When we last left our hero, he had just picked up his rental car with visions of sugar plums still dancing in his head. But a couple oddball moments….
It was some scorching weather in Iowa, so on Wednesday I wore my ironic Costco golf shirt. When I arrived at the client’s office he said, “Nice shirt.” First, he doesn’t seem to be the type to offer such a compliment. Second, not only did it cost me just $10 or some other ridiculously low amount, but I don’t golf and I hope I didn’t give them the impression that I do golf. I don’t think they got the irony. Crap. I need to remember only to wear it around people who know that the only time I set foot on a golf course is to roll around on the fairway when I’m feeling nitrogen deficient. My only hope is that he was meeting my irony with a dose of satire.
Next, on Tuesday night I headed over to my Cedar Rapids hangout - the Irish Democrat Pub & Grill. Good food, amusing servers/barkeeps, and a nice flat screen to keep me occupied. I had gotten a giant salad there the night before – it was in one of those deceptive bowls in which pasta is usually served where you eat and eat and eat and forty-five minutes later it doesn’t look like you touched your meal. But I was looking forward to the baby back ribs the following night. Fall off the bone deliciousness. As I approached the area I noted some trees down due to the storm that had passed through and some traffic lights were also out. The parking lot was unusually empty and when I walked in the manager told me the power was out and they were closing down. Crap. It was like a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break. And I wasn’t even wearing my ironic shirt.
So I capitulated and ended up at Texas Roadhouse, for lack of knowing any other options for my BBQ fix. The food is decent and the service is pretty good, but it’s just a little too cheesy and packaged for my taste. This coming from a guy with crushes on Crystal Bernard and Shania Twain. But I digress.
I mosey in and take a seat at the bar, and I’m greeted by the bartender with “Hi, can I get you something to drink, maybe a Fat Tire?” That’s cool – I don’t mind being mistaken for a guy who might enjoy a Fat Tire rather than the margaritas they seemed to be pushing on everyone else that night. I later found out there was a drink contest going on - you know, where they offer some sort of prize like sex with the assistant GM for the server who pushes the most specialty drinks that night. After I ordered, she then asked, “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.” I told her and she said, “I know I waited on you before.” She was correct – it was a slow night last time and, like oh so many others, I got most of her life story. But I still thought it was odd that she remembered me from one visit back on April 13. I looked it up on my expense report. That’s over two months. So that means she remembered me after all that time because I was either incredibly good looking or incredibly creepy. Crap. I know I’m not that good-looking. But I couldn't have been that creepy. Right? She spent most of the time standing over by me and initiating conversations. Some of the other servers even came by and joined in. All I know is that I’m paranoid now and I’m afraid to go back.
The general rule of thumb if you ever see me – just pretend you don’t know me. We’ll all be happier that way.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Hertz So Good
Well I'm a highway junkie
And I need that old white line
Flying can suck it. I’m not afraid; I actually enjoy the experience of flight – the power of lift off, the aerial views, and managing to finish it all without a mangled, fiery mess. However, airports, the TSA, and the airlines themselves have sucked any joy from the experience. Between ridiculous fees for actually wanting to bring baggage on my trips to fees for having to scratch my balls while flying over Tulsa; from having to disassemble my carry-ons so that the TSA can see what kind of douche I use to having to watch Grandma Moses get strip searched for a suicide bra bomb at security; and to be treated by everyone involved as more of an annoyance rather than a customer, I’d rather just hop behind the wheel of a large automobile and ask myself, where does that highway go?
So when I have to make my routine trip to Cedar Rapids or any other location within 250 miles, I book a car with Hertz, load the iPod up with some road trip music and hit the highway. Hertz is a little more expensive than some of the other companies, but I learned my lesson after an ugly experience with Thrifty that it is usually worth it. My experience with Thrifty in New Orleans many years ago involved an unnecessarily long shuttle ride, marveling at the inefficiencies of the check-in process, and a prolonged “discussion” with the branch manager over a scratch which I thought was going to end up in a cage match to the death. I prevailed but since then I’ve been pretty loyal to Hertz, who have consistently provided good locations, decent customer service, clean cars, efficient pick up and returns, and even a slight inkling that they seem to appreciate my business.
When I’m not flying and renting from an airport location I use their “Local Edition” locations, most often a branch about two blocks from my office. As a somewhat regular customer it was easy to get #1 Club Gold status, which streamlines the process even more. It essentially allows you to pick up your car by using a secret handshake and a wink. However, as I picked up my car this most recent Sunday it didn’t go as smoothly as it usually does.
First off, apparently weekends like Father’s Day are big business for local rental companies. I’m guessing all those small town kids who leave for big city life rent cars to go visit their neglected parents back on the farm. Hijinx certainly ensue when Pauly Shore comes along. This leads to a little more pressure to turn over the fleet more quickly, and to do it with the skeleton staffing during the limited weekend hours.
Further, I showed up shortly after opening before the local agent had time to prep the pick ups for the day. And the agent was filling in at this location, and like that substitute teacher you had in 5th grade it didn’t exactly go without hiccups. This is where your business lesson begins. This lesson follows three simple assumptions:
1) Sexism is alive and well.
2) Men are dumb.
3) #1 and #2 do have their limits.
I guess now is a good time to mention that the agent was a young lady in her early 20’s, cute, with disproportionately large breasts, and wearing a shirt that certainly did not hide them, even less so when she bent forward to pick up keys, answer the phone, reach the printer or give the secret handshake. Did this influence how annoyed I got while waiting for my rental? See #1 and #2. Yes, it did. I was far less annoyed than if the agent had been a sloppy, unshaven, 20-something hipster doofus named Lance.
But now to Rule #3… my annoyance grace period would have expired rather quickly had she thought that a peep show excused her from actually fulfilling her duties of getting my ass in the driver’s seat of a large automobile. But I’m happy to report that she couldn’t have handled the situation any better.
There were three of us there, and customer #1 did not have a previous reservation, was not a Gold customer, and was being a little difficult. She got him somewhat placated, then jumped over to me and #3, then excused herself to make sure she had three clean cars up in the garage. When she returned, she asked #1 if she could get me and #3 going since we had existing reservations. He deferred and I stepped to the plate. There were some additional problems, either getting into the computer system or getting the contracts printed so she had to call for some support, but she kept me engaged by letting me know what was going on the whole time, making some small talk, and by bending forward to accomplish menial tasks. She thanked me for my patience and used my first name. I thought this was somewhat casual for a business transaction, but you know what, I felt pretty good being called Sid instead of Old Man F’er or Sir. And to top it all off (no pun intended) I got a nice new fully loaded 2010 model, and she gave me a free tank of gas to further thank me for my patience.
So there you go, Hertz. She’s a keeper. And to all you other businesses out there, I've said it before – if you have a largely male clientele and can find a good-looking girl who can use her brain as well as her looks, make her an offer she can’t refuse.
And I need that old white line
Flying can suck it. I’m not afraid; I actually enjoy the experience of flight – the power of lift off, the aerial views, and managing to finish it all without a mangled, fiery mess. However, airports, the TSA, and the airlines themselves have sucked any joy from the experience. Between ridiculous fees for actually wanting to bring baggage on my trips to fees for having to scratch my balls while flying over Tulsa; from having to disassemble my carry-ons so that the TSA can see what kind of douche I use to having to watch Grandma Moses get strip searched for a suicide bra bomb at security; and to be treated by everyone involved as more of an annoyance rather than a customer, I’d rather just hop behind the wheel of a large automobile and ask myself, where does that highway go?
So when I have to make my routine trip to Cedar Rapids or any other location within 250 miles, I book a car with Hertz, load the iPod up with some road trip music and hit the highway. Hertz is a little more expensive than some of the other companies, but I learned my lesson after an ugly experience with Thrifty that it is usually worth it. My experience with Thrifty in New Orleans many years ago involved an unnecessarily long shuttle ride, marveling at the inefficiencies of the check-in process, and a prolonged “discussion” with the branch manager over a scratch which I thought was going to end up in a cage match to the death. I prevailed but since then I’ve been pretty loyal to Hertz, who have consistently provided good locations, decent customer service, clean cars, efficient pick up and returns, and even a slight inkling that they seem to appreciate my business.
When I’m not flying and renting from an airport location I use their “Local Edition” locations, most often a branch about two blocks from my office. As a somewhat regular customer it was easy to get #1 Club Gold status, which streamlines the process even more. It essentially allows you to pick up your car by using a secret handshake and a wink. However, as I picked up my car this most recent Sunday it didn’t go as smoothly as it usually does.
First off, apparently weekends like Father’s Day are big business for local rental companies. I’m guessing all those small town kids who leave for big city life rent cars to go visit their neglected parents back on the farm. Hijinx certainly ensue when Pauly Shore comes along. This leads to a little more pressure to turn over the fleet more quickly, and to do it with the skeleton staffing during the limited weekend hours.
Further, I showed up shortly after opening before the local agent had time to prep the pick ups for the day. And the agent was filling in at this location, and like that substitute teacher you had in 5th grade it didn’t exactly go without hiccups. This is where your business lesson begins. This lesson follows three simple assumptions:
1) Sexism is alive and well.
2) Men are dumb.
3) #1 and #2 do have their limits.
I guess now is a good time to mention that the agent was a young lady in her early 20’s, cute, with disproportionately large breasts, and wearing a shirt that certainly did not hide them, even less so when she bent forward to pick up keys, answer the phone, reach the printer or give the secret handshake. Did this influence how annoyed I got while waiting for my rental? See #1 and #2. Yes, it did. I was far less annoyed than if the agent had been a sloppy, unshaven, 20-something hipster doofus named Lance.
But now to Rule #3… my annoyance grace period would have expired rather quickly had she thought that a peep show excused her from actually fulfilling her duties of getting my ass in the driver’s seat of a large automobile. But I’m happy to report that she couldn’t have handled the situation any better.
There were three of us there, and customer #1 did not have a previous reservation, was not a Gold customer, and was being a little difficult. She got him somewhat placated, then jumped over to me and #3, then excused herself to make sure she had three clean cars up in the garage. When she returned, she asked #1 if she could get me and #3 going since we had existing reservations. He deferred and I stepped to the plate. There were some additional problems, either getting into the computer system or getting the contracts printed so she had to call for some support, but she kept me engaged by letting me know what was going on the whole time, making some small talk, and by bending forward to accomplish menial tasks. She thanked me for my patience and used my first name. I thought this was somewhat casual for a business transaction, but you know what, I felt pretty good being called Sid instead of Old Man F’er or Sir. And to top it all off (no pun intended) I got a nice new fully loaded 2010 model, and she gave me a free tank of gas to further thank me for my patience.
So there you go, Hertz. She’s a keeper. And to all you other businesses out there, I've said it before – if you have a largely male clientele and can find a good-looking girl who can use her brain as well as her looks, make her an offer she can’t refuse.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Very Gray Matter
Because I’m an old man, I was listening to elevator music at work today and the station played Strangers in the Night. You know, exchanging glances, what were the chances….
But it set off a strange thought progression – remember in grade school when you used to get a little catalog of books that you could order through your class? You’d have like a week to fill out the order form and bring a check from mom, and then like two weeks later the order would show up? This was apparently before bookstores were invented and before the Internets and the Amazon were discovered. Like I said, I’m old.
But I remember one of the books I ordered was a songbook of tunes to play on your touchtone phone. Yes, I was a very strange kid. For example, if you have a touch tone phone or a mobile phone that simulates the touch tones, you too can play Strangers in the Night by pressing:
4-8-8-4-8, 4-8-6-8-4
Of course, make sure you’re already dialed into another working number (preferably a friend who already finds you annoying) or else your Strangers in the Night jam will get you connected to a woman in Poland named Ludmila who is not amused by your serenade.
Then I recalled that you could also order joke books through school and I remember getting the politically incorrect Official Polish / Italian Joke Book one time.
But I digress. I just found it strange that somewhere in my brain there was a dusty old neural pathway making the connection between Strangers in the Night and those stupid books from 30 years ago. The same brain can’t remember to pack a pair of underwear when I ride my bike to work. But I am half Polish, so that might explain it.
But it set off a strange thought progression – remember in grade school when you used to get a little catalog of books that you could order through your class? You’d have like a week to fill out the order form and bring a check from mom, and then like two weeks later the order would show up? This was apparently before bookstores were invented and before the Internets and the Amazon were discovered. Like I said, I’m old.
But I remember one of the books I ordered was a songbook of tunes to play on your touchtone phone. Yes, I was a very strange kid. For example, if you have a touch tone phone or a mobile phone that simulates the touch tones, you too can play Strangers in the Night by pressing:
4-8-8-4-8, 4-8-6-8-4
Of course, make sure you’re already dialed into another working number (preferably a friend who already finds you annoying) or else your Strangers in the Night jam will get you connected to a woman in Poland named Ludmila who is not amused by your serenade.
Then I recalled that you could also order joke books through school and I remember getting the politically incorrect Official Polish / Italian Joke Book one time.
But I digress. I just found it strange that somewhere in my brain there was a dusty old neural pathway making the connection between Strangers in the Night and those stupid books from 30 years ago. The same brain can’t remember to pack a pair of underwear when I ride my bike to work. But I am half Polish, so that might explain it.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Mental Hopscotch
Walking home from the train the other day, I turned down my block and stumbled across some sidewalk chalk drawings – nothing unusual. But the header caught my eye:
Yes, instead of your typical 1, 2, 3, 4-5, 6, 7-8, 9, 10, this one didn’t just go to 11, but seemed to stretch down the block:
I tossed my stones (not a euphemism), hopped, scotched, stopped at a rest stop for some orange slices and Gatorade, used the Port-o-Pottie, tossed my stones (totally a euphemism this time), hopped and scotched some more and several blocks (or maybe houses) later I finally reached the end – 150.
The kids in my ‘hood don’t half-ass stuff.
Bonus Feature - Quote of the Day:
"I'd rather go see Miley Cyrus with my imaginary friends."
Yes, instead of your typical 1, 2, 3, 4-5, 6, 7-8, 9, 10, this one didn’t just go to 11, but seemed to stretch down the block:
I tossed my stones (not a euphemism), hopped, scotched, stopped at a rest stop for some orange slices and Gatorade, used the Port-o-Pottie, tossed my stones (totally a euphemism this time), hopped and scotched some more and several blocks (or maybe houses) later I finally reached the end – 150.
The kids in my ‘hood don’t half-ass stuff.
Bonus Feature - Quote of the Day:
"I'd rather go see Miley Cyrus with my imaginary friends."
Monday, May 11, 2009
So Shrek Walks Into A Bar
By now it’s well-documented that I don’t care much for people. I’m kind of like Shrek before he mellowed out faster than REO Speedwagon. Or Bryan Adams. Or Aerosmith. You get the idea. So normally once I leave work my goal is to make it home to the nurturing bosom of the home swamp with the least amount of interaction. I’d probably even walk right past Crystal Bernard.
Speaking of walking right past people, I was at Wrigley Field about a week ago (technically the patio of a bar across the street from Wrigley) before a Friday afternoon game and Denise Richards walked right by on the sidewalk. She was being followed by a camera crew and drew hoots and cheers from the crowd on the patio. The following are my thoughts, in chronological order:
Wow, she’s short.
Wow, she’s wearing a ton of makeup. What’s she hiding? (I learned that from Moist.)
It looks like rain – I really should have brought my slicker.
Wait, why is she famous? Besides having a public divorce from… Charlie Sheen, maybe?
I’m so going to order a hot dog when I get into the stadium.
Why are people cheering for her? Oh, right, I’m at Wrigley Field.
What the hell am I doing at Wrigley Field?
She certainly was short.
But I digress. So I don’t like people, Shrek, getting home…
I live upstairs from my landlords. They’re generally pretty cool, but if I’m walking past Crystal Bernard I’m certainly not in the mood for small talk with them. As I come into our foyer I note that their door is open, which means they are likely on their way out and I need to hustle in my own door to avoid any dreaded interactions. I whip open my door and I’m greeting by their 5 year old and their 3 year old sliding head first down the steps at my feet. Argh! Not only that but their mom is standing at the top of our steps. I briefly considered saying, “Sorry, wrong house,” and then walking around the block until the chaos cleared but I had already been recognized. I tiptoed around the ankle-biters, made pleasantries with their mom, and collapsed upon the couch.
I almost felt bad when I found out the reason they were there was to deliver some fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies. I wonder if some small talk will get me another half dozen.
Speaking of walking right past people, I was at Wrigley Field about a week ago (technically the patio of a bar across the street from Wrigley) before a Friday afternoon game and Denise Richards walked right by on the sidewalk. She was being followed by a camera crew and drew hoots and cheers from the crowd on the patio. The following are my thoughts, in chronological order:
Wow, she’s short.
Wow, she’s wearing a ton of makeup. What’s she hiding? (I learned that from Moist.)
It looks like rain – I really should have brought my slicker.
Wait, why is she famous? Besides having a public divorce from… Charlie Sheen, maybe?
I’m so going to order a hot dog when I get into the stadium.
Why are people cheering for her? Oh, right, I’m at Wrigley Field.
What the hell am I doing at Wrigley Field?
She certainly was short.
But I digress. So I don’t like people, Shrek, getting home…
I live upstairs from my landlords. They’re generally pretty cool, but if I’m walking past Crystal Bernard I’m certainly not in the mood for small talk with them. As I come into our foyer I note that their door is open, which means they are likely on their way out and I need to hustle in my own door to avoid any dreaded interactions. I whip open my door and I’m greeting by their 5 year old and their 3 year old sliding head first down the steps at my feet. Argh! Not only that but their mom is standing at the top of our steps. I briefly considered saying, “Sorry, wrong house,” and then walking around the block until the chaos cleared but I had already been recognized. I tiptoed around the ankle-biters, made pleasantries with their mom, and collapsed upon the couch.
I almost felt bad when I found out the reason they were there was to deliver some fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies. I wonder if some small talk will get me another half dozen.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Ride On
The weather this week finally warmed up and dried up enough to get my pansy ass back on my bicycle. After a few good rides on the weekend I saddled up for a couple commutes to work this week. I love the smell of carbon monoxide in the morning!
While it’s good for my general well-being, the fact that both days were rather uneventful makes for a rather boring post. My closest call was a near sideswipe at the corner of Western and Lawrence on Monday by an asswipe in a Suburban participating in what some of us call a Chicago drag race. It happens when a two-lane road temporarily opens up into four lanes near an intersection to accommodate a bus stop. If no bus is present, certain people who feel their time is much more important than everyone else’s (probably doctors on their way to deliver a baby or some dude racing to get ½ price appetizers at Bennigan’s) will pull into the right lane, wait for the light to turn green, then floor it to get ahead of everyone else and merge back into the left lane before it funnels back down to two lanes. Taxis are most guilty of this practice, but it’s not uncommon for the common asshole to do this as well.
Unfortunately for them, we cyclists tend to hang out in the right lane as well, mostly in an effort to avoid death or serious injury, which is nothing but an annoyance to these jagoffs. Most of the time they have enough brain cells to realize that getting a biker tangled up in their axle will slow them down even more, and they usually capitulate by just squeezing in where they can while yelling something obscene about my pansy ass or my mother as they pass. But the dude in the Suburban took my presence as a challenge and managed to railroad me into the gutter to complete his mission of arriving at the next traffic light ahead of everyone else.
No big deal – I might not have even mentioned it but tonight I was sitting at the same intersection, waiting for the light, and as I’m crossing the intersection another flippin’ Suburban does the same damn thing. Not quite as close as the previous day, but I’m beginning to wonder if I did something to piss off the Piece Of Shit Suburban Owners Association.
I usually ride to work in some baggy mountain bike shorts and a t-shirt and stash my work clothes in a bag on my rear rack. I get to work, cool down and drink a shake, while my personal valet Mr. French lays out my clothes in the storage closet where I change into my generic white businessman uniform.
However, today, Mr. French came out looking very confused as I had apparently forgotten to pack my underwear. Being a good man-servant, he offered me his but there was no way I was going to drop my boys into his generic white boxers from the Sears Roebuck catalog. Instead I would need to go commando. It did not seem like it would be a problem as long as I didn’t split my pants, forget to zip up, or receive a surprise visit from Shania Twain.
It was a little awkward at first, but after a couple hours I had happily settled into my freeballin’ lifestyle. For eight hours I mostly stayed behind my desk, zipped and unzipped with the utmost care during bathroom breaks, and for the most part avoided dirty thoughts. As much as a guy can.
Rain tomorrow, so no bike riding. I’ll probably wear underwear. And Suburban drivers will need to find a new target for the day.
Bonus Feature – Sexist Sid
The only funnier thing than watching a women trying to parallel park is watching a woman trying to parallel park while talking on her cell phone.
Bonus Feature – Sports Night
People who sing the National Anthem are pretty much guaranteed a standing ovation.
While it’s good for my general well-being, the fact that both days were rather uneventful makes for a rather boring post. My closest call was a near sideswipe at the corner of Western and Lawrence on Monday by an asswipe in a Suburban participating in what some of us call a Chicago drag race. It happens when a two-lane road temporarily opens up into four lanes near an intersection to accommodate a bus stop. If no bus is present, certain people who feel their time is much more important than everyone else’s (probably doctors on their way to deliver a baby or some dude racing to get ½ price appetizers at Bennigan’s) will pull into the right lane, wait for the light to turn green, then floor it to get ahead of everyone else and merge back into the left lane before it funnels back down to two lanes. Taxis are most guilty of this practice, but it’s not uncommon for the common asshole to do this as well.
Unfortunately for them, we cyclists tend to hang out in the right lane as well, mostly in an effort to avoid death or serious injury, which is nothing but an annoyance to these jagoffs. Most of the time they have enough brain cells to realize that getting a biker tangled up in their axle will slow them down even more, and they usually capitulate by just squeezing in where they can while yelling something obscene about my pansy ass or my mother as they pass. But the dude in the Suburban took my presence as a challenge and managed to railroad me into the gutter to complete his mission of arriving at the next traffic light ahead of everyone else.
No big deal – I might not have even mentioned it but tonight I was sitting at the same intersection, waiting for the light, and as I’m crossing the intersection another flippin’ Suburban does the same damn thing. Not quite as close as the previous day, but I’m beginning to wonder if I did something to piss off the Piece Of Shit Suburban Owners Association.
I usually ride to work in some baggy mountain bike shorts and a t-shirt and stash my work clothes in a bag on my rear rack. I get to work, cool down and drink a shake, while my personal valet Mr. French lays out my clothes in the storage closet where I change into my generic white businessman uniform.
However, today, Mr. French came out looking very confused as I had apparently forgotten to pack my underwear. Being a good man-servant, he offered me his but there was no way I was going to drop my boys into his generic white boxers from the Sears Roebuck catalog. Instead I would need to go commando. It did not seem like it would be a problem as long as I didn’t split my pants, forget to zip up, or receive a surprise visit from Shania Twain.
It was a little awkward at first, but after a couple hours I had happily settled into my freeballin’ lifestyle. For eight hours I mostly stayed behind my desk, zipped and unzipped with the utmost care during bathroom breaks, and for the most part avoided dirty thoughts. As much as a guy can.
Rain tomorrow, so no bike riding. I’ll probably wear underwear. And Suburban drivers will need to find a new target for the day.
Bonus Feature – Sexist Sid
The only funnier thing than watching a women trying to parallel park is watching a woman trying to parallel park while talking on her cell phone.
Bonus Feature – Sports Night
People who sing the National Anthem are pretty much guaranteed a standing ovation.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Busting A Cap In Your Ass - April '09
Rant #1: Do not be the first one to get out of the elevator or get off the train if you’re going to saunter along at 2 miles per hour in front of me. You should know I’m a fast walker – I’ve painted flames on my shoes to indicate it. So step aside, Slappy, before you get a taste of the pavement.
Rant #2: If you’re under 5 feet tall, you do not have permission to put your seat back on the airplane. It’s unnecessary. And if you let your kid do that, be prepared to donate a kidney to your lil’ munchkin after I rupture his with a sharp blow from my patella.
We lived in Northlake for a couple years when I was a kid and I remember driving past a music club called The Thirsty Whale. They had the coolest sign – a giant bloated whale, and when I reached my teens I’d read about the bands playing there in the free weekly entertainment rag I’d pick up from the record store. I knew it had to be one of the greatest places in the world and I envied all the people old enough to take a Jonah-like journey into the belly of my imagined nirvana. Then finally, one day, in 1990 I had the opportunity. In all honestly I had probably forgotten all about the place, but one of the crazier chicks I worked with was dating a musician, of course, so I would be her date for the evening until Theater finished their set, at which time I would tender her vinyl-clad bod to the nasty bass player in leather pants and mascara. Not only did I seem to be getting the raw end of that deal, but the club was kind of a letdown as well. I never went back and they tore it down in 1996.
The older I get the more I like Steely Dan. It’s something that I’d make fun of someone else for admitting, so go ahead, let me have it. Even worse is that it reminds me of Red Lobster. I bartended there for a few months after college and they played the same damn tape every day, which included Peg. In a desperate move to find relief I eventually let a live lobster from the fish tank in the lobby claw my eyes out. I never said I was smart. There was a reason I was working at Red Lobster after college.
In addition to not posting much lately, I’ve also fallen off on my resolution to catch up on some movies this year. But I did get to watch Dig! which I highly recommend. Just do it. But those numbnuts at Blockbuster kind of screwed it up for me – it’s a two-disc set and they decided to send me Disc 2 of the bonus material first. That’d be like a girl asking you to snuggle before the sex.
Rant #2: If you’re under 5 feet tall, you do not have permission to put your seat back on the airplane. It’s unnecessary. And if you let your kid do that, be prepared to donate a kidney to your lil’ munchkin after I rupture his with a sharp blow from my patella.
We lived in Northlake for a couple years when I was a kid and I remember driving past a music club called The Thirsty Whale. They had the coolest sign – a giant bloated whale, and when I reached my teens I’d read about the bands playing there in the free weekly entertainment rag I’d pick up from the record store. I knew it had to be one of the greatest places in the world and I envied all the people old enough to take a Jonah-like journey into the belly of my imagined nirvana. Then finally, one day, in 1990 I had the opportunity. In all honestly I had probably forgotten all about the place, but one of the crazier chicks I worked with was dating a musician, of course, so I would be her date for the evening until Theater finished their set, at which time I would tender her vinyl-clad bod to the nasty bass player in leather pants and mascara. Not only did I seem to be getting the raw end of that deal, but the club was kind of a letdown as well. I never went back and they tore it down in 1996.
The older I get the more I like Steely Dan. It’s something that I’d make fun of someone else for admitting, so go ahead, let me have it. Even worse is that it reminds me of Red Lobster. I bartended there for a few months after college and they played the same damn tape every day, which included Peg. In a desperate move to find relief I eventually let a live lobster from the fish tank in the lobby claw my eyes out. I never said I was smart. There was a reason I was working at Red Lobster after college.
In addition to not posting much lately, I’ve also fallen off on my resolution to catch up on some movies this year. But I did get to watch Dig! which I highly recommend. Just do it. But those numbnuts at Blockbuster kind of screwed it up for me – it’s a two-disc set and they decided to send me Disc 2 of the bonus material first. That’d be like a girl asking you to snuggle before the sex.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
An Easter Discussion
Jesus did not go get a burrito first thing after coming back from the dead. They didn't have burritos then. He probably had a matza ball and some gebrattens.
He was JESUS. He could turn a pile of camel shit into a burrito if he wanted to.
I don't know. It's not like he could have whipped out a miracle to do anything he wanted to do. They should have cut off his head instead of crucifying him. Apparently, he could rise from the dead, but he couldn't heal his wounds, since he still had the holes in his hands and feet from the nails and the gash in his side when he came back. They could have taken his head and thrown it into the ocean, leaving the rest of him in the tomb.
When he showed up in heaven, god wouldn't have known who he was - "This can't be right, my son had a head the last time I saw him. Are you sure you aren't Holofernes? How did you get out of hell, you bastard?!"
Unless he compared Jesus' footprints to the footprints the manger medical staff took and put on his birth certificate.
Plus, the beheading would have delayed his return to life because he would have had to take some time to find his head. If he didn’t, the disciples would have had the same doubt god would have had - "You're not Jesus! Where's your head? You’re that bastard Holofernes straight from the crags of hell, aren’t you?! If you really are Jesus, turn my wife's foot into a gefilte fish. Go ahead. I dare you."
Instead of three days, maybe we would have a full week of holiday, which means a full week of boozing if you are anything like the Christians I know.
"Drinkin' thy blood" all week long!
It definitely would have thrown a wrench into the entire religion. And the iconography would have been totally different. Instead of a cross, it could have been a decapitation axe, maybe with drips of blood coming off of it. Do you know how cool that would look hanging on a necklace?
Holy heavy metal religiosity, Batman!
Or maybe an octopus beak.
No, that wouldn’t work unless they killed him with an octopus beak.
But, it would look cool on a necklace.
Yeah, it would.
Jesus would have come back and said something like, "Uh, fellas, yo apostles, I would've been back sooner, but I had to wrestle my head from the beak of an octopus. It took me a while to figure out how to get under the water because I kept walking on the surface out of habit. The trick is in weight distribution. And I can't seem to get my head to stay balanced on top of my neck. Anybody got a staple gun? I'm not setting a very good example as a savior here, am I? I thought they were going to hang me on a cross. Who knew Pontius Pilate was so adept at wielding a battle axe. And jeez, was he ever pissed off. As god as my witness, I never saw it coming. Of course, if god was witnessing me, maybe he could have warned me. You know, 'Look out Jesus, axe at 2 o'clock!' or something like that. My father never loved me. I can't believe he put me through this. I think it's because I throw like a girl. I'm the worst messiah, EVER!"
Stupid, incompetent Romans. They ruined everything. No wonder their empire fell apart.
Yeah, I know.
He was JESUS. He could turn a pile of camel shit into a burrito if he wanted to.
I don't know. It's not like he could have whipped out a miracle to do anything he wanted to do. They should have cut off his head instead of crucifying him. Apparently, he could rise from the dead, but he couldn't heal his wounds, since he still had the holes in his hands and feet from the nails and the gash in his side when he came back. They could have taken his head and thrown it into the ocean, leaving the rest of him in the tomb.
When he showed up in heaven, god wouldn't have known who he was - "This can't be right, my son had a head the last time I saw him. Are you sure you aren't Holofernes? How did you get out of hell, you bastard?!"
Unless he compared Jesus' footprints to the footprints the manger medical staff took and put on his birth certificate.
Plus, the beheading would have delayed his return to life because he would have had to take some time to find his head. If he didn’t, the disciples would have had the same doubt god would have had - "You're not Jesus! Where's your head? You’re that bastard Holofernes straight from the crags of hell, aren’t you?! If you really are Jesus, turn my wife's foot into a gefilte fish. Go ahead. I dare you."
Instead of three days, maybe we would have a full week of holiday, which means a full week of boozing if you are anything like the Christians I know.
"Drinkin' thy blood" all week long!
It definitely would have thrown a wrench into the entire religion. And the iconography would have been totally different. Instead of a cross, it could have been a decapitation axe, maybe with drips of blood coming off of it. Do you know how cool that would look hanging on a necklace?
Holy heavy metal religiosity, Batman!
Or maybe an octopus beak.
No, that wouldn’t work unless they killed him with an octopus beak.
But, it would look cool on a necklace.
Yeah, it would.
Jesus would have come back and said something like, "Uh, fellas, yo apostles, I would've been back sooner, but I had to wrestle my head from the beak of an octopus. It took me a while to figure out how to get under the water because I kept walking on the surface out of habit. The trick is in weight distribution. And I can't seem to get my head to stay balanced on top of my neck. Anybody got a staple gun? I'm not setting a very good example as a savior here, am I? I thought they were going to hang me on a cross. Who knew Pontius Pilate was so adept at wielding a battle axe. And jeez, was he ever pissed off. As god as my witness, I never saw it coming. Of course, if god was witnessing me, maybe he could have warned me. You know, 'Look out Jesus, axe at 2 o'clock!' or something like that. My father never loved me. I can't believe he put me through this. I think it's because I throw like a girl. I'm the worst messiah, EVER!"
Stupid, incompetent Romans. They ruined everything. No wonder their empire fell apart.
Yeah, I know.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Scene From An Italian Restaurant
During our first visit to an Italian joint a couple blocks down the street on Sunday evening:
Owner: How-a izza everything tonight?
Sid: Awesome.
Mrs. F’er: This is the best pizza I’ve had since my grandmother died.
Owner: Ah, good – that-a makes us a very happy.
I’m hoping he was referring to the pizza and not her dead grandmother. It's not like she was competing in the same neighborhood.
Owner: How-a izza everything tonight?
Sid: Awesome.
Mrs. F’er: This is the best pizza I’ve had since my grandmother died.
Owner: Ah, good – that-a makes us a very happy.
I’m hoping he was referring to the pizza and not her dead grandmother. It's not like she was competing in the same neighborhood.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)