think so, I have other-'
Bev (rocking back on her heels and flashing her six sexy teeth): 'Aw come on. You can sleep in my trailer if you don't got none.'
Me (putting it in terms that I think she can understand): 'Thanks really, but I think I'll be movin' on now.'
Bev (pausing to drag on her cigar): 'Arright then. See ya sweet cheeks!'
And then she smacked me on the ass, turned, and walked away.
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