Saturday Morning Cartoons
In my younger days, Saturday mornings were reserved for Bugs Bunny and the Roadrunner. Looney Tunes were the best, and to see them, all I had to do was hold my bladder.
Shock Value
The other night, on the way home from work, I walked past a bus stop occupied by two people. They appeared to be hugging, so I didn’t think twice and kept walking. I could see them rocking rhythmically back and forth, and as I got close, the woman said “That’s enough!”
The young man stood up straight and looked at me with a huge grin. The girl put her legs down, adjusted her miniskirt and zipped her parka. The guy put his weenie away with a flourish.
There was a time I would have told the tale for several days. Now? I see two people fucking at the bus stop, I say an internal “Alrighty then”, and keep on truckin’.
Fair warning- this is as much fun as this post gets. If you want humor, you might want to pick a different one.
“Hey! I know you…”
At work, I deal with all walks of life. From scum of the earth to the pillars of society. I deal with so many people on a daily basis that everyone starts looking familiar. I see old friends. People remember me from a different store. Once in a while, I even see a celebrity.
I have met a few. Janet Reno, back in the ’90s. I sold cold medicine to Billy Bob Thornton once. Just a few weeks ago, I confiscated the briefcase of Flounder from Animal House. (Verified. I saw his credit card.) I didn’t recognize him; he’s gotten quite fit.
Local celebs as well. I’ve met several wrestlers from the old Portland Wrestling days. Billy Jack, Billy Two Eagles. I have an autograph from the late Sandy Barr. (It’s on his receipt for two cartons of Pall Mall straights.) I met Tonya Harding, as well as her former husband, The Genius.
I wish I could name drop here tonight. I sold a pack of cigarettes to a statuesque blonde woman, and it wasn’t until she left that I realized who she was. (I think.) She’s an actress of Jurassic proportions.
The problem? Well, she was wearing those big sunglasses that are all the rage. She wore a shape-flattering little black dress, and it was not completely buttoned, ahem. She was about six feet tall in heels, so my gaze didn’t go all the way to the top. It wasn’t until she said goodnight that I realized whose voice I was hearing. (I think.)
So, Miss Hollywood Actress, if that was you, thanks for being so cool. And I promise, if you come in again, I will do my best to make more eye contact…
From the land of sky blue waters…
Last evening at work, a fellow comes in. I recognize him from several years ago, from a previous work place. He’s a chronic alcoholic, and I have seen him sloppy to the point of immobility.He has cleaned up nicely, and looks like he’s been working on this 90 degree day.
Of course, my illusions are shattered. He goes to the beer cooler and grabs a six-pack of Hamm’s. Knowing his previous history, I probably shouldn’t have sold it to him, but he was walking okay.
As he gets to the counter, he sees the Clean and Safe officer standing there. I ask how he’s doing. “Fine.” No slurring. Good, good.
I ring him up, put it into a bag, and the officer asks “How’s it going?” Friendly.
“I’d be better if you assholes weren’t always moving me along.” He harrumphed his way out the door.
I looked at the officer. “Well, isn’t that special?” in my best Church Lady voice.
“Fuck him.” The officer got on his bike and rode off.
Half an hour later, Mister Hamms comes back. Grabs another six-pack. He’s not staggering. “Did you drink all that already?” I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“NO! Motherfuckin’ rent-a-pig poured my beer out! Asshole!”
I calmly removed the six-pack. “Bummer.”
“Hey! What are you doing? He said it was okay to drink it, as long as I don’t get caught.”
“Of course it is,” I said. “But you got caught. If I get caught selling you more, I get a ticket. So you are heretofore cut off.”
“Expletive expletive more expletives…” he walks out.
Three minutes later, a construction worker comes in and grabs a six-pack. Of Hamm’s. I put it on top of the confiscated one. “Sorry. Can’t sell it to you.”
“Why? It’s for me.”
“Yeah, okay. I still can’t sell it to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you will go right outside, give it to that other guy, and I get a selling-to-intoxicated ticket. No.”
Construction worker says, “He’s a friend of ours. We’re going to my house.”
I give him a look. I call it the ‘That’s my white momma’ look. “Are you really going to take him to your house?”
He squirmed. “No. That sucks for him. That was most of his money. He got a drinking in public ticket, and he’s about to start DTing. Oh well. See ya!” He was gone.
The Devil and Angel popped up. We don’t sell that much Hamm’s. I could have let him continue spending until he was broke, or until we were out of Hamm’s. It would have kept Clean and Safe busy, and we all could have laughed about it later.
Alas, the Angel won.
A mind like a steel trap, rusted shut…
I’m that guy who remembers birthdays. Odd events. It amazes my friends when I send them anniversary e-mails. I can tell you what happened on this day in 1986, if it was something interesting. I remember where I was when Mt. St. Helens blew, two different times. I don’t remember the Kennedy assassination, (age 2) but I remember where I was and what I was doing when John Lennon was shot. I watched both space shuttles blow up on live TV. I remember where I was the moment Y2K happened. And, of course, 9/11.
But those are big ones. I remember little quirky ones, like the day my sister met her husband. (November 8, 1989.) My brother-in-law (a different one) died on the day of the Simpson-Brown murders. His funeral preceded the infamous white Bronco chase. We drank forties and watched, riveted and grateful for the distraction.
A lot of it comes, I think, from a strict religious upbringing that didn’t allow celebration of holidays, birthdays, etc… Alcohol played a role. It seems less decadent if you drink to celebrate a reason, and I could come up with a reason for every day of the year.
If not, let’s get hammered and create a reason for next year!
Today is a memorable day. It’s the birthday of an ex-boss, and a former co-worker. The grandmother of a friend was born today. The big one? It’s Mizelle’s birthday! I won’t say how old she is, (cough 33 cough) but will say she still looks mighty good for an old lady. She’s in Idaho, or Utah, or wherever the roaming Grandma is this week. (They’re a nomadic bunch.) I’m sure they are having a wonderful time.
Happy birthday, sweetheart.
The Blue Mouse
You might think I spend a lot of time in movie theaters, the way I talk about film. Not so much anymore, but I used to. Before home cinema (VCRs, DVDs, etc…) I was good for a movie a week, often more, when the cheap theaters were up and running. I knew them all. The best ones were downtown. Read the rest of this entry »
Did you see that?
I get impatient sometimes. I get a thought and can’t wait to share it with the world. When I write these things, I usually proofread as I go, let it sit a few minutes, read it again, fix accordingly, then post it.
I’m moving on to the next subject. Occasionally though, I revisit the older works, and cringe. A feeling akin to walking around all day with your pants unzipped. Some of these works could have used a night’s sleep to age properly.
So, I apologize for overuse of adverbs. I’ll try to self-reference a little less. (I Me Mine was a Beatles song. It shouldn’t be one-third of my word count.)
I’ll try to lay off those pesky parenthesises as well.
I’ve learned things while writing this blog. Spellchecker doesn’t know everything. (Like how to spell Spellchecker! Oops, again with the parenthesis.) I try not to use spell checkers, but I double-check the word when the writing program says I should.
Another lesson; it doesn’t work in the blogpost title field. For now and forever, I know how to spell the word cunnilingus.
I’m going back and rereading some of this stuff, not censoring (never!) but cleaning up a bit. Putting my seventh-grade education to the test by making minor grammatical corrections. I’m not always the quickest to embrace technology, but these blog thingies are the coolest! Minor adjustments can me made in a matter of seconds.
I learned to type using carbon paper.
You young ‘uns may have to check Wikipedia to find out what that is.
Thank you, dear readers, for dropping by, and politely ignoring my unzipped state. I’ll be watching my Ps and Qs from now on.
Beavers vs ‘Eaters?
Welcome to Penthouse Forum.
Just kidding. I am watching the late-night repeat of the OSU-UC Irvine game. I don’t know how it ends yet, but it’s 7-1 in the ninth inning. I’m cautiously optimistic.
I often watch the reruns on ESPN, especially during college football season. It’s still new if you don’t know how it ends, right? I do the same thing with local news. At least one channel repeats its 10 or 11 o’clock news. It’s a godsend for us late-nighters.
I have a feeling about this game. A rather happy-looking customer came in, smelling ever so slightly of foofy drinks and wearing a brilliant orange Oregon State Beavers tee shirt. I immediately blurted out, “Don’t tell me how it ends!”
“What?” she said slyly, after a second’s hesitation.
“The score! I want to watch the rerun.”
“Was there some sort of game tonight?”
I smirked, “You just happened to be wearing your Beaver tee shirt out to the club tonight…”
Her grin gave it away.
“Wanna play poker?”
She assured me it was a good game, though not as thrilling as the thirteen run marathons earlier in the playoffs. It was, if you are an OSU fan, that is.
Congratulations, our boys of summer.
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming. I can’t wait to see what kind of searches I get with this title…
It’s a miracle!
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Just when I think I’ve seen it all, something new comes along. Today I had a near-religious experience.
I’d been to work just a few minutes when the grocer from across the street came into our store and said, “There’s a guy outside that just stole a bottle of wine from you.”
If this sounds familiar, the same thing happened a month or two ago. Different clerk, same story.
I followed him to the street. He pointed north. “He went that way. He was wearing, how you say, desert outfit? Like camel jockey.”
“What?” It was weird to hear a middle-Eastern man use that phrase.
“You know, long white thing on the head.”
“White guy?”
“Yes. Big. Not big like you, but high.” I think he meant tall. “There he is!” The grocer pointed, “See! There is your wine.”
Across the street, in white flowing robes and a shroud, was Jesus. Okay, not *the* Jesus, but a reasonable facsimile. He was dressed in white from head to toe, with only a dark beard and a brown bottle of wine to add contrast. I recognized his stagger; it was the same wine thief from last month.
I called Clean and Safe, the downtown security company, and told the officer on duty. “And what would you like us to do when we find Jesus?” was her rather witty retort.
“Well, if he hasn’t opened it yet, we’d like our wine back.”
I told her the thief’s name; he’s well known among all the officers. They had made contact earlier. His robes were a bed sheet, and the shroud was a towel.
The officer signed off, sarcastically saying, “When we find Jesus, we’ll be sure to get him back into your life ASAP.”
“Gee thanks, I think…”
No less than six officers came by over the next couple of hours. Their presence had a calming effect, I had no trouble the rest of the night, other than figuring out how a six-foot tall man in flowing white robes managed to walk past me twice, in the process stealing a jug of vino, without my noticing.
I got a kick out of the transit security guard’s nickname for him- Ali Bubba. Had he stolen a big bottle of beer, would that make him one of the forty thieves? Hardy har har.
I preferred to call him Jesus. There was a celestial air about him, as he floated drunkenly down the sidewalk.
If it was the same thief as last month, one bottle wouldn’t be enough. I waited, and waited, but he didn’t come back.
Will miracles never cease? Apparently for one night.
Birds chirping, wind rustling through the leaves…
…and then the goddamned phone rings!
Or the garbage truck comes. Three times. How much garbage service do we get anyway?
The dog barks at the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who decide not to knock after all. The cats, speed-racing around the living room, knock a stack of magazines off the table. This wakes the kids, who begin watching Spongebob at jet level, enhancing the cacophony.
Summer’s here.
I’ve been taking the early morning quiet for granted. Without school, the youth of today are running wild, and being chased by domesticated animals. The phone calls start about 9 AM. (That’s like 3 AM to you normal folk…) I had no idea these kids were so popular.
Why am I grumbling? Because three hours sleep isn’t enough!! I’m cranky, dagnabbit. Instead of sitting here, typing, I should be sleeping. But *I* don’t go to bed that early. (Three 20 oz mochas didn’t exactly mellow me out, either.) So I poundeth upon the keyboard, and slowly come to the realization that all that crazy noise is what I live for. I remember the week the gang went back east, and how I missed them, worried about them, and how grateful I was when they came home.
So I guess the kids and critters can stay. I’ll get used to them. But hey, Mister Garbageman, can you keep it down, just a little?
The old guy is trying to sleep.
