I've been so tired lately. The weather doesn't help. It's not even a good kind of tired that you feel from working hard, although I am coming off of a five day work week. It's that kind of bored, apathetic kind of tired. I have a few irons in the fire so it's not like I'm just waiting around for some divine force to show me the way, it's just that everything is currently on hold or in the works. Hurry up and wait. It makes me nuts. The thing that makes me the craziest is that I have this screenplay that I'm working on and all I can figure out is what's wrong with it.
It's not the usual kind of thing where you look at it and think it's drivel and want to start over, I've learned to fix that in the second draft. Just get it on paper and fix it later. No, this comes from following a train of thought and realizing that it's going nowhere or is completely unnecessary. I had a break through earlier this week but, when I went to write it down, it eluded me like trying to remember a dream. I know where it is and I see the approach, I just have to find the words.
The crazy thing is that I've been working on another project with a partner and since she went off to do the next draft, all I keep thinking about is that project. My timing's all screwed up.
There was a waitress that worked in this all night diner that I used to like to hang out at. She eventually became a friend. When I first started both of these projects, I'd be in there until the wee hours just writing and drinking coffee. She'd always listen if I had an idea that I needed to talk through. Sometimes she'd make suggestions. They were usually simple things that were just what the doctor ordered, but without them I was lost in the forest trying to find a tree. I tried not to monopolize her time, usually waiting until she had a couple of minutes, because she'd get in trouble with her manager for hanging out with me. She said she didn't care, it was more fun trying to figure out my plot holes than trying to find busy work. The best part was that when I got stuck, really stuck, and had to go home and think about it, she'd just shrug it off and tell me that I'd figure it out. Like there was no doubt in her mind. It was nice to have someone in my corner. She broke up with her boyfriend, moved across town and I haven't seen her since. It seems weird to miss someone you didn't know that well or that long but I miss her on nights like this.
So when it's a little after 1:00 a.m., what do you call it? Tuesday night or Wednesday morning? I've known people who mark time by when they wake up and go to bed. That's a day to them. Some people mark time by sunrise and sunset. Personally, I mark time by the clock. Everything starts fresh at 12:00 a.m. I work nights and have been a night owl most of my life. There have been times due to work or whatever that I've had to keep Jack Bauer hours. If I marked time by my sleep pattern, my week might get a little shorter.
It gets confusing when I try to talk to people who mark time differently. I'll be asking them about what they're doing later today and they'll either look at me funny or tell me what they did yesterday afternoon. I'll end up explaining the question for five minutes just to have them tell me they don't have any plans. Most of the time I'm just making conversation. Sometimes I might be trying to make plans, but that's kind of rare any more.
Most people don't do the things I do or when I do them. That's fine. I used to try to be accommodating but too many times I found myself sitting around and waiting for phone calls to confirm or somebody'd cancel or want to reschedule. I have things to do. It's not that I don't want to hang out with you, I just don't have all day to try to figure out when. It sucks sometimes, but it's often best to just do my own thing. I'm done dragging people to things that they've never heard of. No matter how good the intention, if you're not having a good time, you're just wasting your time.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Random Thoughts While Doing My Laundry
A few years ago, when I was washing my clothes at a local laundromat, I'd take my notebook with me and write about different observations and get caught up on journal writing and what not. I've since moved out of that neighborhood and the laundromat has closed but I still have a few things rattling through my head. Isn't that what this whole blog thing is about anyway? I figure if nothing interesting is going on with my job, maybe there's something else I can entertain you with.
A friend of mine posted a youtube clip on facebook that was talking about the current state of music. Next to the clip he posed the question of do you agree or disagree? The person being interviewed is someone I've admired and respected for years and I know he's not talking out of his ass when he says that he thinks the state of music is alive and well. Being in the industry, his ear is most likely closer to the ground than mine. I live in the mid-west and work in and around bars where cover bands and d.j.'s come to play the same 50 songs every weekend. I listen to classic rock on the radio because it's the station that comes in the clearest at home. In the car I'm usually listening to a book on cd. I've become a fan of Spotify because it gives me access to 83% of the bands on the planet without having to spend a bunch of money just to find out that the song that made me buy the album was the only good one on it.
I'm fortunate enough to be friends with a lot of musicians and have been turned on to a lot of good music that way. Most of it theirs. Unfortunately, most of the bar/club patrons have the attention span of a three year old and just want to hear the same thing that corporate radio has been shoving in their ears all day so, no matter how good of a musician these people might be, if they want to make money they'll be practicing Santaria and telling all the single ladies to put a ring on it.
One of the things mentioned in the clip is how a lot of bands are using the internet to get their stuff heard. It is cool when you can find somebody who's playing for the sake of playing and not getting stingy over a royalty payment. Also, companies like CD Baby make it possible to get the music to the masses without having to conform to the big labels idea of what they think people want.
Something I miss, and I'm surprised that there isn't more of it considering all of the social networks, is when you would hang out with your friends and one of you'd be listening to something new and cool and you could turn each other on to other things. I have a couple of friends that will post about some new release they just listened to but they're in the minority. Now, if you don't check the website of your favorite bands, you don't know what's coming out. Also, you miss out on some things you'd never hear before.
I've been called everything from an alien to a freak because of things I've retained as a music fan. Sometimes I might be talking to somebody about an obscure song on side two of some rare album and if you just found out about this band yesterday, I'll let that blank look slide. When I talk to some of my musician friends about the follow up track to a number one hit that went platinum, and I still see that look, I start to question them. I love music. It's always been a big part of my life. But I've always considered myself the outsider looking in. Movies and books have always been my passion. Music is just what I listen to while reading. These people were so inspired by music that they picked up an instrument and learned to play so they could MAKE music. How they don't take me on some musical Enter The Dragon every time I open my mouth still surprises me.
The flip side of that is while they blow me away with being able to come up with some cool stuff with only a piano, guitar and an empty room, I get to turn them on to stuff they should have heard already. It's almost circular.
One final thought before my dryer goes off, in an age where we now have the world at our finger tips, I no longer accept "that came out before I was even born" as an excuse. Charles Dickens wrote books before I was born and Humphrey Bogart made movies before I was born. Richie Vallens had a career and died before I was born. I'm not Superman, I just find something that turns me on and I follow the thread. Stop playing Angry Birds and do something constructive. This isn't like the good old days where the radio d.j. could express his own personal tastes and you could hear music that was new to you. You have to do your own leg work. Even if you like Justin Bieber, find out what some of his influences were, maybe you'll like them too. Hopefully they didn't become corporate whores as well.
The buzzer means the laundry is done and so is this post. Hope you enjoyed it. What are your thoughts on the current state of music? I've told you my limited view, I'm curious to know yours.
A friend of mine posted a youtube clip on facebook that was talking about the current state of music. Next to the clip he posed the question of do you agree or disagree? The person being interviewed is someone I've admired and respected for years and I know he's not talking out of his ass when he says that he thinks the state of music is alive and well. Being in the industry, his ear is most likely closer to the ground than mine. I live in the mid-west and work in and around bars where cover bands and d.j.'s come to play the same 50 songs every weekend. I listen to classic rock on the radio because it's the station that comes in the clearest at home. In the car I'm usually listening to a book on cd. I've become a fan of Spotify because it gives me access to 83% of the bands on the planet without having to spend a bunch of money just to find out that the song that made me buy the album was the only good one on it.
I'm fortunate enough to be friends with a lot of musicians and have been turned on to a lot of good music that way. Most of it theirs. Unfortunately, most of the bar/club patrons have the attention span of a three year old and just want to hear the same thing that corporate radio has been shoving in their ears all day so, no matter how good of a musician these people might be, if they want to make money they'll be practicing Santaria and telling all the single ladies to put a ring on it.
One of the things mentioned in the clip is how a lot of bands are using the internet to get their stuff heard. It is cool when you can find somebody who's playing for the sake of playing and not getting stingy over a royalty payment. Also, companies like CD Baby make it possible to get the music to the masses without having to conform to the big labels idea of what they think people want.
Something I miss, and I'm surprised that there isn't more of it considering all of the social networks, is when you would hang out with your friends and one of you'd be listening to something new and cool and you could turn each other on to other things. I have a couple of friends that will post about some new release they just listened to but they're in the minority. Now, if you don't check the website of your favorite bands, you don't know what's coming out. Also, you miss out on some things you'd never hear before.
I've been called everything from an alien to a freak because of things I've retained as a music fan. Sometimes I might be talking to somebody about an obscure song on side two of some rare album and if you just found out about this band yesterday, I'll let that blank look slide. When I talk to some of my musician friends about the follow up track to a number one hit that went platinum, and I still see that look, I start to question them. I love music. It's always been a big part of my life. But I've always considered myself the outsider looking in. Movies and books have always been my passion. Music is just what I listen to while reading. These people were so inspired by music that they picked up an instrument and learned to play so they could MAKE music. How they don't take me on some musical Enter The Dragon every time I open my mouth still surprises me.
The flip side of that is while they blow me away with being able to come up with some cool stuff with only a piano, guitar and an empty room, I get to turn them on to stuff they should have heard already. It's almost circular.
One final thought before my dryer goes off, in an age where we now have the world at our finger tips, I no longer accept "that came out before I was even born" as an excuse. Charles Dickens wrote books before I was born and Humphrey Bogart made movies before I was born. Richie Vallens had a career and died before I was born. I'm not Superman, I just find something that turns me on and I follow the thread. Stop playing Angry Birds and do something constructive. This isn't like the good old days where the radio d.j. could express his own personal tastes and you could hear music that was new to you. You have to do your own leg work. Even if you like Justin Bieber, find out what some of his influences were, maybe you'll like them too. Hopefully they didn't become corporate whores as well.
The buzzer means the laundry is done and so is this post. Hope you enjoyed it. What are your thoughts on the current state of music? I've told you my limited view, I'm curious to know yours.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Notes Of A Drunk Whisperer
The other night there was this girl who should give lessons in how to be a drunk. She was a little over five feet tall, wearing flats, 110 pounds, maybe. She had this high pitched, cartoon sounding voice that would crack me up as she sat next to me and gave lessons on how to walk down stairs to customers and a running commentary to me.
She would talk to the gravity impaired women trying to navigate stairs in heels and explain to them the importance of using the railing and then turn back to me, shake her head and say, "they're all shit heads, they don't know anything." As people would walk upstairs, without tripping, she'd give them a high five and tell them they did a good job. Turning to me, she'd explain, "you have to give them positive reinforcement, that's how they learn." If they tripped, she'd just call them a shit head and tell them to go home. Sometimes they would agree with her. Others would look at her, then look at me, then back to her and figure she was in the time out chair and on her way out. Most of them turned a deaf ear.
With that much pent up hostility, I knew she had to be in the customer service industry which she later confirmed. She offered to sit with me all night because she said this was the most fun she'd had since she arrived. Whenever a guy would walk by, she'd turn to me and say, "he's not going to get laid tonight" and then rattle off three valid reasons why. Most of them were fashion related. See guys, women notice these things, you dress like a dueche bag, you don't get to swim in the gene pool. You just watch from the side and try to figure out what happened to all of your Motorhead albums.
She could do all of this with her hair in place and not spilling her drink all over the floor and herself. Finally, somebody who can go out on the weekend, have a few, cut loose, and maintain as well as entertain. I wish there were a hundred more just like her every weekend. Her friends eventually came and collected her and dragged her back out to the dance floor but I hope she comes back soon.
She would talk to the gravity impaired women trying to navigate stairs in heels and explain to them the importance of using the railing and then turn back to me, shake her head and say, "they're all shit heads, they don't know anything." As people would walk upstairs, without tripping, she'd give them a high five and tell them they did a good job. Turning to me, she'd explain, "you have to give them positive reinforcement, that's how they learn." If they tripped, she'd just call them a shit head and tell them to go home. Sometimes they would agree with her. Others would look at her, then look at me, then back to her and figure she was in the time out chair and on her way out. Most of them turned a deaf ear.
With that much pent up hostility, I knew she had to be in the customer service industry which she later confirmed. She offered to sit with me all night because she said this was the most fun she'd had since she arrived. Whenever a guy would walk by, she'd turn to me and say, "he's not going to get laid tonight" and then rattle off three valid reasons why. Most of them were fashion related. See guys, women notice these things, you dress like a dueche bag, you don't get to swim in the gene pool. You just watch from the side and try to figure out what happened to all of your Motorhead albums.
She could do all of this with her hair in place and not spilling her drink all over the floor and herself. Finally, somebody who can go out on the weekend, have a few, cut loose, and maintain as well as entertain. I wish there were a hundred more just like her every weekend. Her friends eventually came and collected her and dragged her back out to the dance floor but I hope she comes back soon.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Notes Of A Drunk Whisperer
Ah, young love on a Friday night! It's the weekend, time to let your hair down, relax, have a few drinks...and argue with your significant other.
There's a girl that comes out to the bar who's a fairly regular. She usually hangs out for a couple of hours, gets varying degrees drunk and then she disappears into the night. On this particular night I first saw her on her way to the ladies room. We exchanged pleasantries and salutations and off she went. She'll usually get chatty towards the end of the night when she's looking for a place to refocus her vision and isn't surrounded by a bunch of guys wearing plaid shirts and offering her drinks.
The next time I saw her she was having a problem with some guy on the dance floor. The impression that I got was that he wouldn't leave her and her friends alone. I was stuck on the side door with three things going on at the same time so I had her tell one of the guys on the floor. The upstairs was closed due to in-climate weather so I knew there would be at somebody looking for something to do.
I didn't hear from her again for another couple of hours when the band was on break and random yelling can be heard at the end of the hall. I look around the corner and what to my wondering eye should appear? A drunk girl and a guy in a plaid shirt. The police will tell you the easiest way to deal with a domestic dispute is to let it burn itself out and just play referee when things start to get rough. This is a great philosophy and has served me well on a few occasions. However, you guessed it, I know this drunk girl. I don't know the plaid shirt. But, I remember a complaint about a guy who seemed to have a problem with no.
She seems intent on getting away from him and has managed to get herself into an alcove formed by the barricade we fashioned to block off the upstairs and the bands gear. She has her back to the wall and he's now in front of her blocking the only way out. Ladies, this is NOT tactically advantageous. Stay aware of your surroundings and stay out in the open. He moves in, closing the gap.
I grab this guy by the shoulders and pull him back. At this point there is no hostility, I just want to separate them until I can figure out which way the wind is blowing. I feel his shoulders tense as he whips himself around, his arm ready to cock back. I take half a step back, out of his effective range but still within my own. He looks me straight in the sternum and his eyes track up to my face. At any other time I might have laughed, it was sort of comical since he was only about 5'7. Since I was at work, levity was not an option.
He found the answer to his how-fucked-am-I? question in less that a second and went from hostile to docile in less time than it takes to draw a breath. Suddenly, I have both of them apologizing profusely, she's telling me how this is her boyfriend, he's telling me how they're just trying to sort things out and how they're not normally like this...I stopped listening at some point, I've heard this song before. They go back out to the dance floor.
I see her again on the way to the ladies room. I don't see her again for a while. If it wasn't for her two friends tag teaming, I'd swear that she was ready to start forwarding her mail. She eventually comes back out and everybody leaves.
People wonder sometimes why I don't date anymore. The answer is simple-women are crazy, men are stupid and relationships are merely a series of wrong answers to dumb questions.
There's a girl that comes out to the bar who's a fairly regular. She usually hangs out for a couple of hours, gets varying degrees drunk and then she disappears into the night. On this particular night I first saw her on her way to the ladies room. We exchanged pleasantries and salutations and off she went. She'll usually get chatty towards the end of the night when she's looking for a place to refocus her vision and isn't surrounded by a bunch of guys wearing plaid shirts and offering her drinks.
The next time I saw her she was having a problem with some guy on the dance floor. The impression that I got was that he wouldn't leave her and her friends alone. I was stuck on the side door with three things going on at the same time so I had her tell one of the guys on the floor. The upstairs was closed due to in-climate weather so I knew there would be at somebody looking for something to do.
I didn't hear from her again for another couple of hours when the band was on break and random yelling can be heard at the end of the hall. I look around the corner and what to my wondering eye should appear? A drunk girl and a guy in a plaid shirt. The police will tell you the easiest way to deal with a domestic dispute is to let it burn itself out and just play referee when things start to get rough. This is a great philosophy and has served me well on a few occasions. However, you guessed it, I know this drunk girl. I don't know the plaid shirt. But, I remember a complaint about a guy who seemed to have a problem with no.
She seems intent on getting away from him and has managed to get herself into an alcove formed by the barricade we fashioned to block off the upstairs and the bands gear. She has her back to the wall and he's now in front of her blocking the only way out. Ladies, this is NOT tactically advantageous. Stay aware of your surroundings and stay out in the open. He moves in, closing the gap.
I grab this guy by the shoulders and pull him back. At this point there is no hostility, I just want to separate them until I can figure out which way the wind is blowing. I feel his shoulders tense as he whips himself around, his arm ready to cock back. I take half a step back, out of his effective range but still within my own. He looks me straight in the sternum and his eyes track up to my face. At any other time I might have laughed, it was sort of comical since he was only about 5'7. Since I was at work, levity was not an option.
He found the answer to his how-fucked-am-I? question in less that a second and went from hostile to docile in less time than it takes to draw a breath. Suddenly, I have both of them apologizing profusely, she's telling me how this is her boyfriend, he's telling me how they're just trying to sort things out and how they're not normally like this...I stopped listening at some point, I've heard this song before. They go back out to the dance floor.
I see her again on the way to the ladies room. I don't see her again for a while. If it wasn't for her two friends tag teaming, I'd swear that she was ready to start forwarding her mail. She eventually comes back out and everybody leaves.
People wonder sometimes why I don't date anymore. The answer is simple-women are crazy, men are stupid and relationships are merely a series of wrong answers to dumb questions.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Notes Of A Drunk Whisperer
"Are you a cop?" she asks. "No". I get that a lot. "Are you with SWAT or DEA?" "No." That's a fresh spin on an old line. "I'm the bouncer, I work here." "You know, with that microphone, nobody's going to talk to you, b t dub." She's looking at my radio mic clipped to my collar. Another dead give away that I work there. She reaches up to pull my jacket over the mic. She's maybe 5'5, with the heels. If she's in the triple digit weight class she must have something in her pockets. Threat assessment-zero. I let her. The damn thing doesn't broadcast most of the time anyway.
She runs her hand along my head. "Your hair's really soft." I can't tell if she's flirty or just drunk. "Thanks." What else are you supposed to say to that? I wash it, I cut it, after that it takes care of itself.
"Are you having a good night?" Standard question, but it gives me something to say besides "Good night, thanks for coming" or "See you next time". Since there's a d.j. I can't ask her if she's here for the band. Outside of 3 or 4 friends, nobody ever shows up for the d.j.
She says her night's going okay, at least nobody's offered her drugs. "That's a good thing, right? Unless you're here to score." She doesn't laugh, just looks kind of confused. I suddenly feel like a character in a Jay McInerney novel. She goes from confused to serious. I've seen this look too many times. At a party or a bar, you learn to make a quick joke and change the subject or just excuse yourself and go to the bathroom. Working the side door, you're a dog on a leash, a captive audience. Well, the string has been pulled, the doctor will see you now. I hope you're okay with this bar stool, I'm having my couch reupholstered. So, vhut seems to be ze problem? "I've been off drugs for...yeah, ten months now. In two years, I'll get my two year chip" "Good for you." "Yeah, I was arrested once for possession, but, and I know you hear this all the time," she still thinks I'm a cop "but I REALLY was just holding it for a friend that time." "Bad timing, tough break" "It didn't help matters much that I was driving drunk when they found it." "Yeah, I can see how that could be bad."
"You're judging me aren't you?" "I'm not here to judge you, I'm just here to make sure that nobody screws with your good time or vice versa." "So, are you with the city or the county?" "I'm with the bar." Like a dog with a frisbee. "Okay, have it your way, I'm going to go look for my friends, it's been nice talking with you."
As she turns around, there are two blondes form earlier who had asked me if anyone had left recently. It's a big reunion. "Hey, come over here, I want you to meet my new friend." she says, dragging them over to where I am. Smiles, nods, hello's all around. "He says he's the bouncer, but you know he's a cop." She sounds like Rick Masters introducing Mr. Jessup-He says he's from Palm Springs, but he doesn't have a tan...tell me, do you like your work?
She's about two drinks away from being obnoxious but it's a slow night and she's harmless. Her friends could care less. They're debating between Brookside or Westport. The burning question of every Friday night. She keeps bouncing between me and them. The noise is escalating into what my former platoon daddy used to call a fish market.
She wants to exchange numbers and her friends are about to stroke out if they don't get to leave in the next 20 seconds. Normally I don't give out my number, but I'm pretty confident that she'll wake up tomorrow, look at her phone, wonder who in the hell is that? hit delete and life goes on. No harm, no foul.
She runs her hand along my head. "Your hair's really soft." I can't tell if she's flirty or just drunk. "Thanks." What else are you supposed to say to that? I wash it, I cut it, after that it takes care of itself.
"Are you having a good night?" Standard question, but it gives me something to say besides "Good night, thanks for coming" or "See you next time". Since there's a d.j. I can't ask her if she's here for the band. Outside of 3 or 4 friends, nobody ever shows up for the d.j.
She says her night's going okay, at least nobody's offered her drugs. "That's a good thing, right? Unless you're here to score." She doesn't laugh, just looks kind of confused. I suddenly feel like a character in a Jay McInerney novel. She goes from confused to serious. I've seen this look too many times. At a party or a bar, you learn to make a quick joke and change the subject or just excuse yourself and go to the bathroom. Working the side door, you're a dog on a leash, a captive audience. Well, the string has been pulled, the doctor will see you now. I hope you're okay with this bar stool, I'm having my couch reupholstered. So, vhut seems to be ze problem? "I've been off drugs for...yeah, ten months now. In two years, I'll get my two year chip" "Good for you." "Yeah, I was arrested once for possession, but, and I know you hear this all the time," she still thinks I'm a cop "but I REALLY was just holding it for a friend that time." "Bad timing, tough break" "It didn't help matters much that I was driving drunk when they found it." "Yeah, I can see how that could be bad."
"You're judging me aren't you?" "I'm not here to judge you, I'm just here to make sure that nobody screws with your good time or vice versa." "So, are you with the city or the county?" "I'm with the bar." Like a dog with a frisbee. "Okay, have it your way, I'm going to go look for my friends, it's been nice talking with you."
As she turns around, there are two blondes form earlier who had asked me if anyone had left recently. It's a big reunion. "Hey, come over here, I want you to meet my new friend." she says, dragging them over to where I am. Smiles, nods, hello's all around. "He says he's the bouncer, but you know he's a cop." She sounds like Rick Masters introducing Mr. Jessup-He says he's from Palm Springs, but he doesn't have a tan...tell me, do you like your work?
She's about two drinks away from being obnoxious but it's a slow night and she's harmless. Her friends could care less. They're debating between Brookside or Westport. The burning question of every Friday night. She keeps bouncing between me and them. The noise is escalating into what my former platoon daddy used to call a fish market.
She wants to exchange numbers and her friends are about to stroke out if they don't get to leave in the next 20 seconds. Normally I don't give out my number, but I'm pretty confident that she'll wake up tomorrow, look at her phone, wonder who in the hell is that? hit delete and life goes on. No harm, no foul.
Monday, December 10, 2012
The yin and yang in a writers life
The day was off to a good start. I had seven uninterrupted hours of sleep and the room wasn't cold when I climbed out from under the blankets. Breakfast consisted of my favorite cereal, yogurt and a Bloody Maria. When I arrived at my favorite coffee house, the barista had a smile on her face and clean mug in her hand awaiting my order.
I had a good internet connection and was hacking my way through the paper work jungle with my ink filled machete when I hit my first stumbling block...my pen runneth dry. Luckily, I was able to borrow a pen and make it to a good stopping point. Okay, I can deal with this, I still have my book. I didn't get as much work done as I was hoping to but I have a lot to read so this is just the universe telling me it's time to pick up the book.
At some point in the day, there was this woman who came in and was camping out as well. Pretty face, nice figure, sharp dresser, simple taste in coffee; a pleasant distraction between chapters. If you're waiting for me to say that we struck a conversation somewhere between James Patterson and Chris Radant, keep waiting, because at this point I'm still in the good part of my day.
You know you've been in the coffee shop too long when you can get twice as many refills than you're supposed to because the shift that sold you your first cup left a few hours ago. I didn't set out to bilk the system, it just sort of turned out that way. Where normally you get your first cup and a free refill, I think I had at least three. I kind of lost track after a while, like when you drink out of a keg.
By this point, I've been there longer than the employees and my ass is going numb like I've been in a cross country car ride. I pack my stuff and head to the grocery store to get a new pen. As I've written a lot through the ages, I've learned one thing-the medium point Paper Mate Write Bros. Grip pen is truly a gift from the Gods. If Harper Lee would have had one of these pens, she would have written more than one book. This is truly the Glenlivet of writing instruments. On a scale of 1 to Tori Black's legs, this is easily a 25.
The night wind blows across the cold pavement and into my face with a reality-like harshness. I just have to make it into the store, get the pen, and then I can go get dinner. Walking past the same old selection of books and magazines, I get to the stationary aisle. Ticonderoga number 2 pencils (might work for Stephen King but not for yours truly, of course, he does put out a book a year so maybe he's on to something) followed by the many flavors of Bic (for the most part, a fine instrument except for the erasable ink pens which smear the page when you write more than a grocery list) and finally, we get to the Paper Mate section.
There are the fancy retractables and the felt tips and the gel tips and even Sharpies. Suddenly, like a vision, it appears at the end of the rack. Write Bros. Grip, a pack of 10 for $1.95! I find the blue easily enough but it's not my thing. There is an empty hook with a sign over it that reads Write Bros Grip blk. I'm beginning to understand how Nicholson felt in As Good As It Gets when he went into the diner and Helen Hunt wasn't working. Who is responsible for this outrage? Bring the head of Alfredo Garcia and the son of a bitch who didn't order enough pens!
For about five seconds I seriously considered tracking down a manager and dragging the back room until they found my pens but having worked in a grocery store before I knew that what they had (or didn't have) on the shelf was all they had in the store. Now I was faced with a bigger problem, do I get 10 of the pens I want in the wrong color or two pens I don't want in the right color? After debating the problem for a couple of minutes and suppressing another urge to tear the back room apart, I settled on the Bic Cristal. It's not a bad pen and it's guaranteed to write the first time every time, but it doesn't feel as good in the hand as a Write Bros. Grip. At least I could get two for a buck o'three.
Thinking that the Universe was done with me for the day, I went out in search of food. I had developed a craving for some French toast, somebody probably mentioned it in a book. I knew just the spot and it was on the way home. I should have seen it coming but you just don't expect a 24 hour diner to be closed at 8:00 at night. Chubby's, open 24 hours, just not always in a row.
Looking to my right, I saw the golden arches. The clown is open 24 hours in a row, that greedy pimp bastard. I order by number since all of the employees have been conditioned to not think in words anymore. The burger was what it was, they haven't had good burgers in years. The salt lick, I mean, the fries were okay. For being the mecca of fries, it was a little disappointing. Have they always been that salty or is just because I haven't been in for a while? When did I turn into my dad on this matter? I do have to admit that the egg nog shake that I had been told about was pretty good. I had been led to believe that it was just this side of Manna from Heaven though, so again referring to the 1 to Tori Black's legs scale, it was about a 4.5.
The night ended on a fairly positive note though since I made it home without my car dying or anything of that nature and I saw my land lady whom I have not seen in so long, her hair was noticeably longer. If it wasn't for the internet, we'd probably have forgotten each others names by now.
I had a good internet connection and was hacking my way through the paper work jungle with my ink filled machete when I hit my first stumbling block...my pen runneth dry. Luckily, I was able to borrow a pen and make it to a good stopping point. Okay, I can deal with this, I still have my book. I didn't get as much work done as I was hoping to but I have a lot to read so this is just the universe telling me it's time to pick up the book.
At some point in the day, there was this woman who came in and was camping out as well. Pretty face, nice figure, sharp dresser, simple taste in coffee; a pleasant distraction between chapters. If you're waiting for me to say that we struck a conversation somewhere between James Patterson and Chris Radant, keep waiting, because at this point I'm still in the good part of my day.
You know you've been in the coffee shop too long when you can get twice as many refills than you're supposed to because the shift that sold you your first cup left a few hours ago. I didn't set out to bilk the system, it just sort of turned out that way. Where normally you get your first cup and a free refill, I think I had at least three. I kind of lost track after a while, like when you drink out of a keg.
By this point, I've been there longer than the employees and my ass is going numb like I've been in a cross country car ride. I pack my stuff and head to the grocery store to get a new pen. As I've written a lot through the ages, I've learned one thing-the medium point Paper Mate Write Bros. Grip pen is truly a gift from the Gods. If Harper Lee would have had one of these pens, she would have written more than one book. This is truly the Glenlivet of writing instruments. On a scale of 1 to Tori Black's legs, this is easily a 25.
The night wind blows across the cold pavement and into my face with a reality-like harshness. I just have to make it into the store, get the pen, and then I can go get dinner. Walking past the same old selection of books and magazines, I get to the stationary aisle. Ticonderoga number 2 pencils (might work for Stephen King but not for yours truly, of course, he does put out a book a year so maybe he's on to something) followed by the many flavors of Bic (for the most part, a fine instrument except for the erasable ink pens which smear the page when you write more than a grocery list) and finally, we get to the Paper Mate section.
There are the fancy retractables and the felt tips and the gel tips and even Sharpies. Suddenly, like a vision, it appears at the end of the rack. Write Bros. Grip, a pack of 10 for $1.95! I find the blue easily enough but it's not my thing. There is an empty hook with a sign over it that reads Write Bros Grip blk. I'm beginning to understand how Nicholson felt in As Good As It Gets when he went into the diner and Helen Hunt wasn't working. Who is responsible for this outrage? Bring the head of Alfredo Garcia and the son of a bitch who didn't order enough pens!
For about five seconds I seriously considered tracking down a manager and dragging the back room until they found my pens but having worked in a grocery store before I knew that what they had (or didn't have) on the shelf was all they had in the store. Now I was faced with a bigger problem, do I get 10 of the pens I want in the wrong color or two pens I don't want in the right color? After debating the problem for a couple of minutes and suppressing another urge to tear the back room apart, I settled on the Bic Cristal. It's not a bad pen and it's guaranteed to write the first time every time, but it doesn't feel as good in the hand as a Write Bros. Grip. At least I could get two for a buck o'three.
Thinking that the Universe was done with me for the day, I went out in search of food. I had developed a craving for some French toast, somebody probably mentioned it in a book. I knew just the spot and it was on the way home. I should have seen it coming but you just don't expect a 24 hour diner to be closed at 8:00 at night. Chubby's, open 24 hours, just not always in a row.
Looking to my right, I saw the golden arches. The clown is open 24 hours in a row, that greedy pimp bastard. I order by number since all of the employees have been conditioned to not think in words anymore. The burger was what it was, they haven't had good burgers in years. The salt lick, I mean, the fries were okay. For being the mecca of fries, it was a little disappointing. Have they always been that salty or is just because I haven't been in for a while? When did I turn into my dad on this matter? I do have to admit that the egg nog shake that I had been told about was pretty good. I had been led to believe that it was just this side of Manna from Heaven though, so again referring to the 1 to Tori Black's legs scale, it was about a 4.5.
The night ended on a fairly positive note though since I made it home without my car dying or anything of that nature and I saw my land lady whom I have not seen in so long, her hair was noticeably longer. If it wasn't for the internet, we'd probably have forgotten each others names by now.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The Drunk Whisperer Off Duty
It's damn near 4 a.m., closing time. I've worked four days in a row dealing with humanity at it's basest level. I stepped into the little cafe expecting to be turned away but the girl behind the counter seems to be a nice person.
The Eggs Benedict is really good here and reasonably priced. Whenever I get a little extra money in my pocket and make it out of work in time, I like to indulge. Eggs Benedict, fried potatoes and coffee, a breakfast worthy of a British spy or an American bouncer.
There's a couple sitting at a table by the window and an old man sleeping at a table in the corner. He looks like he could be homeless. The girl behind the counter doesn't look as if she has it in her to wake him up and push him out. If he's still there when I'm done maybe I'll do it for her. Captain Fucking America at your service, ma'am.
He wakes up shortly after my food arrives. He says something incoherent that maybe sounds like a girls name. I think he's trying to summon the girl. A couple of bites later, he says it again. This time I make it out. Excuse me. He's talking to me. I look up and he asks me for the time. He has a thick lipped, Eastern European accent that's a little slurred. I tell him it's 3:50. 3:15? No, fifty, five zero. He's still confused. Ten minutes until four, I clarify. Good food, bad acoustics. The place is high ceilinged and all concrete and glass. The radio is at closing time level also.
He mutters something about the minute hand on his watch as he resets the time. I smile and nod and go back to eating. I don't want to be rude but dealing with people in a similar state for the past four days, I just want to eat in peace.
He starts talking again and I can only make out about every third word. Something about back home and family and community. I smile, nod and shovel hash browns into my face. I'll play the part of an attentive listener but not at the expense of warm food.
Smile, nod, shovel. This goes on until the plate is empty. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be asking questions, just rambling on about something. I kind of wish I could make out what he's saying because I'm always interested to hear about life in other places, especially foreign countries, but I'm just too tired to care. This will probably be me in twenty years. Homeless, incoherent and prattling on to anyone who'll listen. Shit, I already do that now sometimes just out of boredom.
He gets up and puts his coat on as I've finished my coffee. I want to beat him to the door before he gets a chance to ask me for a ride. Note to self-when you're homeless, don't be that guy that asks for rides.
I take my plate and cup to the counter as he asks the girl to help him with the zipper on his coat. I guess he's a regular since she seems to be expecting it. She thanks me for coming in and I respond with have a good night (even though it's really morning). She says thanks and he says you too, sir. That always fucks with me when people older than me call me sir. I understand it in customer service situations, but on the street? I'll never get used to it.
The Eggs Benedict is really good here and reasonably priced. Whenever I get a little extra money in my pocket and make it out of work in time, I like to indulge. Eggs Benedict, fried potatoes and coffee, a breakfast worthy of a British spy or an American bouncer.
There's a couple sitting at a table by the window and an old man sleeping at a table in the corner. He looks like he could be homeless. The girl behind the counter doesn't look as if she has it in her to wake him up and push him out. If he's still there when I'm done maybe I'll do it for her. Captain Fucking America at your service, ma'am.
He wakes up shortly after my food arrives. He says something incoherent that maybe sounds like a girls name. I think he's trying to summon the girl. A couple of bites later, he says it again. This time I make it out. Excuse me. He's talking to me. I look up and he asks me for the time. He has a thick lipped, Eastern European accent that's a little slurred. I tell him it's 3:50. 3:15? No, fifty, five zero. He's still confused. Ten minutes until four, I clarify. Good food, bad acoustics. The place is high ceilinged and all concrete and glass. The radio is at closing time level also.
He mutters something about the minute hand on his watch as he resets the time. I smile and nod and go back to eating. I don't want to be rude but dealing with people in a similar state for the past four days, I just want to eat in peace.
He starts talking again and I can only make out about every third word. Something about back home and family and community. I smile, nod and shovel hash browns into my face. I'll play the part of an attentive listener but not at the expense of warm food.
Smile, nod, shovel. This goes on until the plate is empty. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be asking questions, just rambling on about something. I kind of wish I could make out what he's saying because I'm always interested to hear about life in other places, especially foreign countries, but I'm just too tired to care. This will probably be me in twenty years. Homeless, incoherent and prattling on to anyone who'll listen. Shit, I already do that now sometimes just out of boredom.
He gets up and puts his coat on as I've finished my coffee. I want to beat him to the door before he gets a chance to ask me for a ride. Note to self-when you're homeless, don't be that guy that asks for rides.
I take my plate and cup to the counter as he asks the girl to help him with the zipper on his coat. I guess he's a regular since she seems to be expecting it. She thanks me for coming in and I respond with have a good night (even though it's really morning). She says thanks and he says you too, sir. That always fucks with me when people older than me call me sir. I understand it in customer service situations, but on the street? I'll never get used to it.
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