I used to be a waiter, back when the world was young and Noah hadn't yet learned what a cubit was. It was a good gig right out of college, cash business, never too many hours at work, could take the day off when I wanted to. Not a real climb-the-ladder career, though, so I had to give it up.
But not before I had some fun. At someone else's expense.
There were many personalities in the restaurant, single mother, smart-alec and underemployed college grads like me, felons, burn-outs, people on their way to something else. A melting pot. We had one lady in particular, who used to be an accountant but had ended up a waiter. DR we called her, for her initials. She was pleasant enough to be around, but she was stickler for the rules. She worked as a cashier too, and you always had to have your papers in order or it was trouble for sure. By-the-book is what I'm trying to say.
Except for one particular Friday night. DR was working on the North side of the restaurant, but the dish area was on the South side. Protocol called for waiters to take dirty dishes through the dining room, North to South, rather than come through the server alley because it was just too congested to have people dodging the debris from bussed tables.
DR decided that rule didn't apply to her. She was at the very, very front of the restaurant, about as far from the dish area as you could get without going outside, and she carried her trays of empty plates right through the server alley. And DR didn't dance around people, she was a big girl and bulled right through.
I asked her not to do it, to go through the dining room instead. I heard at least three other waiters ask her the same thing, some much more politely than I. DR wouldn't hear it. She had to go through the server alley for some reason.
Friday night wore on and the restaurant became crowded. Full house of customers and full staff of waiters. And DR insists on endangering everyone by charging through the server alley with a large tray of dishes held high. Right towards the dish area where the floor had become soaking wet with soapy water from an overflowing dish washing machine.
In my mind I can still see happen it like I'm standing by the soda fountain. I hear the North door slam open. I see DR practically running through the alley towards me and the dish area, a butch-cut tractor plowing a furrow through her fellow waiters. I glance at the sopping wet floor. I think, for just a moment, that I should tell DR to slow down. I decide against it. She comes forward like a wide-hipped freight train. She gets one step into the puddle. Two steps.
And then... it's like a cartoon. Her feet slip, and then she starts to bicycle pedal. In mid-air. I swear to all I hold holy this is true. Her feet move frantically as she tries to keep her balance and keep from spilling the thirty pounds of dishes she has on her tray. Then... both her legs go rigid - straight out in front of her - and she's suspended in mid-air. Nothing between her and the floor but atmosphere.
She hits the floor and dishes go EVERYWHERE. Crash, bang, crash, clatter, splinter, with the metallic tinkle of silverware and the brittle cracking of glasses added to the symphony of destruction. Being a big girl DR has a lot of momentum, which carries her into the garbage cans where we discarded food and then UNDER the dish counter.
Out of nowhere, Christine - very sexy Christine who played softball and wore the most amazing perfume - appears and shouts 'Safe!' I spent the next ten minutes laughing out loud.
The only thing DR hurt was her considerable pride. And her pants got soaked. And she broke about $200 worth of dishware, wholesale. But for the rest of the night and every shift after that she went through the dining room. The hardest lessons learned are often the best lessons learned.
Ah... good times, good times. But I am so glad I'm not a waiter any more.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Cobbler Elves In Hollywood
I've been thinking about fairy tales recently. Not the Disney-fied versions suitable for modern sensibilities, the Grimm versions, the oral history of German folklore full of blood and guts and betrayal. Not at all suitable for today's pansy children. Lord knows we don't want to expose kids to the real world until they get knocked on their asses by it.
Anyhoo... I was thinking about the story about the poor cobbler* and the elves. This is the story where the destitute cobbler shows kindness to someone even less fortunate than he and the elves reward him with their shoe-making genius. The cobbler sells more elf shoes and the elves have a place to live, bada-bing, bada-boom story's over. If it were a cartoon - and it was - it would be eight minutes long or less.
I got to thinking. Since evidently Hollywood has run out of new ideas and they've started releasing more sequels and remakes than ever, why not put in my two cents on a 'Elves and the Shoemaker' big-budget tentpole cinema event?
First, let's work on the story. It doesn't come from the mind and MacBook of an established Hollywood hack, it's from German peasants 200 years ago. It's too... old world. Too grandpa and grandma, too preachy with almost no explosions or chase scenes. We need to fix that. Besides, no one knows what a cobbler is any more (unless you're Malaysian), so that's got to go. And helpful elves? Where's the conflict there? They need to be unhelpful elves. And they can't be tiny, that kind of CGI costs too much, they need to be person-sized. We can keep them elves because all that otherworldly stuff is playing really good these days, all that vampire, werewolf, zombie crap, the kids eat it up with a spoon.
So we have person-sized elves who are hindering a... genetic researcher - that's a modern shoemaker, right? - who is trying to find a cure for cancer or something. They don't want him to find the cure because... well, we'll figure that out in a rewrite. The important thing is that the genetic researcher is being kept from his goal by person-sized elves. And... he falls in love with one of them. Yeah, that's good. Elves are hot, right? We'll have the female lead work out until you can see her ribs. It's all about getting the shot, right?
That's the first act, genetic researcher falls in love with hot elf chick who is supposed to be keeping him from completing his work for some reason. They go on the run - that's the second act - while the elf commando squad comes after them. They don't use regular guns they use... something elfy. Leaf guns or magic beans or something. But the hero and his girl evade capture until... the elf girl has a change of heart. She realizes she needs to be true to her elf nature and leads him into a trap.
End of second act. Now for the third act. The cobbler/ genetic researcher is in the hands of the elf commando squad and the head elf bad guy has orders to kill the scientist. Only he can't, see, because the scientist was kind to him earlier - we gotta keep the core of the original story, after all - and elf rules are to return kindness with kindness. So the commando squad ends up helping the scientist with his research, and since elves are really, really good with genetic research they complete his experiment in one night.
It turns out that the research actually helps the elves who are... I don't know, dying or something... and if they'd killed him that would have sealed the fate of their entire race. The genetic researcher gets the hot elf chick, and everybody knows hot elf chicks are dynamite in the sack.
Of course now the title has to go. In the original Grimm book the title in German was 'Die Wichtelmänner,' whatever the hell that means. We need something big, something with punch, something high-concept and relatable. So I'm thinking it's now called 'Hammer' since cobblers use hammers.
And there you are. One movie remake of the Elves and the Cobbler story, done up in Hollywood style. Why I don't have a high-rise office in Century City I'll never know.
* kids, a cobbler was/is a shoemaker, but not the kind of Malaysian child slave labor shoemakers Nike employs to make the $150 LeBron Air Max you're wearing
Anyhoo... I was thinking about the story about the poor cobbler* and the elves. This is the story where the destitute cobbler shows kindness to someone even less fortunate than he and the elves reward him with their shoe-making genius. The cobbler sells more elf shoes and the elves have a place to live, bada-bing, bada-boom story's over. If it were a cartoon - and it was - it would be eight minutes long or less.
I got to thinking. Since evidently Hollywood has run out of new ideas and they've started releasing more sequels and remakes than ever, why not put in my two cents on a 'Elves and the Shoemaker' big-budget tentpole cinema event?
First, let's work on the story. It doesn't come from the mind and MacBook of an established Hollywood hack, it's from German peasants 200 years ago. It's too... old world. Too grandpa and grandma, too preachy with almost no explosions or chase scenes. We need to fix that. Besides, no one knows what a cobbler is any more (unless you're Malaysian), so that's got to go. And helpful elves? Where's the conflict there? They need to be unhelpful elves. And they can't be tiny, that kind of CGI costs too much, they need to be person-sized. We can keep them elves because all that otherworldly stuff is playing really good these days, all that vampire, werewolf, zombie crap, the kids eat it up with a spoon.
So we have person-sized elves who are hindering a... genetic researcher - that's a modern shoemaker, right? - who is trying to find a cure for cancer or something. They don't want him to find the cure because... well, we'll figure that out in a rewrite. The important thing is that the genetic researcher is being kept from his goal by person-sized elves. And... he falls in love with one of them. Yeah, that's good. Elves are hot, right? We'll have the female lead work out until you can see her ribs. It's all about getting the shot, right?
That's the first act, genetic researcher falls in love with hot elf chick who is supposed to be keeping him from completing his work for some reason. They go on the run - that's the second act - while the elf commando squad comes after them. They don't use regular guns they use... something elfy. Leaf guns or magic beans or something. But the hero and his girl evade capture until... the elf girl has a change of heart. She realizes she needs to be true to her elf nature and leads him into a trap.
End of second act. Now for the third act. The cobbler/ genetic researcher is in the hands of the elf commando squad and the head elf bad guy has orders to kill the scientist. Only he can't, see, because the scientist was kind to him earlier - we gotta keep the core of the original story, after all - and elf rules are to return kindness with kindness. So the commando squad ends up helping the scientist with his research, and since elves are really, really good with genetic research they complete his experiment in one night.
It turns out that the research actually helps the elves who are... I don't know, dying or something... and if they'd killed him that would have sealed the fate of their entire race. The genetic researcher gets the hot elf chick, and everybody knows hot elf chicks are dynamite in the sack.
Of course now the title has to go. In the original Grimm book the title in German was 'Die Wichtelmänner,' whatever the hell that means. We need something big, something with punch, something high-concept and relatable. So I'm thinking it's now called 'Hammer' since cobblers use hammers.
And there you are. One movie remake of the Elves and the Cobbler story, done up in Hollywood style. Why I don't have a high-rise office in Century City I'll never know.
* kids, a cobbler was/is a shoemaker, but not the kind of Malaysian child slave labor shoemakers Nike employs to make the $150 LeBron Air Max you're wearing
Friday, June 10, 2011
So Tired...
I fell asleep on the couch after work today. Like an old man. I'm pretty sure I was snoring too, even though I can't hear myself when I do. But it seems like something that should happen. I didn't drool though, so I got that going for me. Which ain't bad.
That got me to thinking about sleep. Scientists still aren't certain why we sleep they just know that we all do. BUT - not all mammals sleep the same way. Dolphins, for example, sleep with half their brains at a time. Because they don't have comfy beds and they have to watch out for sharks and Aquaman and whatnot.
What could I do if I slept with half my brain at a time? Glad you asked.
Do the dishes. I can't believe it takes your whole brain to wash a bowl. Maybe if I was an especially sloppy eater...
Sweep the floor. Same reasoning.
Wait in line at the DMV. Hell, I could probably do that completely zonked out. Lord knows the people working there seem to be asleep on the job.
Listen to timeshare presentations. I'm not going to buy anyway, I just want the free gift, even if it is a crappy coupon for a massage.
Get a massage, now that I think about it.
Watch Jerry Springer. I think I might explode if I used my whole brain for this one.
Listen to AM talk radio. True fact: Using half your brain is a prerequisite to agreeing with anything Rush Limbaugh says.
Read The Secret and not fall out of my chair laughing. Or in outrage.
Write a country song. Which I'm thinking about doing. Seriously, I'll keep you posted.
Work at the TSA security checkpoint in the airport. Nah, I'm just kidding, those folks are keeping us safe from terrorists, they just need to cop a feel every once in a while. Isn't that a fair trade-off for the fine job they do keeping nail files and cigarette lighters off our airliners? If I have to let a stranger cup my balls to make sure no one gets more than 3.4 ounces of fluid on board, then cup away.
Enjoy the stylings of local singer/songwriters. Sometimes you can find a real diamond in the rough, most of the time it's just atonal warblings. I'd love the chance to let half my brain fall asleep during that kind of painful experience.
There you have it. I'm sure there are more, but I'm nodding off here, even after my nap. I'm running on empty.
That got me to thinking about sleep. Scientists still aren't certain why we sleep they just know that we all do. BUT - not all mammals sleep the same way. Dolphins, for example, sleep with half their brains at a time. Because they don't have comfy beds and they have to watch out for sharks and Aquaman and whatnot.
What could I do if I slept with half my brain at a time? Glad you asked.
Do the dishes. I can't believe it takes your whole brain to wash a bowl. Maybe if I was an especially sloppy eater...
Sweep the floor. Same reasoning.
Wait in line at the DMV. Hell, I could probably do that completely zonked out. Lord knows the people working there seem to be asleep on the job.
Listen to timeshare presentations. I'm not going to buy anyway, I just want the free gift, even if it is a crappy coupon for a massage.
Get a massage, now that I think about it.
Watch Jerry Springer. I think I might explode if I used my whole brain for this one.
Listen to AM talk radio. True fact: Using half your brain is a prerequisite to agreeing with anything Rush Limbaugh says.
Read The Secret and not fall out of my chair laughing. Or in outrage.
Write a country song. Which I'm thinking about doing. Seriously, I'll keep you posted.
Work at the TSA security checkpoint in the airport. Nah, I'm just kidding, those folks are keeping us safe from terrorists, they just need to cop a feel every once in a while. Isn't that a fair trade-off for the fine job they do keeping nail files and cigarette lighters off our airliners? If I have to let a stranger cup my balls to make sure no one gets more than 3.4 ounces of fluid on board, then cup away.
Enjoy the stylings of local singer/songwriters. Sometimes you can find a real diamond in the rough, most of the time it's just atonal warblings. I'd love the chance to let half my brain fall asleep during that kind of painful experience.
There you have it. I'm sure there are more, but I'm nodding off here, even after my nap. I'm running on empty.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
We Need A Monster
I had a dream the other night that I was sitting around a poker table with the Universal Monsters. You know the guys, Frankenstein, the Wolfman, the Mummy, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, Dracula and the Invisible Man. Don't ask why we were playing poker, it was a dream, we just were. As I recall the Invisible Man was cheating and Frankenstein was eating the chips. Then I went all-in even though I was holding a pair of twos and they came for me menacingly. Then I woke up.
Sure, it ended on a slightly scary note - who wants to be surrounded by the Universal Monsters? - but it wasn't bloody or violent or alarmingly realistic. It was the good sort of scary, the safe sort of scary, like I got when I was eight years old and saw the Creature from the Black Lagoon for the first time. On a Saturday afternoon, when all good monster movies should be shown.
We need that kind of scary back again. We need monsters who are frightening but not too frightening. We get enough realism with the country fighting two or three wars, with all the financial parasites ruining the economy, with clearly incompetent government officials texting and having affairs and meeting for trysts in bathrooms. It's crazy out there, why does our entertainment have to be crazier? Can't it be gentler? Sweeter? A release instead of a reminder? Say what you will about the Hays Commission and its somewhat arbitrary standards, movie studios adhering to its code produced some really, really fine works of art.
I think tonight I want to dream about playing football with Frankenstein and the Mummy. I might not be the fastest sprinter, but I'm for damn sure faster than those two.
* just had another one of those deja vu moments, right in front of the computer. Freaky.
Sure, it ended on a slightly scary note - who wants to be surrounded by the Universal Monsters? - but it wasn't bloody or violent or alarmingly realistic. It was the good sort of scary, the safe sort of scary, like I got when I was eight years old and saw the Creature from the Black Lagoon for the first time. On a Saturday afternoon, when all good monster movies should be shown.
We need that kind of scary back again. We need monsters who are frightening but not too frightening. We get enough realism with the country fighting two or three wars, with all the financial parasites ruining the economy, with clearly incompetent government officials texting and having affairs and meeting for trysts in bathrooms. It's crazy out there, why does our entertainment have to be crazier? Can't it be gentler? Sweeter? A release instead of a reminder? Say what you will about the Hays Commission and its somewhat arbitrary standards, movie studios adhering to its code produced some really, really fine works of art.
I think tonight I want to dream about playing football with Frankenstein and the Mummy. I might not be the fastest sprinter, but I'm for damn sure faster than those two.
* just had another one of those deja vu moments, right in front of the computer. Freaky.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
I Can Do What I Want
The other day I was sitting at this computer and letting my iTunes playlist entertain me while I did some tedious but necessary paperwork. I got thirsty. I went into the kitchen to get a glass of iced tea and I could still hear my music playing even though my office is in a bedroom at the front of the house. So I thought to myself, ‘self, that music’s kind of loud,’ and hurried back to turn it down. I stopped by the couch, though, as a sudden thought took me.
I don’t live in an apartment any more. The music that I can hear in the kitchen doesn’t pass the walls of my rental house. I can be as loud as I damn well please.
I have to admit I was a bit taken aback by this. For years now, far too many years, I’ve been an apartment dweller. I’ve had to consider what I do and when I do it very carefully, since I don’t want to be a bother to anyone else. I really do try to live the golden rule; if I wouldn’t want someone taking a shower at three in the morning then it’s not something I want to subject others to.
But now… I live in a house. A detached, two-car garage house with solid walls and a tile roof and a thick front door. The closest neighbors are ten yards away, on the other side of a brick wall and past their own garage. The neighbors on the other side are twenty yards away, and over a fence.
I can make lots and lots and lots and lots of noise now and I won’t be disturbing anyone. I can walk as heavily as I dare on my own floors , I can run the dishwasher at midnight, I can crank up Tom Jones as loud as I can stand it and no one is going to come knocking on my front door in a stained bathrobe to wag an admonishing finger at me.
I’m free.
Now… what can I do with my newfound liberty? Midnight smoothie party? Twenty-four hours of darts? Line dancing in the living room? Yodeling competition? Man, the sky’s the limit.
I don’t live in an apartment any more. The music that I can hear in the kitchen doesn’t pass the walls of my rental house. I can be as loud as I damn well please.
I have to admit I was a bit taken aback by this. For years now, far too many years, I’ve been an apartment dweller. I’ve had to consider what I do and when I do it very carefully, since I don’t want to be a bother to anyone else. I really do try to live the golden rule; if I wouldn’t want someone taking a shower at three in the morning then it’s not something I want to subject others to.
But now… I live in a house. A detached, two-car garage house with solid walls and a tile roof and a thick front door. The closest neighbors are ten yards away, on the other side of a brick wall and past their own garage. The neighbors on the other side are twenty yards away, and over a fence.
I can make lots and lots and lots and lots of noise now and I won’t be disturbing anyone. I can walk as heavily as I dare on my own floors , I can run the dishwasher at midnight, I can crank up Tom Jones as loud as I can stand it and no one is going to come knocking on my front door in a stained bathrobe to wag an admonishing finger at me.
I’m free.
Now… what can I do with my newfound liberty? Midnight smoothie party? Twenty-four hours of darts? Line dancing in the living room? Yodeling competition? Man, the sky’s the limit.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
It's A Crazy Afterlife
Here's a question you can pose to your pastor on this fine Sunday morning. Or you can wait until this coming Friday or Saturday, if that's when your holy day falls.
Are crazy people crazy in the afterlife?
The first assumption is that an afterlife exists, let's agree that's the case. Let's further agree that people made crazy at some point in their life - by brain injury, drugs, what have you - will be restored to their previous non-crazy status in the afterlife. That leaves people who are born crazy. And these people do exist, talk to any mental health professional. What happens to them? Their natural state is disordered, it's the way their brains were wired during fetal development, nothing happened to them to make them crazy, it's just the way the are. The way they were meant to be.
Do they become non-crazy in the afterlife? If so, what was the point of them being crazy in this life? And don't spout me that 'God's ways are unknowable' stuff, if someone was naturally crazy in this life and they become non-crazy in the afterlife, there had to have been some point to it all, both to the being crazy and to the switch to non-crazy.
Let's extend this a bit. So far you've probably assumed I've been talking about someone schizophrenic or psychotic or manic-depressive, something relatively benign, at least from a social perspective. What about someone psychopathic? If that's a natural condition, and we have no reason to believe it's not, are there psychopaths in the afterlife? Why wouldn't there be? And if being a psychopath is their natural state, and assuming they haven't transgressed or been absolved of their transgressions, they should be in paradise with everyone else. But if they were, would the afterlife be a paradise? It might be for them, but what about for everyone else?
But let's assume that crazy people don't get into paradise. For some reason. Which would make paradise better for non-crazy people, but would automatically consign crazy people to damnation for no other offense than being true to their God-given nature. That hardly seems fair.
Go on, ask your religious professional, I want to hear what they have to say. Go ahead, I'll wait right here.
Are crazy people crazy in the afterlife?
The first assumption is that an afterlife exists, let's agree that's the case. Let's further agree that people made crazy at some point in their life - by brain injury, drugs, what have you - will be restored to their previous non-crazy status in the afterlife. That leaves people who are born crazy. And these people do exist, talk to any mental health professional. What happens to them? Their natural state is disordered, it's the way their brains were wired during fetal development, nothing happened to them to make them crazy, it's just the way the are. The way they were meant to be.
Do they become non-crazy in the afterlife? If so, what was the point of them being crazy in this life? And don't spout me that 'God's ways are unknowable' stuff, if someone was naturally crazy in this life and they become non-crazy in the afterlife, there had to have been some point to it all, both to the being crazy and to the switch to non-crazy.
Let's extend this a bit. So far you've probably assumed I've been talking about someone schizophrenic or psychotic or manic-depressive, something relatively benign, at least from a social perspective. What about someone psychopathic? If that's a natural condition, and we have no reason to believe it's not, are there psychopaths in the afterlife? Why wouldn't there be? And if being a psychopath is their natural state, and assuming they haven't transgressed or been absolved of their transgressions, they should be in paradise with everyone else. But if they were, would the afterlife be a paradise? It might be for them, but what about for everyone else?
But let's assume that crazy people don't get into paradise. For some reason. Which would make paradise better for non-crazy people, but would automatically consign crazy people to damnation for no other offense than being true to their God-given nature. That hardly seems fair.
Go on, ask your religious professional, I want to hear what they have to say. Go ahead, I'll wait right here.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
How I Know I'm Getting Older
It's inevitable, time marches on for all of us. At least until I figure out what time is and how to stop it, at least for me.* Until then, though, I must recognize what is happening to me and deal with it accordingly.
How I Know I'm Getting Older: I ask questions I never would have before.
For example, construction crews have been putting in a sidewalk along a stretch of road just outside my subdivision. Back before there were houses here this part of town was pasture land complete with cows and not much else. No need for sidewalks. But now there are kids and schools and a big church which I'm never going to visit and sidewalks are a must.
The construction has been going on for a month or so, they take a two days to clear the land and fit the forms, another day to pour the cement and another day to spread topsoil and plant grass. It's a system. And today they were working away by 8 AM, with the beeping and the scraping and the grinding and the blocking traffic. They're at a part of the road I can see from my front door, so I was watching them.
Do you know what popped into my head? Not a thought about how hot it must be for these guys, or how glad I am that I don't do that kind of work, or a marvel at the exactness of the engineering that has to go into something as mundane as a sidewalk, or even how thirsty those guys must get even at 10 in the morning. None of that crossed my mind. As I stood at my front door and gazed over the cow pasture at the guy whipping around in the Bobcat and the guy with the hand-held Stop sign, I could only think of one thing.
How much do they pay those guys to work on a Saturday?
When I realized what I was thinking I ran to the mirror, wondering if liver spots and deep wrinkles had suddenly marred my flawless complexion. I mean, how old-man can you possibly get? How much do they get paid for Saturdays? What is wrong with me? I know that I'm becoming a geezer far before my time, but I had absolutely no idea how bad it had gotten. Next thing you know I'll be out there shaking a fist at them for blocking a lane of traffic. My lane of traffic.
How am I gonna stop this? I don't want to wear jumpsuits or drive a huge American land yacht or wear black shoes and black socks as I mow the lawn. I want to be me. Me now, not me in thirty years.
There's got to be a way to avoid this. Time machine... that's it... I'll invent a time machine. How hard could it be?
* insert super-villain laugh here
How I Know I'm Getting Older: I ask questions I never would have before.
For example, construction crews have been putting in a sidewalk along a stretch of road just outside my subdivision. Back before there were houses here this part of town was pasture land complete with cows and not much else. No need for sidewalks. But now there are kids and schools and a big church which I'm never going to visit and sidewalks are a must.
The construction has been going on for a month or so, they take a two days to clear the land and fit the forms, another day to pour the cement and another day to spread topsoil and plant grass. It's a system. And today they were working away by 8 AM, with the beeping and the scraping and the grinding and the blocking traffic. They're at a part of the road I can see from my front door, so I was watching them.
Do you know what popped into my head? Not a thought about how hot it must be for these guys, or how glad I am that I don't do that kind of work, or a marvel at the exactness of the engineering that has to go into something as mundane as a sidewalk, or even how thirsty those guys must get even at 10 in the morning. None of that crossed my mind. As I stood at my front door and gazed over the cow pasture at the guy whipping around in the Bobcat and the guy with the hand-held Stop sign, I could only think of one thing.
How much do they pay those guys to work on a Saturday?
When I realized what I was thinking I ran to the mirror, wondering if liver spots and deep wrinkles had suddenly marred my flawless complexion. I mean, how old-man can you possibly get? How much do they get paid for Saturdays? What is wrong with me? I know that I'm becoming a geezer far before my time, but I had absolutely no idea how bad it had gotten. Next thing you know I'll be out there shaking a fist at them for blocking a lane of traffic. My lane of traffic.
How am I gonna stop this? I don't want to wear jumpsuits or drive a huge American land yacht or wear black shoes and black socks as I mow the lawn. I want to be me. Me now, not me in thirty years.
There's got to be a way to avoid this. Time machine... that's it... I'll invent a time machine. How hard could it be?
* insert super-villain laugh here
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Laxity Of The Masses
I went into Wal-Mart in workout clothes today. Sweaty workout clothes, since I had just left the gym.
I was not ashamed.
Time was, the only place I would go after a workout would be home, or to buy a lotto ticket at a convenience store. You can't win if you don't play, after all. I've been back home two months now, and after perusing my favorite train wrecks at People of Wal-Mart, I realized that I could go into that store soaking wet and nearly naked and I still wouldn't stand out very much. Plus, there's no one in Wal-Mart I care about enough to want to make a good impression with. Wearing sweaty workout clothes? Need groceries at the same time? Bada-bing, bada-boom, and Don's walking through the aisles of Wally World with dark sweat rings around his neck and under his arms, and probably trailing a musky, provocative odor behind. Just one more redneck in several enclosed acres full of them.
It's freeing, this hewing to the lowest common denominator. I'm a fairly educated person - and a bit of a smarty-pants too - and you couldn't tell me apart from anyone else in there, ditchdigger or physicist or anything in between. That kind of bland anonymity is comforting, like a dirty NASCAR blanket thrown around my shoulders in my time of need. I'm just there to get my pickles and American cheese like everybody else.
Next time, I'm thinking of wearing my Fishnet Speedo Jr. and lobster hat. Just to push the envelope and see how far I can take 'casual Friday' before someone's forced to call the cops.
I was not ashamed.
Time was, the only place I would go after a workout would be home, or to buy a lotto ticket at a convenience store. You can't win if you don't play, after all. I've been back home two months now, and after perusing my favorite train wrecks at People of Wal-Mart, I realized that I could go into that store soaking wet and nearly naked and I still wouldn't stand out very much. Plus, there's no one in Wal-Mart I care about enough to want to make a good impression with. Wearing sweaty workout clothes? Need groceries at the same time? Bada-bing, bada-boom, and Don's walking through the aisles of Wally World with dark sweat rings around his neck and under his arms, and probably trailing a musky, provocative odor behind. Just one more redneck in several enclosed acres full of them.
It's freeing, this hewing to the lowest common denominator. I'm a fairly educated person - and a bit of a smarty-pants too - and you couldn't tell me apart from anyone else in there, ditchdigger or physicist or anything in between. That kind of bland anonymity is comforting, like a dirty NASCAR blanket thrown around my shoulders in my time of need. I'm just there to get my pickles and American cheese like everybody else.
Next time, I'm thinking of wearing my Fishnet Speedo Jr. and lobster hat. Just to push the envelope and see how far I can take 'casual Friday' before someone's forced to call the cops.
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