It's been a long time. A long time since I've sat down and written anything. A long time since I've started anything. A long time since I had a lot to say, or at least enough to say that it warrants something like this.
So here's what's up.
I always need a nap now. Especially after eating. I mean, that's nothing new for me, I'm old and broken and tired. But I'm more tired than normal these days, as I picked up a second job. It's a seasonal gig, just for the holidays, working a shipping job at an online costume jewelry retailer. It gives me a little extra money for the holidays and keeps me from both being bored and getting into too much trouble. There's an off chance that they might keep me on after the season, but I'm not getting my hopes up. Still it would be cool to continue to make that extra coin.
The place is insane. Apart from me and a few others who were hired by the company itself, most of the people doing this job are temporary day workers from an agency. Most of these people have seen more bad days than good, and I'm sure a large percentage of them have battled addiction issues, so I try to refrain from mocking them. Just because they made some poor decisions involving a crack pipe doesn't mean they are bad people.
That being said, there are some real dummies rollicking around the warehouse. Just today, this question was posed to the masses: "WHO IS LEAVING PIECES OF BAND-AIDS ON MY STATION?" This led me to other questions. For instance, Who is only using partial Band-Aids? Are the pieces in shapes, like an arts and crafts project? I'm assuming it's just the backs of the Band-Aids that you peel off? What the hell is happening here?
Last week, one of the dudes from the agency, a large effeminate dude (this matters as his vocal inflections might be hard to put into type, but he sounds like a giant sissy. No offense to sissies) was having a problem.
"Someone, moi, is having a serious case of the Mondays!" he announced. It was before 9 on Monday morning, and I wasn't going to indulge, because a) none of my business and b) it's too early for this shit.
He continued to rustle and fidget behind me. I could hear his uncomfortable morning playing out like a Velcro shoe wearing radio drama. Finally, he says "OH MY GOD YOU GUYS!" We all turn our heads towards him.
"MY PANTS ARE ON BACKWARDS!" We all turn our eyes downwards.
Sure enough, this dude, an adult, woke up, got dressed, and left his home. With pants on backwards. Back pockets in the front. Front pockets in the back. Zipper in the back. Button to seal the pants together in THE BACK OF HIS GODDAMN PANTS. These were not sweat pants, or elastic waisted things. Just regular jeans. How does this happen? All of the questions were sprinting through my head. Dude had a wallet in his back pocket, which was in the front now. When driving, how do you not recognize that it's not what you are sitting on? What the fuck, dude.
"Yo," a co-worker chimed in, "is you in Kriss Kross?" This was one of my questions as well (mine had better grammar, however #judging).
He was not, in fact, in the early 90's hip-hop group Kriss Kross who was noteworthy for wearing their clothes backwards. The 90's were a weird time.
So that's part of what I've been doing lately. Making some extra money and dealing with knuckleheads who don't know how to dress themselves, despite being old enough to vote.
There's more, but that's for later.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Grocery Stores, Ranked.
So everyone has opinions on grocery shopping. Generally, it sucks, it's a pain in the ass, but it's necessary. Since I have opinions on everything, I felt the need to articulate them in a silly way. Ranking them.
Now here's the thing, where I live, the choices are limited. We don't have a Whole Foods or Trader Joe's in the area, so they won't be listed here. Neither are local co-ops or markets, as they are all clearly better than the chain stores, and people are generally pleased to be there. I'm talking about the soul crushing supermarkets that we all trudge through on a semi-regular basis to get the shit we need.
So here goes nothin'...
1) Big Y. It's just better. The selection is good, the layout makes sense. They have a dude making fresh sushi. It's a nice damn grocery store. Sure, it's a little pricey, but, honestly, it's worth it. If I could afford it, I would shop there exclusively. The people who work there are oozing with hope, like America after Barack Obama's first election. They haven't been crushed by the real world yet. The people who work at Big Y seem to be immune from the lifetime of questionable decision making that the rest of us have wandered through.
2) Aldis. Aldis is fucking great. Sure, it's pretty much only generic brands, but that makes it cheaper. It's no nonsense, bullshit free, and they have everything you want, just without the label you're used to. Affordability is key here. Where a normal supermarket would have a $5 price tag on something like lunch meat, the same amount of food is $2 there. It's amazing. I can feed myself for weeks on what it costs for a night at the bar. The people who work there seem like they're surprised their lives took this turn, but somehow they are okay with it. The place is bootleg as fuck, and I love it.
3) Shop Rite. Shop Rite is dumb. It's always been dumb, and will always be dumb. It's always strangely dirty, the staff looks like they are all on some sort of work release, and they are always out of at least one thing that you actually want. Nothing seems fresh enough, and even though it's cheap, it's still more expensive than Aldis. Maybe because they are desperately trying to be a nice store, but it always feels like Shop Rite is trying too hard. When I go in there, the people pushing the carts seem lost. Not physically, but existentially. Nobody is in the right aisle, they all look annoyed, and they move slow. It's the go-to food mart for the elderly, so nothing moves at a pace that makes sense. I just want to go, get my shit, and leave. Every time I end up at Shop Rite, something stupid happens. Also, they have something called Turkey Ham in their deli. I don't know what this mystery meat is, and it scares the ever loving shit out of me. Fuck this place.
4) Stop & Shop. See above, but more expensive, and with less functional shopping carts. They don't have Turkey Ham, which is good. They have self checkout, which is also good for shame free shopping, however, the lanes are always broken, and someone always needs to come by and help you out with something anyway, so might as well go to a regular checkout lane and get the sales if you don't have a Stop & Shop card, because you can't without one in the shame free aisles. So the convenient thing becomes a nightmare. Well played, idiots.
5) McQuade's. FUCK THIS PLACE. If you were ever wondering if a social and/or economic divide occurs in this country, McQuade's proves that it does. Definitively. It's super expensive, even though the shit is all the same. I'm pretty sure they have a separate entrance for poor people, and instead of carpeting, the floor is covered with peanut shells. Also, calling someone a "colored fella" is a perfectly acceptable adjective there. It's fucking crazy how white that store is. The layout is insane. Instead of rows of stuff, like a regular store, they weed out simpletons by having this confusing circular labyrinth where all the products are. Bring some string Theseus, if you go to McQuade's, you're going to have to defeat the Minotaur to get out. Seriously, you turn around once, you're lost. I was looking for plastic wrap once, and ended up in goddamn Narnia. It makes no sense! For such a demanding place, it's not like they have perfect produce. In fact, it's oddly dodgy for the price you'll pay for it. Fuck McQuade's forever.
There. Go to Big Y if you can. If not, go to Aldis, just go there. And we're getting a gigantic one soon, so that's going to be the adventure of a lifetime.
SD
Now here's the thing, where I live, the choices are limited. We don't have a Whole Foods or Trader Joe's in the area, so they won't be listed here. Neither are local co-ops or markets, as they are all clearly better than the chain stores, and people are generally pleased to be there. I'm talking about the soul crushing supermarkets that we all trudge through on a semi-regular basis to get the shit we need.
So here goes nothin'...
1) Big Y. It's just better. The selection is good, the layout makes sense. They have a dude making fresh sushi. It's a nice damn grocery store. Sure, it's a little pricey, but, honestly, it's worth it. If I could afford it, I would shop there exclusively. The people who work there are oozing with hope, like America after Barack Obama's first election. They haven't been crushed by the real world yet. The people who work at Big Y seem to be immune from the lifetime of questionable decision making that the rest of us have wandered through.
2) Aldis. Aldis is fucking great. Sure, it's pretty much only generic brands, but that makes it cheaper. It's no nonsense, bullshit free, and they have everything you want, just without the label you're used to. Affordability is key here. Where a normal supermarket would have a $5 price tag on something like lunch meat, the same amount of food is $2 there. It's amazing. I can feed myself for weeks on what it costs for a night at the bar. The people who work there seem like they're surprised their lives took this turn, but somehow they are okay with it. The place is bootleg as fuck, and I love it.
3) Shop Rite. Shop Rite is dumb. It's always been dumb, and will always be dumb. It's always strangely dirty, the staff looks like they are all on some sort of work release, and they are always out of at least one thing that you actually want. Nothing seems fresh enough, and even though it's cheap, it's still more expensive than Aldis. Maybe because they are desperately trying to be a nice store, but it always feels like Shop Rite is trying too hard. When I go in there, the people pushing the carts seem lost. Not physically, but existentially. Nobody is in the right aisle, they all look annoyed, and they move slow. It's the go-to food mart for the elderly, so nothing moves at a pace that makes sense. I just want to go, get my shit, and leave. Every time I end up at Shop Rite, something stupid happens. Also, they have something called Turkey Ham in their deli. I don't know what this mystery meat is, and it scares the ever loving shit out of me. Fuck this place.
4) Stop & Shop. See above, but more expensive, and with less functional shopping carts. They don't have Turkey Ham, which is good. They have self checkout, which is also good for shame free shopping, however, the lanes are always broken, and someone always needs to come by and help you out with something anyway, so might as well go to a regular checkout lane and get the sales if you don't have a Stop & Shop card, because you can't without one in the shame free aisles. So the convenient thing becomes a nightmare. Well played, idiots.
5) McQuade's. FUCK THIS PLACE. If you were ever wondering if a social and/or economic divide occurs in this country, McQuade's proves that it does. Definitively. It's super expensive, even though the shit is all the same. I'm pretty sure they have a separate entrance for poor people, and instead of carpeting, the floor is covered with peanut shells. Also, calling someone a "colored fella" is a perfectly acceptable adjective there. It's fucking crazy how white that store is. The layout is insane. Instead of rows of stuff, like a regular store, they weed out simpletons by having this confusing circular labyrinth where all the products are. Bring some string Theseus, if you go to McQuade's, you're going to have to defeat the Minotaur to get out. Seriously, you turn around once, you're lost. I was looking for plastic wrap once, and ended up in goddamn Narnia. It makes no sense! For such a demanding place, it's not like they have perfect produce. In fact, it's oddly dodgy for the price you'll pay for it. Fuck McQuade's forever.
There. Go to Big Y if you can. If not, go to Aldis, just go there. And we're getting a gigantic one soon, so that's going to be the adventure of a lifetime.
SD
Saturday, March 11, 2017
I'm An Old Man
For as long as I can remember I've been an old man. Physically, I just turned 36, but mentally, I've been about 85 since the early 2000's. It started early. I've literally been training for this my entire life. I've never been one to care about amusement parks, not since I was a toothless 6 year old who got to hang out with Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. I think I figured that those type of places will never provide as much joy as I had in that moment, so amusement parks and theme parks were done.
Now, I see those places as a pickpockets wet dream, a place to get lost, expensive as hell, and too big to not be disappointed when you leave. They strike me as an ecosystem designed by a lunatic to make families yell at each other and see how many people can stand in a line waiting for a 3 minutes ride. Stand there like cows waiting to enter the slaughterhouse. Rides, by the way, have never grabbed me. I don't care for roller coasters, and I never have. "They're fun, it's the rush, man!" is what I hear from roller coaster enthusiasts. Nope. The treat of impending vomit is not a selling point to me. It's the same reason I stopped drinking tequila. The fight or flight response is pure flight for me when it comes to rides at parks. I liked swings as a kid, and the merry-go-round, but anything past that is dumb. You can't see anything, you're going too fast, it's too loud, and people are screaming out of terror. Sounds like a great time.
I used to watch the show Double Dare as a kid, as did most people of my generation. The grand prize was a trip to space camp. Now, the idea of space camp is, on the surface, a great idea. It's a place where kids can go, learn about science and math (lacking in today's world), and have fun with space. I like space, space is cool. I was all about trying to get on that show and winning my way to space camp. Then they showed the gyro-sphere spinner thing that they put you in. And my first dream was killed. No thanks, I don't want to get spun around so much that I am disoriented and pukey. Fuck off spinning thing, you're a ride, and rides are dumb. Instead of learning math at space camp, I learned statistics from baseball and how to keep score in one of those weird books like an old timey baseball man. I was 8 when I learned how to do that.
But despite my dislike of rides and distrust of large crowds and lines, one thing completed my Old Man Training. There was one place that I went to as a child that formulated my cranky bastard ideals. I went once every couple of weeks for a few hours at a time. Mostly alone. I would go, learn about things, listen, watch, and absorb information. The barbershop. I went to an old man barbershop as a child.
Here's how it worked. My mom would go grocery shopping on Saturday mornings/early afternoons. And sometimes, she would have to drag me along, as I was a child and shouldn't be left alone for fear of accidental death. Every couple of weeks however, at least that's the frequency of my memories, I would need a haircut. Nothing special, just the same haircut that nearly every child has during elementary school. But instead of sitting there, and waiting patiently with me, my mother, in her infinite wisdom, would just leave me there, converting the barber, an older man named Roger, into my babysitter for a while.
The place was cool for a baseball minded child. Every team had a flag hanging around the perimeter of the walls, Yankees memorabilia strewn about, and a television with games on it all the time. In the cold months, it was either college football or basketball, baseball in the warm. Sports magazines was the preferred reading material of the customers, and things like Newsweek and Time were nowhere to be found. Many times, I would be there, waiting patiently and reading back issues of something or watching the game, and older people would be arguing the merits of some player of coach. I was a kid whose feet would dangle off the chair, legs too short to hit the ground, and listen to grumpy old men nitpick about the smallest things. "Those kids dance too much, just make the damn tackle and go back to work!"
"Pfft! Mattingly needs to stand straighter, he looks like an ogre."
"He has a bad back."
"So do I, you don't see me slouching."
"I don't see you doing anything, Charlie."
"Meh."
This is what I would do a couple dozen times a year. Sit there quietly and listen to grumbling. It was great. Occasionally I would pipe up and say something, and after a while, my opinions were valid and mattered to the conversation. "Those new hats are too loud," I would say, complaining about some teams re-branding. "These guys are getting paid too much to complain about being hurt. It's part of the job." Many times, my contributions were met with a knowing "Mmmhmmm," or some other sound that old people make when they agree while frowning.
I was learning fast. I was the Anakin Skywalker of grouchiness. Over the years, I have honed my own brand of cranky old manness to the point where it's just assumed that I hate things. That's not 100% true, but I certainly have distrust of youths, and rides will always seem pointless to me. I just hope that my cantankerous poweres are used for as little evil as possible.
I'd rather not be referred to as Darth Hater.
SD
Now, I see those places as a pickpockets wet dream, a place to get lost, expensive as hell, and too big to not be disappointed when you leave. They strike me as an ecosystem designed by a lunatic to make families yell at each other and see how many people can stand in a line waiting for a 3 minutes ride. Stand there like cows waiting to enter the slaughterhouse. Rides, by the way, have never grabbed me. I don't care for roller coasters, and I never have. "They're fun, it's the rush, man!" is what I hear from roller coaster enthusiasts. Nope. The treat of impending vomit is not a selling point to me. It's the same reason I stopped drinking tequila. The fight or flight response is pure flight for me when it comes to rides at parks. I liked swings as a kid, and the merry-go-round, but anything past that is dumb. You can't see anything, you're going too fast, it's too loud, and people are screaming out of terror. Sounds like a great time.
I used to watch the show Double Dare as a kid, as did most people of my generation. The grand prize was a trip to space camp. Now, the idea of space camp is, on the surface, a great idea. It's a place where kids can go, learn about science and math (lacking in today's world), and have fun with space. I like space, space is cool. I was all about trying to get on that show and winning my way to space camp. Then they showed the gyro-sphere spinner thing that they put you in. And my first dream was killed. No thanks, I don't want to get spun around so much that I am disoriented and pukey. Fuck off spinning thing, you're a ride, and rides are dumb. Instead of learning math at space camp, I learned statistics from baseball and how to keep score in one of those weird books like an old timey baseball man. I was 8 when I learned how to do that.
But despite my dislike of rides and distrust of large crowds and lines, one thing completed my Old Man Training. There was one place that I went to as a child that formulated my cranky bastard ideals. I went once every couple of weeks for a few hours at a time. Mostly alone. I would go, learn about things, listen, watch, and absorb information. The barbershop. I went to an old man barbershop as a child.
Here's how it worked. My mom would go grocery shopping on Saturday mornings/early afternoons. And sometimes, she would have to drag me along, as I was a child and shouldn't be left alone for fear of accidental death. Every couple of weeks however, at least that's the frequency of my memories, I would need a haircut. Nothing special, just the same haircut that nearly every child has during elementary school. But instead of sitting there, and waiting patiently with me, my mother, in her infinite wisdom, would just leave me there, converting the barber, an older man named Roger, into my babysitter for a while.
The place was cool for a baseball minded child. Every team had a flag hanging around the perimeter of the walls, Yankees memorabilia strewn about, and a television with games on it all the time. In the cold months, it was either college football or basketball, baseball in the warm. Sports magazines was the preferred reading material of the customers, and things like Newsweek and Time were nowhere to be found. Many times, I would be there, waiting patiently and reading back issues of something or watching the game, and older people would be arguing the merits of some player of coach. I was a kid whose feet would dangle off the chair, legs too short to hit the ground, and listen to grumpy old men nitpick about the smallest things. "Those kids dance too much, just make the damn tackle and go back to work!"
"Pfft! Mattingly needs to stand straighter, he looks like an ogre."
"He has a bad back."
"So do I, you don't see me slouching."
"I don't see you doing anything, Charlie."
"Meh."
This is what I would do a couple dozen times a year. Sit there quietly and listen to grumbling. It was great. Occasionally I would pipe up and say something, and after a while, my opinions were valid and mattered to the conversation. "Those new hats are too loud," I would say, complaining about some teams re-branding. "These guys are getting paid too much to complain about being hurt. It's part of the job." Many times, my contributions were met with a knowing "Mmmhmmm," or some other sound that old people make when they agree while frowning.
I was learning fast. I was the Anakin Skywalker of grouchiness. Over the years, I have honed my own brand of cranky old manness to the point where it's just assumed that I hate things. That's not 100% true, but I certainly have distrust of youths, and rides will always seem pointless to me. I just hope that my cantankerous poweres are used for as little evil as possible.
I'd rather not be referred to as Darth Hater.
SD
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Flanders Guy
Often times, I sit at my desk, staring at my screen, with a blank space in front of me, wondering if I should write about something, someone, some event from my past. And many, many times, I have nothing to say. No inspiration that can entertain, enlighten or enthrall. When those times come, I close the tab, look at Twitter, and have yet another drink.
This is not one of those times.
At work, I heard a man, a grown up, real adult sized man, use the word "Bitchin'." What? Why? What could possibly lead a human adult to use that word, unless...unless they are Ned Flanders in the Upside Down. Do I work with the Bizarro Ned Flanders?
No. I don't. That's not a real thing. But, fortunately for us, I have met an actual Real Life Ned Flanders. For those who don't know, Ned Flanders is a character on The Simpsons that is Bible beating left handed neighbor with the most intensely friendly language ever created by humans. Look up clips on YouTube, you won't be disappointed.
For the rest of us, here is a real thing that happened:
For a long time in my early 20's, I worked at a record shop. It was a chain store, but those of us who worked there tried to reinforce our indie cred as much as possible. We had "particular" tastes, looked down on Korn fans, mocked people to their faces without them knowing it. It was a good time. The day to day of our work was pretty boring, with pockets of absurdity tossed in for flavor, but there was one day a week that would always get us excited.
Ticket day.
You see, we would sell tickets to shows in the area through Ticketmaster, and whenever something went on sale, especially if it was noteworthy, there would be a line outside before we opened so some fanboy/girl could get the best possible seat for whatever nonsense they wanted to drop $90 on. And yes, we would totally rig the system if we could for bribes of coffee and donuts. My love of donuts has never been debated, and I have used it to my advantage in these circumstances (you're welcome, girl who was first in line for Dave Matthews, I still appreciate the dozen assorted and black coffee).
Many times, the shows we would sell tickets to would be pretty lame. Bands from the 70's and 80's who would tour for no other reason than to remind us all that none of the original members had died yet. Yet. There was one guy, one probably divorced guy, with a VERY appropriate mustache, who would show up as we opened, to buy tickets to every single one of these shows. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Without fail, if Kansas were in town in 3 months, this guy would be there. He had metal framed glasses, wore the sweater of a high school Vice Principal, and had a nasally voice. He was a living embodiment of Ned Flanders. A human cartoon.
We got to the point where we, as a staff, would take prop bets as to where Flanders Guy (as we called him) would be in line for whatever bullshit show was coming around. Fleetwood Mac? 4th in line. Poison? 10th (there was kitch value to Poison, so hipsters like me would get tickets for the mocking and parking lot drinking of it all). Nitty Gritty Dirt Band? 1st. Goddamn 1st overall draft pick. Numero Uno in line for that shit is Flanders Guy and there is nothing that can stop him. Because nobody else cared.
Nobody.
We started to expect him. If he didn't show up, we were concerned about his safety. Something must have been wrong. And when he did finally show up, we breathed a strange sigh of relief. Finally, Flanders Guy got his tickets to that Warrant show in Warwick. And all was right with the world. It was a simpler time.
One ticket day, shortly before I got fired from that fun-as-hell job for being...well...me, Flanders Guy showed up. He was the only one who did. For the life of me, I can't remember what the show was, probably Kansas or some shit. But he was there. And he got his ticket. Being the only one who cared enough to get in line before a record store opened for a ticket to some ridiculous concert, he got good seats. Like, really good seats. He asked to see the seating chart for the venue, and as we had literally nothing else to do at the moment, we obliged him. His seats were right in the front. Dead damn center.
He got really excited. Like, we could hear his Arena Rock boner growing by the nanosecond. He looked at the chart. Looked back at his ticket. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Oh, these are bitchin' seats!" HOLY SHIT FLANDERS GUY SWEARS!!
"Oh, yeah, bitchin'. Thanks, guys, these seats are bitchin'."
Never had I head that word, "Bitchin'" used in real life. It was a truly magical moment. Wide eyed and dumbfounded, we were at a loss of things to say. The most I could muster was a simple "Yeah, man, first come first serve."
Flanders Guy changed my ability to swear. Never can I use that word, unless in a particular circumstance. I have never been in such a situation, and I don't imagine I ever will. However, if that time comes, and the word "Bitchin'" is appropriate, I know I have it in my cussing quiver. And I will use it in honor of Flanders Guy, wherever he may be rocking right now.
SD
This is not one of those times.
At work, I heard a man, a grown up, real adult sized man, use the word "Bitchin'." What? Why? What could possibly lead a human adult to use that word, unless...unless they are Ned Flanders in the Upside Down. Do I work with the Bizarro Ned Flanders?
No. I don't. That's not a real thing. But, fortunately for us, I have met an actual Real Life Ned Flanders. For those who don't know, Ned Flanders is a character on The Simpsons that is Bible beating left handed neighbor with the most intensely friendly language ever created by humans. Look up clips on YouTube, you won't be disappointed.
For the rest of us, here is a real thing that happened:
For a long time in my early 20's, I worked at a record shop. It was a chain store, but those of us who worked there tried to reinforce our indie cred as much as possible. We had "particular" tastes, looked down on Korn fans, mocked people to their faces without them knowing it. It was a good time. The day to day of our work was pretty boring, with pockets of absurdity tossed in for flavor, but there was one day a week that would always get us excited.
Ticket day.
You see, we would sell tickets to shows in the area through Ticketmaster, and whenever something went on sale, especially if it was noteworthy, there would be a line outside before we opened so some fanboy/girl could get the best possible seat for whatever nonsense they wanted to drop $90 on. And yes, we would totally rig the system if we could for bribes of coffee and donuts. My love of donuts has never been debated, and I have used it to my advantage in these circumstances (you're welcome, girl who was first in line for Dave Matthews, I still appreciate the dozen assorted and black coffee).
Many times, the shows we would sell tickets to would be pretty lame. Bands from the 70's and 80's who would tour for no other reason than to remind us all that none of the original members had died yet. Yet. There was one guy, one probably divorced guy, with a VERY appropriate mustache, who would show up as we opened, to buy tickets to every single one of these shows. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Without fail, if Kansas were in town in 3 months, this guy would be there. He had metal framed glasses, wore the sweater of a high school Vice Principal, and had a nasally voice. He was a living embodiment of Ned Flanders. A human cartoon.
We got to the point where we, as a staff, would take prop bets as to where Flanders Guy (as we called him) would be in line for whatever bullshit show was coming around. Fleetwood Mac? 4th in line. Poison? 10th (there was kitch value to Poison, so hipsters like me would get tickets for the mocking and parking lot drinking of it all). Nitty Gritty Dirt Band? 1st. Goddamn 1st overall draft pick. Numero Uno in line for that shit is Flanders Guy and there is nothing that can stop him. Because nobody else cared.
Nobody.
We started to expect him. If he didn't show up, we were concerned about his safety. Something must have been wrong. And when he did finally show up, we breathed a strange sigh of relief. Finally, Flanders Guy got his tickets to that Warrant show in Warwick. And all was right with the world. It was a simpler time.
One ticket day, shortly before I got fired from that fun-as-hell job for being...well...me, Flanders Guy showed up. He was the only one who did. For the life of me, I can't remember what the show was, probably Kansas or some shit. But he was there. And he got his ticket. Being the only one who cared enough to get in line before a record store opened for a ticket to some ridiculous concert, he got good seats. Like, really good seats. He asked to see the seating chart for the venue, and as we had literally nothing else to do at the moment, we obliged him. His seats were right in the front. Dead damn center.
He got really excited. Like, we could hear his Arena Rock boner growing by the nanosecond. He looked at the chart. Looked back at his ticket. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Oh, these are bitchin' seats!" HOLY SHIT FLANDERS GUY SWEARS!!
"Oh, yeah, bitchin'. Thanks, guys, these seats are bitchin'."
Never had I head that word, "Bitchin'" used in real life. It was a truly magical moment. Wide eyed and dumbfounded, we were at a loss of things to say. The most I could muster was a simple "Yeah, man, first come first serve."
Flanders Guy changed my ability to swear. Never can I use that word, unless in a particular circumstance. I have never been in such a situation, and I don't imagine I ever will. However, if that time comes, and the word "Bitchin'" is appropriate, I know I have it in my cussing quiver. And I will use it in honor of Flanders Guy, wherever he may be rocking right now.
SD
Saturday, January 28, 2017
White People are the Worst
A little something about me.
My history is deeply linked to snobby white people. Like, from way back when. When I was in elementary school, we had one black kid. He was bussed in from another school because...I don't know why. All I remember is that he was better at sports than we were so we picked him first for kickball. His name was Nate, and he was an alright dude.
I spent that epoch of my life in a beach community that had a gate and privatized police force. It was whiter than a John Cusack movie (think about it...I'll give you a sec). My parents used In Living Color to expose me to other cultures, because all the Monty Python was just reinforcing the whiteness that permeated my world.
So when I tell you all this next bit, you need to trust me when I say that I am now officially fed up with honkeys.
I work in a very VERY white town. The Connecticut coastline is peppered with places like this. Big old homes with manicured lawns and stone walls. Fancy cars and expensive grocery stores. Good snow removal. Parks with nets in basketball hoops and without broken swings. All over the Connecticut coastline you can see these places. It's idyllic. It's the suburban dream come true.
And it poisons brains.
A woman came into the bistro in which I work. It's a fancy place in a fancy town, and we get ALL the white people. It's noteworthy when someone of color walks in. To the point where we say "Oh, shit, look! Black guy!"
So when I tell you that this woman is the worst white person I have ever seen, believe that I know what I'm talking about.
We serve frites at my job. We make them ourselves and they are very good. Nothing dumb about them, no weird seasoning or procedure, I'm just really good at my job and I make them right. The woman, seated at the bar (like a common wench) asked the bartender about them as something to snack on while waiting for the rest of her party to show up. He says that they are homemade and very popular, and the following question was asked: "Are they cooked in duck fat?"
Now before I continue, let's get something straight. Duck fat is extremely expensive. It's rich and flavorful, yet, and there is a noticeable difference between food cooked in oil versus food cooked in fat, so the question itself, as a simple inquiry, isn't that bad. However....
The bartender came into the kitchen and asked us if they were, doing his due diligence. Of course they were not, as nobody wants to spend $40 on a handful of french fries, no matter how rich my might be. At this point, a couple of us "wandered" out into the bar area to see what monster would ask such a stupid question. Upon hearing this totally normal and logical answer she scoffs, "Oh, never mind then, I'll just wait." She rolled her eyes, turned her head and thrust more clear alcohol down her stuffy gullet.
I went back to the kitchen, went back to my work, and shook my head is awe of this ridiculous moment. But I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Oh, God no.
"FUCKING WHITE PEOPLE!!" I bellowed. I heard the bartender laugh, and the guys standing next to me looked over.
"Just wait until Summer, dude," one said.
"Goddammit," I responded.
I know a lot about white people. And they continue to piss me off.
SD
My history is deeply linked to snobby white people. Like, from way back when. When I was in elementary school, we had one black kid. He was bussed in from another school because...I don't know why. All I remember is that he was better at sports than we were so we picked him first for kickball. His name was Nate, and he was an alright dude.
I spent that epoch of my life in a beach community that had a gate and privatized police force. It was whiter than a John Cusack movie (think about it...I'll give you a sec). My parents used In Living Color to expose me to other cultures, because all the Monty Python was just reinforcing the whiteness that permeated my world.
So when I tell you all this next bit, you need to trust me when I say that I am now officially fed up with honkeys.
I work in a very VERY white town. The Connecticut coastline is peppered with places like this. Big old homes with manicured lawns and stone walls. Fancy cars and expensive grocery stores. Good snow removal. Parks with nets in basketball hoops and without broken swings. All over the Connecticut coastline you can see these places. It's idyllic. It's the suburban dream come true.
And it poisons brains.
A woman came into the bistro in which I work. It's a fancy place in a fancy town, and we get ALL the white people. It's noteworthy when someone of color walks in. To the point where we say "Oh, shit, look! Black guy!"
So when I tell you that this woman is the worst white person I have ever seen, believe that I know what I'm talking about.
We serve frites at my job. We make them ourselves and they are very good. Nothing dumb about them, no weird seasoning or procedure, I'm just really good at my job and I make them right. The woman, seated at the bar (like a common wench) asked the bartender about them as something to snack on while waiting for the rest of her party to show up. He says that they are homemade and very popular, and the following question was asked: "Are they cooked in duck fat?"
Now before I continue, let's get something straight. Duck fat is extremely expensive. It's rich and flavorful, yet, and there is a noticeable difference between food cooked in oil versus food cooked in fat, so the question itself, as a simple inquiry, isn't that bad. However....
The bartender came into the kitchen and asked us if they were, doing his due diligence. Of course they were not, as nobody wants to spend $40 on a handful of french fries, no matter how rich my might be. At this point, a couple of us "wandered" out into the bar area to see what monster would ask such a stupid question. Upon hearing this totally normal and logical answer she scoffs, "Oh, never mind then, I'll just wait." She rolled her eyes, turned her head and thrust more clear alcohol down her stuffy gullet.
I went back to the kitchen, went back to my work, and shook my head is awe of this ridiculous moment. But I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Oh, God no.
"FUCKING WHITE PEOPLE!!" I bellowed. I heard the bartender laugh, and the guys standing next to me looked over.
"Just wait until Summer, dude," one said.
"Goddammit," I responded.
I know a lot about white people. And they continue to piss me off.
SD
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Lobster
There are certain things I hold sacred. Historical accuracy in fiction isn't very high on that list. I allow for certain things to be misconstrued, washed over, or just flat out wrong, if the story is forwarded by the lack of accuracy. Whatever, I'm generally fine with the lack of historical fact checking in my television, movies, or books. Something got to me, however.
I've been watching this show, whose name I won't divulge at this moment, and they done fucked up. Not to go into to too much detail, but the show follows a bunch of rich white people in 17th century Europe (don't you FUCKING judge me), and there was a moment that got under my skin. It snaked it's way into my brain and I have to talk about it here, to a bunch of strangers (probably) who don't care one way or another.
So here's what happened: Two female characters are sitting at a large dinner table, the other seats populated by peers having conversations, conniving against those in power, and probably securing sex with complicated clothes involved. One of the women isn't eating, in fact, she's pouting about some bullshit. The other one, annoyed at the pouting, says "Oh, just eat a lobster and get over it!" and then pulls a lobster out of a communal lobster bowl and drops it on the pouters plate.
Ok. I got beef with this lobster nonsense.
1) Rich white people in the 17th century didn't eat lobster. In fact, they thought lobster and most other shellfishes were dirty peasant food for dirty peasants.
2) A boiled lobster (as this lobster was) is FAR too messy for a dinner party full of rich white people of that era. There is no way they would take the risk of mussing their faces, clothes, and perfumed hankies to break apart the hardened shell of the lobster in front of them. That's what the servants are for, they are already filth, after all, and no shelled lobster would ever be dropped in front of the master class.
3) And this is a small thing that ties into the other two: No claw crackers, mallets, or other shell cracking material were present. This is sinful. This show is retarded.
The scene ended after the pouter looks at the lobster in disdain. I have a special place in my heart for this particular food, as it has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up on the New England coast, and lobsters were always around. We generally will boil them, these days, as nobody can figure out my grandmothers recipe for the baked/stuffed magic lobsters she used to make. In my family, we eat the entire damn thing. Not just the tails and claws. We rip apart the torso and pick every little bit of that bastard clean of meat. There is a bowl, empty at the outset of the meal, and overflowing with the broken, nay...demolished exoskeleton of the lobsters that we, as a group (always as a group) have ripped asunder with violence and melted butter for dipping.
One memory stands out. I was maybe 11 years old. Every Sunday we would have family dinner at my grandparents house. During the day, my grandfather and I would watch football or baseball games, and my grandmother would prepare a feast that could feed a county. Pasta, meatballs, a roast, a vegetable, home made sauce. That was the normal fare. If someone was in town visiting, or we had more than the usual crowd, or there was a sale, it was lobster night. And lobster night was a treat. Boiled, baked/stuffed, pasta with lobster sauce with the legs of the stuffed ones in the sauce, and their claws off to the side for extra lobstery goodness. It was epic.
One day, the normal lobster night preparations are being made, and the men are watching sports. From the kitchen we hear a crash. My grandmother was out doing something, so we rush in to see what had happened. The pot that was boil the lobsters was turned over, water spilling everywhere, the lid on the floor. Six lobsters, half dead and mostly red, were slowly crawling across the counter. They seeked a freedom from the boiling kettle, a destiny other than digestion, relief from the hot death that was becoming them. Then we scooped them back into the pot, refilled it with water, and put it back on the stove. We went back to the game. Another crash. We rush back to the kitchen. One lobster was still holding on to the hope of liberation. I watched the desperate crustacean crawl slowly away from the cauldron. Then my grandfather came in from outside, I hadn't noticed he had left, he grabbed the fleeing lobster, looked it in the eye and said "You...you're mine." He then put it back in the pot, affixed the lid, and put a brick on top of it all to secure the lobsters, and letting us get back to our game.
My grandfather was a great man. And he ate the shit out of that lobster.
SD
I've been watching this show, whose name I won't divulge at this moment, and they done fucked up. Not to go into to too much detail, but the show follows a bunch of rich white people in 17th century Europe (don't you FUCKING judge me), and there was a moment that got under my skin. It snaked it's way into my brain and I have to talk about it here, to a bunch of strangers (probably) who don't care one way or another.
So here's what happened: Two female characters are sitting at a large dinner table, the other seats populated by peers having conversations, conniving against those in power, and probably securing sex with complicated clothes involved. One of the women isn't eating, in fact, she's pouting about some bullshit. The other one, annoyed at the pouting, says "Oh, just eat a lobster and get over it!" and then pulls a lobster out of a communal lobster bowl and drops it on the pouters plate.
Ok. I got beef with this lobster nonsense.
1) Rich white people in the 17th century didn't eat lobster. In fact, they thought lobster and most other shellfishes were dirty peasant food for dirty peasants.
2) A boiled lobster (as this lobster was) is FAR too messy for a dinner party full of rich white people of that era. There is no way they would take the risk of mussing their faces, clothes, and perfumed hankies to break apart the hardened shell of the lobster in front of them. That's what the servants are for, they are already filth, after all, and no shelled lobster would ever be dropped in front of the master class.
3) And this is a small thing that ties into the other two: No claw crackers, mallets, or other shell cracking material were present. This is sinful. This show is retarded.
The scene ended after the pouter looks at the lobster in disdain. I have a special place in my heart for this particular food, as it has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up on the New England coast, and lobsters were always around. We generally will boil them, these days, as nobody can figure out my grandmothers recipe for the baked/stuffed magic lobsters she used to make. In my family, we eat the entire damn thing. Not just the tails and claws. We rip apart the torso and pick every little bit of that bastard clean of meat. There is a bowl, empty at the outset of the meal, and overflowing with the broken, nay...demolished exoskeleton of the lobsters that we, as a group (always as a group) have ripped asunder with violence and melted butter for dipping.
One memory stands out. I was maybe 11 years old. Every Sunday we would have family dinner at my grandparents house. During the day, my grandfather and I would watch football or baseball games, and my grandmother would prepare a feast that could feed a county. Pasta, meatballs, a roast, a vegetable, home made sauce. That was the normal fare. If someone was in town visiting, or we had more than the usual crowd, or there was a sale, it was lobster night. And lobster night was a treat. Boiled, baked/stuffed, pasta with lobster sauce with the legs of the stuffed ones in the sauce, and their claws off to the side for extra lobstery goodness. It was epic.
One day, the normal lobster night preparations are being made, and the men are watching sports. From the kitchen we hear a crash. My grandmother was out doing something, so we rush in to see what had happened. The pot that was boil the lobsters was turned over, water spilling everywhere, the lid on the floor. Six lobsters, half dead and mostly red, were slowly crawling across the counter. They seeked a freedom from the boiling kettle, a destiny other than digestion, relief from the hot death that was becoming them. Then we scooped them back into the pot, refilled it with water, and put it back on the stove. We went back to the game. Another crash. We rush back to the kitchen. One lobster was still holding on to the hope of liberation. I watched the desperate crustacean crawl slowly away from the cauldron. Then my grandfather came in from outside, I hadn't noticed he had left, he grabbed the fleeing lobster, looked it in the eye and said "You...you're mine." He then put it back in the pot, affixed the lid, and put a brick on top of it all to secure the lobsters, and letting us get back to our game.
My grandfather was a great man. And he ate the shit out of that lobster.
SD
Friday, January 6, 2017
The Next Generation is Fucked.
So I work with this kid, he's 20, so he qualifies as a kid. We call him Juice because, well, he looks, talks, and acts like someone who would be called Juice. Personally, I refer to him as my Work Idiot. He's an idiot in every sense of the word, so the phrase, unbeknownst to him, is entirely justified and not at all derogatory as I love this kid. I would bail him out of jail if I had to.
But, as I said, he's a total idiot. His musical taste is questionable in the way that everyone's is when they are 20 (except mine and most of my friends. We are visionaries with impeccable preferences). Juice works in the dish pit, a suitable career choice for a barely educated but well intentioned idiot, and in the dish pit, they are allowed to listen to whatever music they want. When Juice is there, it's usually some sort of new rap garbage that all sounds similarly terrible, and occasionally the 90's hip-hop Pandora station, which is just pure gold all the way through.
I shouldn't have been surprised when, last night, this interaction between he and I took place:
Juice: Do you like The Beatles? (NOTE: He routinely asks simple questions to start conversations. It's great)
Me: Yea, dude. Love The Beatles. I took a class about them in college.
Juice: I just heard them the first time today. They're okay.
Me: WHAT?!?! There is no fucking way, on God's Green Earth, that you never heard The Beatles before. Impossible. Nope.
Juice: Bro, I'm like, 20.
Me: Fuck you, you've heard Beatles songs before. Wait...you fucking with me? Not in the mood to be fucked with right now.
Juice (laughing): Nah, bro. Just never heard them before
Me (walking away): Fuck off.
I go upstairs to the line and tell some other people about what just happened, how a person of legal voting age has never heard The Beatles before today. None of the others, all of whom have known the boy for much longer than I, seemed surprised. I, for one, am shocked. SHOCKED I TELL YOU!
Later in the night, as this incident has been clogging my brain for hours, I had to school Juice a little. It's my duty as an adult to teach the youth of America on the greatness of The Beatles.
Me: Okay, dude. You gotta listen to The Beatles. They are the most influential and important band ever.
Juice: But they're old.
Me: And half of them are dead, but that doesn't matter. Revolver might be the best album ever recorded. Sgt. Pepper's changed the way we physically listen to music. The Beatles are fucking important to know, man. Get on that shit.
Juice: I think my dad knows them. I just never heard them before.
Me: Goddammit.
I then go and list off a bunch of songs this young idiot had to have heard before. Sure enough, some of them are familiar, and I felt a little better. He was clearly not fucking with me, because he isn't clever enough to keep up this ruse for so long, and the other guy downstairs working in the dish pit was on my side through this whole ordeal as well. Needless to say, I listened to Revolver, and all it's brilliance, on my way home.
What I have come to learn is that if we don't educate the youth of today about the music of yesterday, we are all doomed to a generation of blank and shallow nonsense that has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Exposing the classic arts to people with malleable minds is important. Showing them what can be accomplished with some imagination will lead to better music, film, literature, and art in the future. Better art will lead to a better, more well rounded understanding of humanity. And with a more acute sense of the human spirit we will avoid the pitfalls of today. We have to learn from the past, not only the general history, but the artistic history as well. Or else we will be doomed. Again. A shitty arts education will incur more Trump like people in power. Narrow worldviews, those without the arts and culture, are a major contributor to hate and prejudice.
I'm not saying we all have to be artists (although it wouldn't suck), but we need to have an understanding and appreciation for the beauty and wonder that good music, films, literature, and art can do for us as a society.
If anyone needs me, I'll be around, listening to The Beatles all day. We should all aspire to be as great as they were.
SD
But, as I said, he's a total idiot. His musical taste is questionable in the way that everyone's is when they are 20 (except mine and most of my friends. We are visionaries with impeccable preferences). Juice works in the dish pit, a suitable career choice for a barely educated but well intentioned idiot, and in the dish pit, they are allowed to listen to whatever music they want. When Juice is there, it's usually some sort of new rap garbage that all sounds similarly terrible, and occasionally the 90's hip-hop Pandora station, which is just pure gold all the way through.
I shouldn't have been surprised when, last night, this interaction between he and I took place:
Juice: Do you like The Beatles? (NOTE: He routinely asks simple questions to start conversations. It's great)
Me: Yea, dude. Love The Beatles. I took a class about them in college.
Juice: I just heard them the first time today. They're okay.
Me: WHAT?!?! There is no fucking way, on God's Green Earth, that you never heard The Beatles before. Impossible. Nope.
Juice: Bro, I'm like, 20.
Me: Fuck you, you've heard Beatles songs before. Wait...you fucking with me? Not in the mood to be fucked with right now.
Juice (laughing): Nah, bro. Just never heard them before
Me (walking away): Fuck off.
I go upstairs to the line and tell some other people about what just happened, how a person of legal voting age has never heard The Beatles before today. None of the others, all of whom have known the boy for much longer than I, seemed surprised. I, for one, am shocked. SHOCKED I TELL YOU!
Later in the night, as this incident has been clogging my brain for hours, I had to school Juice a little. It's my duty as an adult to teach the youth of America on the greatness of The Beatles.
Me: Okay, dude. You gotta listen to The Beatles. They are the most influential and important band ever.
Juice: But they're old.
Me: And half of them are dead, but that doesn't matter. Revolver might be the best album ever recorded. Sgt. Pepper's changed the way we physically listen to music. The Beatles are fucking important to know, man. Get on that shit.
Juice: I think my dad knows them. I just never heard them before.
Me: Goddammit.
I then go and list off a bunch of songs this young idiot had to have heard before. Sure enough, some of them are familiar, and I felt a little better. He was clearly not fucking with me, because he isn't clever enough to keep up this ruse for so long, and the other guy downstairs working in the dish pit was on my side through this whole ordeal as well. Needless to say, I listened to Revolver, and all it's brilliance, on my way home.
What I have come to learn is that if we don't educate the youth of today about the music of yesterday, we are all doomed to a generation of blank and shallow nonsense that has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Exposing the classic arts to people with malleable minds is important. Showing them what can be accomplished with some imagination will lead to better music, film, literature, and art in the future. Better art will lead to a better, more well rounded understanding of humanity. And with a more acute sense of the human spirit we will avoid the pitfalls of today. We have to learn from the past, not only the general history, but the artistic history as well. Or else we will be doomed. Again. A shitty arts education will incur more Trump like people in power. Narrow worldviews, those without the arts and culture, are a major contributor to hate and prejudice.
I'm not saying we all have to be artists (although it wouldn't suck), but we need to have an understanding and appreciation for the beauty and wonder that good music, films, literature, and art can do for us as a society.
If anyone needs me, I'll be around, listening to The Beatles all day. We should all aspire to be as great as they were.
SD
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