#GetOffMyLawn
As the old saying goes, opinions are like assholes; everybody has one. Let the Grumpy Old Man Club come to order. (Bangs gavel.)
‘Tis the season, whence folks come downtown for holiday shopping and events. These bursts of business are coupled with long stretches of quiet during nights and weekends thanks to weather, holiday travel and the fear of having one’s ass blown to high heaven by a misguided youth. Fun times!
We spend lots of time forcibly socializing with the ‘regulars’, folks who have nowhere else to go. They come, they chat. They wander off and come back an hour later. Some folks have nothing better to do than go to the Kwik-E-Mart. We try to humor them, but it gets tiring. I feel like Lucy Van Pelt from Peanuts. Psychiatry: Five Cents.
After numerous encounters, Dr T and I started discussing behaviors that get on our nerves. And looks.The kids these days! The pants-on-the-ground, saggy drawers/full diaper look is *so* 1998. I don’t want to see your boxer shorts.
However, a double standard applies here. If you are a girl flashing hip cleavage, please come early and often. Wear your pants as low as you like.
Douchebag hats: AKA fedoras. Unless you are Tom Waits or Frank Sinatra, you must be over 40 or capable of growing gray hair before this look is acceptable. I realize you are channeling Freddy Krueger or mimicking Dusty Craterlake, but it makes you look like an eight-year-old playing Daddy.
Dr T thinks I’m being harsh on this. I probably am. The best way to keep me from calling it a douchebag hat? Don’t act like a douchebag.
Fake accents and foreign phrases: Using the term “Cheers!” three times in two sentences, especially when you hail from Molalla, is unacceptable. Makes me want to put my boot in your boot, stuff you in a boot and drive the car off a pier, then stand and suck on a fag while watching you sink into the bay. Does that sentence make sense to you? It would if you were from England. “Cheers!”
Speaking of fags, (cigarettes for the non-British) Dr T and I have similar views in the pet-peeve department of this category.
A few days ago, I laid in bed listening to it rain. A steady drizzle which I find soothing, but something wasn’t right. There was a steady ‘Drip drip drip’ that was louder than the rest of the rain, and it was annoying the fuck out of me. Why does that sound bother me so? It took a couple minutes, but it dawned on me: It’s the sound of someone packing their cigarettes. Smack smack smack.
I get the concept. They burn better when tamped down. BUT, (notice the caps, which means I’m yelling this to get you to pay attention) if you pack them all at once, the tobacco loosens, falls out into the bottom of the pack and you have ten percent less cigarette. Good for you? Maybe. But it defeats your intended purpose, which is to have a satisfying smoke. When I vented this to Dr T, he said, “I know what you mean. Flogging your camel won’t make it work any harder.”
“When I smoked,” sounding like the sage old man I am, “I’d tap the filter end of the cigarette against my thumbnail, or the lighter.”
“I get a kick out of watching a young tough guy beating the crap out of his Marlboros.”
“You mean his ‘Marbs’?”
Dr T lit up like Mike Tyson after you insulted his mama. “I fucking hate it when they call ’em that!”
“I feel your pain. I automatically card anyone who calls ’em Marbs. If you aren’t old enough to pronounce Marlboro, you shouldn’t be smoking. I give Asians a pass, because of all the Ls and Rs, but I don’t think I’ve ever had an Asian person refer to them as Marbs.”
“Bless their culture,” said Dr T.
And with that, it’s time to babysit the huddled masses on another hopefully mellow Monday night.
I can see my first customer: Twentysomething white dude in fedora and droopy drawers, wanting a pack of “Marb Smooves.” He will commence to beat the living shit out of the pack while waiting for his credit card to run, then “Cheers!” me twice on the way out.
The Grumpy Old Man Club is now in recess. Got to catch a bus.
Getting Bombed On Friday Night
Ah, the holidays. Mass-marketing under the guise of love for one’s fellow man. Forced cheer. Whoopty-fuckin’ do.
Had to run an errand downtown today, taking care of one small detail before declaring myself single again. (Yet another reason to look forward to a never-ending holiday season.) I’m beginning to wonder why I bother. I relate more each day to that Wile E Coyote figurine staring me down. The futility of repeatedly attempting to fire up my love life is getting disheartening. I should be careful what I wish for.
But enough misery talk. How about that terrorist, eh?
I’d just left the bank and was boarding a bus three blocks away when the bin Laden-wannabe made his phone call, attempting to set off a car bomb at the holiday tree lighting ceremony. (Mercury coverage here, Oregonian and links to national stuff here.) It’s not uncommon to see tons of cop cars at an event of this magnitude; I thought nothing of it and knew nothing until hours later, when details emerged on the internet.
Today has been about getting my head back on straight. Got up and took care of the heavy business, then spent the afternoon taking my time going home. Nothing to look forward to but laundry. Got a new battery installed in my watch, the ironic Ironman with the teal band. (“Manly, yes.” “But I like it too!”) I stopped for coffee at the mall, eyeing the multitudes dressed in ugly sweaters. The gal that runs the coffee stand smiled when she saw it was me picking up the quadruple mocha.
“Hey! How ya been?” She’s the same barista who was working when the old guy committed suicide a few months back.
“Meh. Same old same old. Looks like business is good for you.” I’d left and returned, instead of waiting through a line a few minutes prior.
“Yeah, we’ve been going crazy for a couple weeks now. New storefronts…” She pointed to the Swedish department store.
I sat nearby, watching folks mill about. Caffeinated, I caught a MAX heading home. Immediately upon being seated, a fight broke out on the platform at Pioneer Square, less than a block from the bomb spot. We sat for ten minutes while the old man and the Road Warrior shouted and shoved each other. Cops came, order was restored. As the train pulled out, I set the MP3 player to Metallica and listened to “…And Justice For All”.
Another delay at the Rose Quarter: A fight on the train in front of us. We sat for fifteen minutes while the cops responded to that incident. I shared a compartment with a father/son combo. (They reminded me of the Humpty Dumpty family, ages 53 and 21.) Across from them were five white guys with droopy pants, sideways hats and gold-embossed dollar signs on their hoodies. They surrounded a girl, whose buck teeth were surpassed in size only by her eyebrows. She kept yelling “Thanks, motherfuckers for messing up my connection!” Apparently these fights were keeping her posse from their intended rounds.
Tonight (Saturday) is the only night this week I haven’t had plans. After tonight I’m booked through Wednesday. I’m grateful to be busy, and should enjoy a quiet night at home. Unfortunately, the chicken I was going to have for dinner has a sour-milk aroma and, according to a friend who works in an upscale kitchen, *that* is a recipe for disaster. Leftover turkey for the third day is a much safer bet. I have bags of potato chips. Partial diet-fail impending.
Or I could go out again. Impulse-venturing had me crossing paths with no less than three old friends this week, all pleasant surprises. The Dominatrix even made an appearance.
Life won’t keep me down for long. Not with role models like Wile E.
Fritterin’ Away the Moments that Make Up a Dull Day
Too bad Master P doesn’t believe in snow days.
It’s officially Snow-vember. Things started getting cold about three hours ago. I’d went to Meg’s for a few minutes and needed to borrow the store’s umbrella to get there. When I left, it was spitting snow and sleet.
I’ve since been reading the Twitters, checking news updates, checking the sidewalks. I pulled out the shovel, and gathered a couple Super Big Gulp-sized cups of rock salt. Sister has to deliver newspapers in the morning; I’m more concerned about her getting hurt than me getting home. Sorry folks, but if I wanted to live in Minnesota I’d have moved there.
The upside is that work is quiet, mostly. Giggles arrived three hours early, bless his soul. There’s talk I might get out a few minutes early for transportation’s sake. Woohoo!
Until then, I will likely be selling a ton of wine and hot chocolate. The night shift workers come out as normal, but the clubbers and hustlers are scarce. This gives me time to ponder the universe, dream dirty thoughts about not-so-dirty girls, conquer pet projects. Giggles will keep me from doing one of my favorite time-wasters, cutting pictures from the newspapers and changing the headlines. It drives Grinder crazy.
Maybe I should ask Grinder to get me this for Christmas?
Not unless I want to be dusting light bulbs and cleaning bathrooms for the next three months…
Papa Needs a New Pair of Shoes
Nate Berkus has nothing on me.
I grew up low income, which is not the same as poor. We made do with what we had, took care of our stuff until it fell apart, and watched for bargains and sales. Coupons equal money, so we used them when possible. Nowadays, with the internet and all the different incentive programs merchants use to draw you in, the pickings are even better. If you are persistent and keep your eyes open.
I spent yesterday afternoon getting Fred Meyer to pay me $2 to haul away a new pair of Nikes…
The Safe Word Is- JESUS!
The spirit of Christ compels you...
“Oh, Jesus!…”
HUMP 2010 was everything we expected. We laughed, we cried, Dr T about did a monkey-flip during one scene, and I almost found religion in the form of a very naughty nun.
Several months back as I exited the bus at the end of the Hawthorne Bridge, I looked down and saw a silvery crucifix on the sidewalk. It was also a dog whistle, and since I have a dog I can justify my non-religious ass having a symbol of Christianity next to the evil-looking trinkets on my keychain. I thought it looked cool. I wondered how and why it ended up where it did. Was it a sign?
It was probably a coincidence, and in no way related to that crucifix…
My Home Town
Zoom Zoom Zoom…
I’ve spent the weekend getting, setting up and enjoying high-speed internet. Thass right, I’ve come full circle, got with the program, am one of the cool kids. (Circa 2003. I will now be mocked for not having a Smart Phone. But I digress.) I can watch YouTube without having to wait 45 minutes to load a five-minute video.
I thought I’d start the fun by inserting (teehee) a favorite recent clip, featuring some of our fair city’s hot spots and the girls who make them so. I’m thinking I’ll drop a few bucks when this film comes out. Ten to one I know somebody in it…
Toys in the Attic
It was a subdued weekend. Didn’t have a lot going on. Went out when the weather was nice, even braved a couple rain storms. Since I have all this cool new TV, it seemed feasible to indulge. Wanting to watch something upbeat, I got Toy Story 3 off of Netflix.
The effect was the exact opposite of what I expected…
A Steamin’ Heap of Sweet, Sweet Crow
“Where’s your white cane and dog, ya blind bastard ya?”
Dr T was on the porch, smoking a cigarette and giving me the evil eye.
Had I made a false accusation?
“It’s right over there under the coconut water, where I said it was.”
The fudge mystery was becoming clear. It was a lack of communication…
I went to the cooler, looked at the empty spot where it was yesterday. “No, one door to the right. You were so worried about Giggles making off with it, I hid it better. I thought you heard me.” Dr T was making goddamn sure I saw where it was this time. “Emmy’s been giving me shit all day, and Grinder even waved that hangman’s noose you left laying around here months ago. I’m innocent!”
“Innocent? I find that hard to believe. Man, if that frosts your doughnut, you’d probably best stay away from my blog…”
“WHAT? You dissin’ me there, too?”
I cast a sheepish look at the store floor. “Not really… I just called you a sticky-fingered fudge packer.” I ducked, knowing his proximity to the stapler. He remained calm, but his smirk spoke volumes.
“Well, goddammit, since we can’t have you candy-deprived, I brought Whitney’s and mine back. Go lose a goddamn toe!”
“You don’t want it?”
The angry facade vaporized, we laughed. “It’s very good, but very sweet.”
“Much like Emmy,” I said. He nodded.
“Well, I will take it home and use it in its intended fashion; late at night when sweet things seem to taste best.” I winked.
Shortly after, Weird Steven came in with a bag of Golden Harvest bread. Carb overload… At least I could pass that off as healthy.
Promptly at 7 PM, Pan walked in to relieve me for an hour. “Okay, I’m buyin’, you’re flyin’!”
Oh yeah, Voodoo Doughnut…
“I want two Memphis Mafias, and get one for yourself.” He handed me a $20.
I arrived just before a throng of twenty, and was back in fifteen minutes, a record. The kids at VD had outdone themselves; the fritters were HUGE.
Candy karma restored. I will walk an extra twenty miles this weekend. That oughta get close to the calorie offset…
Sticky Fingered Fudge Packer…
A thief has struck. Someone get a rope!
A customer asked if I’d been given any Halloween candy? Alas, I had not, I told them. Dr T piped in, “You haven’t checked the cooler. Emmy left you something.”
Oh boy, oh joy! Treats from Emmy…
Last Minute Tricks and Treats
When Halloween lands on Sunday night, the actual holiday takes a hit. Adults have to get up and work Monday morning, kids have school. Halloween has become a seasonal event, seemingly more popular than Christmas. The adults start a week early, drinking and dressing up. When I returned to work last night, I’d feared I’d missed the fun.
Apparently, everyone missed the fun this year.
Dingleberry Gazette 