The Weave – 11.04.09

The Weave – 11.04.09

I think I'm an observant fellow.

I call myself paying attention.

I wouldn't refer to myself as "worldly" by any means. I've never been to a city bigger than New Orleans. I’ve never driven farther than the Mickey ears. But I've been around the block a few times. I even went back for more on more than one occasion. I like to drive around for no apparent reason and listen to music with the top down. I like to head down the beach, even if it’s the long route and smell the green water. I like to fly even when I don’t have to. I like surprises.

But today was different. I saw something I've never seen before. It wasn't a five legged goat or a man with a third nipple, however it was equally amusing. Wait. Let me take that back. What I saw wasn't that amusing. More like what I imagined had to happen for me to see what I saw was what was so amusing to me.

I don't usually go out to lunch. For that matter I don't usually even leave for lunch. It’s just not a habit I’ve ever gotten into. You rush down so you can hurry up and eat so you can rush back. Sorta defeats the purpose, in my opinion. I pride myself on the unique ability I've had since I came into this world to sustain life on instant grits, pop tarts and beef jerky. You know what I mean, the essentials.

Now, most if the time somebody from the office will leave and go pick up some little something. A hamburger from the old Jim Bob's or a slice of Heaven from Brooklyn's Pizzeria is a normal take-out for those guys. I love the way only Brooklyn's pizza juice can drip down your elbow. Yum MEE! But, for that "health conscious" side of me I will partake in take-out myself, every now and again.

Today was one of those days. For some reason I wanted Ben's Deli. "Bendelly!!!", as they say when they answer the phone for you to place your order. This is a fine establishment, I must tell you. A lovely little place. A "local joint", if you will. It’s a mere 3 blocks from my office in the wrong direction. It’s perfect!

Located on the outer edge of old Gulfport, it's nestled quietly on the corner, not quite in “the hood”, directly across from National Muffler. You can fix an exhaust clatter and receive indigestion within 50 yards of each other on this little section of Pass Road. It's a nice area. It’s very nice.

But, I don’t know of anyone that ever actually died there, I’ll put it that way. So it could be a worse area than it really is, I guess. But it doesn’t matter.

I’ve probably been here three times since the storm. Maybe four. That’s about one visit, if you want to call it that, every year or 16 months or so. That’s about all I can usually handle. Visit is not quite the right term for this either. It’s more of an “in and out” kind of deal.

Ok, I pull up to this place across from where I’m going and park. There’s literally no place to park. 2 o’clock on a Tuesday and this dump is packed tight!

So I go to park and then I’m in and I’m out. Simple, right? But there’s no parking places. This place does more business than a bookie on game day and they have about 5 parking places out front.

Ok. So I pull around to the side. No dice. So, I park next door in a section that’s obviously the other businesses “for our customers only” section. I really hope they don’t tow me, but I chance it. I’ve seen cars on the side of the road with that orange sticker on the side glass for a week that didn’t get towed. I think I’m safe here. I’m gonna be in. I’m gonna be out. No big deal. 2 minutes flat. So I park and walk across the way. It’s “over there” to the little hole in the wall with such local flair. I guess I’m a little conscious of where I’m at in town, because I bee line to the little establishment and really pay no attention to the ground or what’s on it.

I swing open the side door. There’s a man on a stool right in front of the doorway facing out the front window.

5 parking spots, at maximum, and smaller than the Blue Banana, yet there are 14 people in line waiting on their food. I did it again. Food is not the right word to use here either. Grub is more like it. 5 spots, no space, 14 people. There are 3 stools inside, all facing out the large window toward the muffler shop. So, do the math, 11 people are standing. I’m #12.

There is no “hello”.

There is no “how can I help you”.

It’s “WAT YOU ODOR?!?” And it’s loud.

“You caw in?!” she says, and I use the term she loosely.

“Yes, I called in.”

“Nay!?!”

“Mam?”

“NAY!!”

“Oh, Ron. Sorry… Ron called it in.”

“Combilation Swamp Fie Lice… uh… seba for for!!”

She’s so loud.

“Do what?”

“SEBA FOR FOR!!”

She’s sounding really pissed about sounding. It’s rather humorous.

“Oh, seven forty-four. Ok, and I’ll need a sweet tea.”

“Larsmall!?!”

“Huh?”

“LARSMALL!?!”

“Uh, lar! I mean, large.”

I’m getting good at this. Up until now, I thought I only spoke Jive fluently.

IF a fellow asks me if I can “front some ends till the man gets square and get you caught up on the flip side” and I know to say that I don’t loan money. But “larsmall” caught me off guard.

I’ve got it now.

But how, or why rather, is she getting my order and these other 14 people are hanging out and waiting? And where did they park? Did they all walk here? No way they are all together. Where did they come from? Well, this place is doing something right.

I have a mediocre déjà vu from last year when I came in and it was the same thing. People are lined up for days. And they have virtually no communication skills. Amazing, what a business model this is. Wish I could get away with it.

“Give me your money! Here’s your stuff! Now get out!”

That’s awesome! And apparently it works for them!

By this time, I’m grinning on the inside, even more than before. I’m actually enjoying this. But I don’t think anyone else in the tiny, close knit quarters is sharing in my joy.

Then the mean old samurai says “Ate lona do.”

Ok, backstep. “I didn’t get that one. Can you repeat that?”

“Ate lona do!”

I made out the “eight”, but I still don’t know what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry, what?”

She’s losing her patience with me.

I feel like George Costanza dealing with the Soup Nazi. I don’t want to lose my Combilation Swamp Fie Lice. It may sound nasty, but it’s actually quite tasty. I have no idea of the contents necessary to drop a more descriptive name and opt for “combination”, but shrimp fried rice is the way to go. I’ll throw caution to the wind every now and again. I’m not afraid. I’m a rebel that way.

So I think to myself, “You know what? It doesn’t really matter what she’s trying to say. I’ll just give her a ten. That should handle it.”

She smiles big. First one of those I’ve seen since I got here. She’s showing of her pearly white. Yes, only one. And I didn’t realize that oriental people had a fascination with gold caps that had an opening in the front shaped like a star hole, but I’m learning. And I’m also a little out of my element. A lot changes when you go 3 blocks in this direction.

So I’ve paid. I got Ron’s sweet tea. I’ve got the grub. I look back at the snarling faces that were there before me and smile with a farewell nod. I turn toward the door and notice a badly written sign on the door that also catches my attention:

“Close Tanksgiving 25 to 30”

You’ve gotta be kidding me. They aren’t from here. They don’t even speak the language. They treat their customers like crap. And they take 5 (actually 6, I guess) days off for our holiday??? Dude! I’m doing something wrong.

I almost dropped the tea.

So I head out the door and cross the street. Up until this point, none of what I’ve told you is even the remarkable part that I’ve been waiting to share. But it’s coming…

I step out and cross the street and notice something on the ground that looks like a dead animal.

Ok. Food place. Dead animal. Gross.

But as I get closer, I realize it’s not that at all.

It’s a large clump of hair that’s apparently stuck to the concrete on one end and flowing in whatever direction the wind happens to be churning around from the passing traffic.

Ok. Food place. Hair clump. That’s gross.

But as I get closer, I realize it’s not that at all, either.

It’s a piece of clip-on hair.

And it’s a big piece.

It’s two feet long.

It’s a big, long piece of nasty clip on hair.

Now that is gross!

Wait a minute… there’s another one!

And another.

And another.

How did I miss this before?

I look out on the concrete ahead of me between where I am and where my car is and I can see many pieces of this nasty Lee Press On hair stuck to the concrete all around. It looks like it’s been there for days. And why wouldn’t it? Who would pick that stuff up? I don’t like picking up my own hair. And my hair is clean and in little, small pieces. This stuff is borderlining on rodent.

By the way, there is no hair salon, barber shop or crack house in site. And I’m in the parking lot of a small time money lender, called Coastal Credit.

So my wheels are turning now. And I will ask you the same thing I’m wondering myself.

What in the hell has to happen for somebody to be walking down the street, in between the muffler shop and Benderry, of all places, that they literally, begin to pull their hair out?

And apparently, they don’t stop until they’re done. They pull all of it out at once. All within a small area.

Was there a fight and the girl with fake hair lost?

Did Coastal repo their 1986 Cutlass and they don’t see how they can go on living this high profile lifestyle?

Did they get turned down on a loan for the rest of the weave and just said “screw it”?

Did they see the muffler shop and realize that since they have no car, maybe walking would be easier if they were bald?

Was the heat getting to them and they thought that no hair would be a little cooler on the scalp?

Did they have an allergic reaction to the imitation faux meatlike incredients that constitute the “combination” label on the shrimp fried rice at Ben’s Deli?

Were they, all of a sudden, just in need of a change?

Were they thrown out of a moving car, kicking and screaming, and simply lost part of they shit?

Did they run into an old acquaintance on the street that threw some smack down about them sleeping with their man?

As you can well see, the possibilities are endless.

But what’s really funny, is that the real truth is probably boring. Some kid prolly yanked out his auntie’s weave and was playing with it out the window and the next thing you know, Bob’s your uncle.
I guess it’s one of those things that really doesn’t matter at all.

But, similar to a car accident, I just want to know what happened.

Wouldn’t you?

How does this happen in our society. How do we walk by random weave on the sidewalk in this age that we live in?

Are we going backwards? Just a little bit maybe? Do you think that just maybe, we’re, at best, going in the wrong direction?

I’ve seen wigs in traffic. They were a tad humorous, but not like this. Somebody can try to cross the street too fast and lose a wig. They can be searching for honey pots on a blustery day and lose a wig. But not an entire hair weave! Not that straight hair with the clippie do’s on the ends. That stuff is firmly attached to your scalp when you leave the place. Supposedly, it brings on more than “a little pain” if it’s removed incorrectly.

Amazing what some people will go through to change themselves.

Not me. I’m the same old thing I’ve been for years. Some people may say I’ve changed, but I really haven’t. I’ve just reverted back to an older, more stable, version of me. It’s one that I like a lot better. So that’s not changing “me”, right? Nah, that’s growth.

Changing involves hiding something, whether it’s a sincere thought or feeling or maybe a head of bad hair. But growth is positive. It’s doing a little better with what you’ve got than you did yesterday.

Speaking of yesterday, for lunch, I had a bag of those little orange snack crackers and a Texas cinnamon roll from out of the machine at work. But today I’m having Benderry. And tomorrow I’ll be wiping the grease off my elbows at Brooklyn’s.

I think that is growth.

Maybe I do need some change.

Halloween Memories - 10.30.09

Halloween Memories – 10.30.09

That feeling around Halloween time has changed for me over the years.

“Ghosts, goblins, skeletons and such,
They give you fright
On Halloween night.

And if you say BOO,
The pumpkin will too.

Better be careful,
Or bats will get you!”

That was written as a contest entry in the second grade. I must have re-written that thing 8 or 9 times to make it the “Honorable Mention” masterpiece that it was.

Why kids aren’t reciting it annually this time of the year is beyond me. Literary genius is what it is. I’m sure Mrs. Ezell must have meant to send it to Reader’s Digest or The Ladies Home Journal or Family Weekly or some place worthy of such literary prose. But time has passed and I have forgiven her.

Did you ever have that teacher in elementary school that really got you to notice how beautiful a woman’s figure could be? No? Me, either.

But then again, Miss Hardy wasn't actually a teacher. She was Mrs. Ezell’s assistant during the 1980-1981 school year. Oh, my goodness. She must have been created on a Saturday, because I’m sure that the Good Lord, Himself, took a day off just to admire His handy work when He was done with her.

She was a woman, I tell you!

I was 8 and she was 20… it was perfect. She was finishing up college. I've always had a thing for college girls. The University of Whatever. It doesn't matter.

She had long, straight, brown hair. And brown eyes. Beautiful brown eyes. And a smile straight from the Heavens.

She was an active assistant. And on that day she had worn her costume to school for our Halloween Party. And we had a party, let me tell you. A real party. No Play Dough treats. No stickers. No combs shaped like an orange skeletons. No healthy snacks. No sir! We had spider-rings, homemade fudge and chocolate candy bars! We had black and orange cake that made your teeth look like you’d been eating dirt. We had grape Kool-Aid. Well, it was actually, most probably, only Flav-R-Aid because the “ghost” kid brought it. But we had something nobody else had. We had Miss Hardy! And she was in her costume too! It was like she was our age!

I do believe that was the first time I’d ever seen multi-colored knee-highs under a short skirt. Knee-highs were one thing. And quite common, I might add. Knee highs and skirts weren't that big a deal in those days. They were usually thick and warm looking. But hers were different. They were sleek and shiny, kind of see-thru. They didn’t look warm at all. In fact, the way she was dressed, she looked like she might have taken chill soon. Now, keep in mind, I was 8. I didn't know what I was feeling. But I liked it. And I've never forgotten it.

I don’t have any recollection of her costume that day back in 1980, other than those knee-highs. But I can tell you this… I remember the feeling I got that day. It’s a feeling that a young man doesn’t forget. It moved for me that day. Uh… um. I mean. I was 8 for crying out loud. “It” being the pedestal I’d used for women. I had grown up on Pinky Tuskadero and envisioned her dropping Fonzie for me after I won one of those famous Malachi Crunch things she was so well known for. But Pinky was on television. Miss Hardy was in my classroom. Miss Hardy was a tad bit more accessible. Just in case, I mean, really, I’m 8 years old at this time, right?

I only wonder where she is now. I’m sure if you could draw a straight line from the tip of Heaven to the most beautiful place on Earth, she’s somewhere on that line, still making jaws drop.

So, I mention all of this to say that, for many, many years Halloween had only one meaning… costumes. For some reason, the candy was never much of a big deal. It was the costumes for me and the other kids. The costume made the kid the kid. It’s a big deal for a kid to be cool. And a cool costume could make you or break you at that age. It’s that simple. We didn’t have cars. We didn’t have money. But we had costumes.

Any old kid could roll into homeroom on November 1st with a brown paper sack full of candy. But you could get that all year long if your parents let you. A “case quarter” and two little grubby fists could pull out a lot of penny candy out of the boxes at Myatt’s. But the costume was different. What really mattered was the costume.

Making memories with all your friends on Halloween night was fantastic. And everybody talked about everybody the next day. Good and bad! Trick or treating in small town Mississippi during the late 70s and early 80s was a little different than it is now. Trick or treating back then usually meant piling up about 7-9 kids deep in somebody's grandma's old station wagon and driving out to King Subdivision. Our mama’s turning us loose for about an hour and off we'd go! There was a lot of running. A lot of sweating. And a few scabbed knees.

We didn’t have a Party City in those days. There wasn't a Wal-Mart. You got your costume one of only a couple of different ways. If your mom or grandma could sew, then you were lucky. They'd go down to the Salvage Barn and buy some odd pieces and you might be a scarecrow, a witch or a cowboy. If there were no seamstresses in your gene pool, then you might just be a ghost. It sucked being a ghost. That plain white sheet draped over you. You couldn't breath at all. Always falling down, because you can't see shit in that get up. At that age, we didn’t really know what poor meant, but we did know that the ghost kid was the poor kid. What ever poor was. Or that he just had lazy parents. (For further clarification, reference the Kool-Aid analogy above.)

Then there was the kid who got his costume from T-W-L. “Take What’s Left” we used to call it. T-W-L was like a Dollar General, but not nearly as nice. I can say that with a sincere smile.

T-W-L used to carry a wide assortment of vinyl costumes in a variety of colors. Most notably, all of them were “one size fits none”. They must have been made for midgets because the super heroes never had any boots. The army man never had any legs. Those costumes only covered the front half of your legs down to about your shin. Then, they tied with a hard, little vinyl string (for lack of a better word) thingie in the back. And if you tied it too tight, that string would break. And if it broke, it would usually be early in the night, and one of your legs would be flipping and flopping in varying directions until it was time to get back in the station wagon. There’d always be this shwick-shwack sound as you walked too as that leg flapped awkwardly. The wind could be blowing in the middle of a rainstorm and they could hear you walking in that thing. You’d walk up and the porch light would come on, like a lighthouse bringing in a ship to the shore.

Shwick-shwack, shwick-shwack, shwick-shwack. Here came the kid that comes in on the Halloween costume hierarchy just under “ghost” with his crappy ass, noisy, no boot having, “one size fits none”, plastic, shwick-shwack outfit and a plain brown paper sack that only had an apple in it. No orange, plastic pumpkin Jack-O-Lantern, candy holding barrel for this guy. He's got a grocery sack. What a loser! A big time loser with is Tough Skins hanging out under the knees of his (quote/un-quote) super hero costume. His knockoff Keds, which were actually called "Kads" to avoid a trademark infringement, coming in just below the flapping shin that up until now has had a mind of its own. His big toe sticking out from the top of the Kads because he’s running too fast. Not too fast, in the “quick like the wind” kind of too fast. More like the “out ran the shotty craftsmanship in those shitty shoes” kinda fast.

And that mask on those things. “Golly-gee wil-a-kers, Batman. Those things would kill ya!” Could anybody really breath out of that little pea hole? There should’ve been this big, bright, yellow, square sticker on the inside of those things that you couldn't miss when you held it up to your face and pulled that old rubber band back around your head. Remember those rubber bands as they'd tear your hair out of your skull, follicle by follicle. The sticker would be like what’s on the visor of every car made since 1999. And instead of “Wear your seatbelt” or whatever, it would read “Don’t wear this for fear of suffocation” or even better “Don’t wear this if you ever want Miss Hardy to think you are cute”.

Poor kid.

You may ask yourself how I know that kid so well.

It’s easy.

He was me!

But only for that one year.

I learned my lesson that year.

Kids are brutal. Thank God. As well they should be. It gives our little egos a chance to learn and grown before we become grown up.

There was a lot less violence back when kids could be mean and people could be made fun of. It made us tougher. Nowadays, it’s a crapshoot as to which kid is packing heat just in case someone is honest with him. Tough times we live in, man. Tough times.

So that day I did what any young kid should do after a night out on Halloween town like that. I made sure that the next year I would not be that kid!

I learned to plan ahead. Next year, I was something. I don’t know what it was, but it was not a ghost and it did not come from the T-W-L store.

Nowadays, it’s a little different, though. I’m busy. Too busy for Halloween. Too busy to have fun like I used to. It’s a shame, I guess. Because, after all, I’m really good at not being a grownup. I’m exceptional at acting silly. I’m above average at being funny. I enjoy being funny and making others laugh. And I’m fantastic at being a dad.

You know, I should put all that together and give it a shot. Maybe I should dress up for Halloween next year. I could do it. I’d probably be a hit! That’s the way I am. I would either totally succeed and then tout how great I am or I would crash in flames from failure. I’d probably succeed.

Every year around July, I think to myself how cool it’d be to dress up for Halloween. You know, show the kids how it’s done. Then around August, I think I better get started. Then by the end of September, I’ve lost track. And a couple weeks into October, it’s too late. It’s not actually too late. It’s just too late to not be the grownup in the ghost sheet.

Oh, dear. Could you imagine?

The grown up in the ghost sheet…

with the Flav-R-Aid…

and the apple…

and my toe sticking out of my Kads.

I couldn’t live through that as an adult. I’m not tough enough any longer.

If my toe pops out my shoe at this age, I buy new shoes. I don’t get tougher.

So nevermind…

I’ll just leave Halloween to the professionals, the 9 and under crowd.

Phones - 10.23.09

Phones – 10.23.09

Do you remember back as a kid when portable radios only had the one speaker? And you had to turn that dial ever so slightly to get it tuned in the station. And then, once you had it tuned into the station as best you could, you had to make sure you didn’t bump the table for fear of losing the signal or, even worse, it might start blaring out nothing but static so loud that it’d wake up the dead? Ok, then. Take that staticy sound and morph it into a very bad rendition of Axl Rose’s hard-core, 80s, mullet sportin’, Trans-Camaro drivin’ fight song, “Welcome to the Jungle”. That was the sound I heard coming out of the man’s pocket.

This guy must have his cell phone ringer turned up as loud as it would go. This is obviously necessary, considering just how important this guy thinks he is. Or isn’t, as reality would have it. You be the judge.

It wouldn’t be bad if this guy’s phone only rang once or twice a day, but he, who barely eeked past the Darwinian Theory of Natural Selection, has more people calling him than a drug dealer on check day.

Making matters worse, he uses the exact same annoying ring tone for text messages. So whether he’s getting texts, or getting phone calls, it doesn’t really matter, the entire floor knows he is being welcomed to the jungle.

Well, I hear this noise come out of this guy’s pocket. He puts the donut down. That white powdered sugary dust falls gently from his mouth to his shirt and pants like dandruf, where it’ll stay all day. With a full mouth of cakey matter, this guys mutters “Hello”. Of course, that’s loud too. Then, comes the surprise.

I hear him say, and I quote “Peace of shit!” and he tosses the cell phone on his desk. “This peace of shit phone won’t hold a charge for nothing” he exclaims.

What?!?

Won’t hold a charge? You’re on the damn thing all day long! It can only do so much!

He’s on his cell phone 3-4 hours a day. Straight! He’s checking stocks he doesn’t own. He’s checking items that he’s not buying on eBay. He’s forwarding texts containing nudie pictures or racially inappropriate jokes. He’s playing Brick Breaker for hours on end. He’s on the thing, virtually all day long.

Yet he throws it down because it won’t hold a charge?

The battery can only last soooo long, for goodness sake.

This guy is barely 21 years old. He’s young, dumb and full of (something that also rhymes with dumb). He’s the Grand Poo-Bah of today’s non-contributing zeroes. This arrogant little shit has got to be the most spoiled little excuse of brat vermin that I’ve ever met.

I wonder, do all young people think this way?

He’s 21 and I’m only 36. But I do know just how far we’ve come. When I was a kid, we had to go into the room that had the phone. Back then, you had to plug the phone into the wall jack and only certain rooms had those wall jacks. Once in there, you’d pull up a chair because the cord was about as long as your forearm. And you’d pick up this 12 pound block of metal and plastic and move it closer to you on the stand.

You’d put this cold, heavy, black receiver handle to your face and listen for a dial tone. Invariably, there’d be someone talking and you’d have to wait until they got off. And it might not be someone at your own house either. It may be the neighbors that were using the phone, because back then we had party lines. Different people shared a single line called a Party Line. They had their own ring, similar to a modern day ringtone. One household’s ring may be short short. The other’s may be long short. Then yours may be short long. It was fairly common to answer the wrong line, so most people would let it ring an extra time to make sure they heard it right. It’d ring. They’d walk in to the room with the phone. Stand there with their hand on the receiver. Then it’d ring again. And then they’d answer it. And there were no such things as Call Waiting, Call Forwarding, or Answering Machines. There was only the ring.

And if nobody was home, it just rang. No blinking, red light showing anyone had called. Just a cold, black, hunk of plastic and metal that weighed about as much as a small boat anchor. And when it wasn’t being used, it just sat there, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

So no one is on the line and it’s time to dial the number on the “rotary dial”. The rotary dial was this little, thin disk that you turned with your finger. You’d put your finger in this shallow hole that usually didn’t quite fit your finger tip and you’d drag it all the way around to dial the number. The wait time between dialing each digit depended on which individual number you were dialing. For instance, a 1 was one tick and a 0 was ten ticks.

And the old phones didn’t have power steering either. You’d have to put some umpff into it to get it to go all the way around. And they were loud. And if you were eating potato chips or something, forget it. The grease would make your finger slip out and you’d have to start all over. It never failed, the person you were trying to call had a number like 794-8890. You’d put your finger in the 7 and pull it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked. Then put your finger in the 9 and pull it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked back around. Then the 4. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Then the 8. And your finger would slip.

Awe, shit! You had to start over. You’d put your finger in the 7 and drag it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked. Put your finger in the 9 and drag it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked back around. Then the 4. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Then the 8. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. The next 8. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. The 9. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

And your mom would yell for you. “Who are you calling in there?” she’d say. “I can hear you dialing!”

“Nobody, Mom.”

“I can hear you dialing. Don’t lie to your mother!”

“I’m only calling (insert random friend’s name here)! His mother doesn’t care!”

“Well, don’t stay on there long. I’m expecting an important call from (fill in the blank).”

Then, you’d put your ear back against the receiver and realize that you waited too long and had a dial tone again. You’d have to start over.

It was irritating, but that was the way it was. It was a normal every day thing back then.

We were lucky. We were a little above average in the area of technology when I was a child. We had a CB Radio in both of our automobiles and we had Walkie-Talkies. And it was awesome! It was sort of like having a telephone, but it was mobile. I loved it!

And if you’d ever have told me that one day I’d carry around the equivalency of a house phone with the portability of a Walkie-Talkie, I’d have told you that you were nuts.

But, in actuality, that’s what we have with cell phones. Now, what gripes me to no end is when the selfish, inconsiderate, non-participating zero throws this technological marvel down and makes the comment that it’s worthless because it won’t hold a charge. It upsets me.

This thing you carry in your pocket, lets you call from anywhere. Anywhere! Not the just from the family room. Not just from your parents bedroom. From anywhere! You don’t even have to type in their number. You don’t even have to remember their number. You just scroll down in your Address Book to the name you want to call and it knows the number for you. You press the green button. Then this little thing the size of a box of office staples sends a signal into the air. Sends it through your house or building. Sends it up over the clouds. Sends it out into space, for crying out loud! It touches a satellite that’s orbiting the Earth. And then it returns the signal directly back to your small, handheld device. And WHAMMO! You’re connected! Everytime! There’s no waiting to use the phone. There’s no Party Lines. There’s no nothing! No one can listen in on your conversation. It’s very private. You just simply make the call!

Ok, you’re on the phone talking and another person tries to call you. This little device not only alerts you to that, but it’ll send another signal to outer space that let’s you put the first person on standby, or hold, and then it will let you immediately talk to the next person. All with one single touch of one single button.

You used to go months or years without talking to family or friends because they lived so far away or didn’t have a house phone. Now you can just call them, anytime! Also, in the old days, if you wanted to send them a message, you had to write a letter on paper. With handwriting! Then you had to buy an envelope. Then you had to buy a stamp to put on that envelope. Then you had to either drive it to the post office or put it in the mailbox. Then, as if that weren’t enough, you had to wait a week for them to receive it and another week if you were to get a response.

But it’s not that way anymore. Today, you take that same tiny, little device that talks to the satellites and type your message directly on it. And then hit the button to send it. Within seconds, the other party has your message. That used to take a week. Now it’s literally in seconds. You also get a reply within seconds. You can hold entire conversations without ever saying a word or buying a stamp. But, remember, this piece of crap won’t hold a charge!

Oh, you want to take a picture? You can use that little device for that too. You don’t like that picture? Delete it. Then take another one. It wasn’t all that long ago that you had to buy a camera, buy film, buy batteries, load the film, take the picture, hope it was straight or that they didn’t blink or that the lighting was good enough, take the film to the PhotoMat, wait a week and then pay to be able to see the, usually bad, pics that you took. And usually you’d found out, after paying for them to be developed, that they were crooked, dark, or overexposed anyway. But this piece of worthless junk won’t hold a charge! Ungrateful idiocracy, is what it is.

Say you want to “camcord” an event… then do that with your phone too! It will let you! Record away! But this junk won’t hold a charge, right?!

Want to play a game or use a calculator? Then do it! Right there on your phone! But remember, this thing won’t hold a charge! Sheesh!

You would never have been able to, or even wanted to, carry a telephone, a CB Radio, a Walkie-Talkie, a camera, film, a video recorder, a video tape, batteries for all those things, any type of card game or board game AND a calculator all at once with you. But nowadays, it’s there for the using, if you want to use it. It’s just there! Use it or not. It’s just there!

Then, on TOP of all of that, if you want to browse the internet or look up some facts or visit porn sites even, you can do all of that too! Right there! Right here! Right now! And it’s at your fingertips. But you throw yours down because you say it won’t hold a charge! What a loser reaction to a modern day marvel!

Ok, so you want to listen to some jams! It’s a jukebox in your pocket. 10,000 freaking songs and a runnin’ ton of videos, right there for you to enjoy! But it’s frustrating you because the battery’s going dead.

You want to see a movie while waiting on whatever? It’s a miniature portable movie theatre that doesn’t have sticky floors. It’s always with you, Mr. Ungrateful!

Oh, and you wish you could tell when it’s your phone that’s ringing instead of someone else’s in the room, you can even personalize the sound of your ringer. Who’da thunk it?

So you want to complain about how bad you have it, Mr. Zero? In between this moaning and wailing about how awful his cell phone is, I tell him to give it here and let me take a look at it.

I pick it up. Wait a minute. It’s holding a charge after all! There’s nothing wrong with this thing. Oh, I see what it is. It’s out of minutes!

This loser, low life, ungrateful no account, whose about as useful as a wet tampon, has run out of minutes. I guess he needs to rush back down to the washateria and buy some more. And he’s even more of a loser for not even realizing it!

Amazing! This has got to be the most unaccountable generation this world has ever seen!

He should have gone with the awesome new Cellular South unlimited plan that gives you unlimited everything for only $79 for the first phone and the second one on the account for $39. Thanks to Cellular South, I don’t have to worry about anything. I get to call and text who I want, for as long as I want, as much as I want. It’s great!

(Little plug there for my buddy, Josh @ Cellular South!)

I guess this turned into a modern day version of how hard it was to walk to school, uphill, both ways. But it’s the truth!

Bottom line… don’t be a non-contributor and get a decent data plan.

End of story.

The Cleaners - 10.22.09

The Cleaners - 10.22.09

I would like to share with you all what happened this morning at the cleaners. I'm not going to elaborate. I'm not going to try and make it funny. I just think it is funny. All by itself. I'm not going to do anything, but simply share the conversation I had there.

Now, for the full effect, you need to realize that I've been going there for years. I am always polite. I always make the normal conversation with them. "Good morning." "How are you." Blah blah blah.

They should remember me. If they have 2,000 clients that come to them for their clothes to get cleaned, out of that 2,000, they should remember me, of all people. They always talk to me. We always have a little mini-conversation of sorts. But when it comes time to put my name on the receipt book, they never remember me. Ever.

So, I enter. And there she is, the same bearded lady that's been there for years. And I'm in no way, shape, form or fashion, making fun of her. She is what she is. She's been sporting a 6 o'clock shadow for years. It's like her trademark or something.

She's always nice to me. A little spacey, but always nice. And they do great work there. But they NEVER remember me. It's a little disheartening, but I can handle it. What I can't handle, is the unnecessary psychobable that reared its ugly head this morning.

I entered with a double arm load of shirts and pants.

CASHIER: "Good morning."

ME: "Good morning."

CASHIER: "What's the name?"

ME: "Slade."

CASHIER: "Blade?"

ME: "No..., Slade."

I wonder if she's ever shaved that thing?

CASHIER: "A?"

ME: "What? No mam, Slade."

CASHIER: "Yes, but is it 'A' Slade?"

This particular cleaners only goes by your last name, first initial.

ME: "No mam, it's 'J' Slade."

She has to have a mirror in at least one room of her house.

CASHIER: "What are you picking up?"

What am I picking up? First of all, this place has a large sign with big letters above the counter that clearly states "You MUST have your receipt to pickup your order!" So, shouldn't you be asking me for my receipt if I'm picking up? Second of all, I've got an arm load of clothes. You do the math.

ME: "Nothing. I'm dropping off."

CASHIER: "So you're not picking anything up?"

I look down at in my arms at the pile of clothing I'm bringing in and plop it over onto her counter.

ME: "No. Just dropping off."CASHIER: "Are you sure?"

ME: "Yeah... I'm sure."

CASHIER: "So what have you got there?"

ME: "Shirts and pants."

Do other people stare at her beard?

CASHIER: "How many?"

ME: "I don't know. Aren't you supposed to count them?"

CASHIER: "Oh, I'll count them."

ME: "Well, there you go."

P.T. Barnum would have a field day with this gal.

CASHIER: "One. Two. Three. Four. Wait, that's rayon. Three and one. Four. Five...."

(You get the picture.)

CASHIER: "You've got 12 regular shirts, 1 rayon shirt and 1 pants."

One pants? I will keep that smirk to myself, for now. No need to nit-pick her grammer.

ME: "That sounds right."

CASHIER: "You don't want any starch do you?"

I'm at the cleaners. I'm about to pay close to $3 per shirt and $5 for a pair of pants. I'm thinking the answer should be obvious. But it appears she's trying to talk me out of starch. But I want starch. So I say...

ME: "Yes, I want starch."

CASHIER: "Oh, you do? What kind?"

That was easy.

ME: "Whatever the little yellow tags mean. My clothes always have the little yellow tags on them."

CASHIER: "That's light starch."

ME: "Ok, then. Light starch it is."

And I smile.

She fills out the little receipt book with all my info about how many I have of each and what kind of starch I want. And then she writes 'Slade, A' at the top.

ME: "It's 'J' Slade."

CASHIER: "That's what I put."

ME: "No, it says 'A' Slade, right there."

I know I don't have a lisp.

CASHIER: "Well, what did you say?"

ME: "I said 'J' Slade."

CASHIER: "Oh, you did, didn't you? What was I thinking?"

ME: "I don't know."

I smile.

CASHIER: "Well, we have an 'A' Slade, a 'J' Slade, another 'J' Slade,"

That's not counting me, I assume.

CASHIER: "... an 'E' Slade, an 'L' Slade. We've got alot of Slades."

ME: "Well, that's good."

I point down at the 'A' on the receipt book she's writing in.

ME: "But I'm 'J' Slade."

CASHIER: "Yes, you are. I will change that."

She does.

ME: "Did y'all ever think about using the person's entire first name instead of just the first initial?"

CASHIER: "No. It gets too confusing that way. This way works fine."

ME: "Oh, I see."

CASHIER: "And, there you go."

She hands me the ticket.

I ask the obvious question.

ME: "When will they be ready?"

CASHIER: "Whenever you want to get them will be fine."

I grin.

ME: "Ok, I want them now."

CASHIER: "But you said you weren't picking anything up."

This is classic.

ME: "No, I meant I want the ones I just gave you."

I smile again because she's really getting confused now.

CASHIER: "But they're not ready yet."

ME: "But you said 'any time'."

She is really puzzled.

CASHIER: "Well, you just dropped them off."

ME: "So when will they be ready to pickup?"

She smiles and shakes her head a little with that 'duh' look on her face.

CASHIER: "Anytime's fine."

Even though I'm dragging her along this road of confusion, I'm still very surprised that it's this hard to get a straight answer.

ME: "So tomorrow is ok?"

CASHIER: "Sure. Anytime after five."

ME: "Ok. Tomorrow after five. I can do that."

CASHIER: "Are you sure you aren't here to pick something up?"

ME: "Yes. Unless my wife brought something by here that I wasn't aware of, I don't have anything to pickup."

CASHIER: "Well, I could've sworn that I saw an 'A' Slade back there."

Ok. There's a thousand shirts back there and she miraculously remembers that one of them probably had a name on it that was not mine. I'm intrigued, to say the least.

ME: "But I'm not 'A' Slade."

CASHIER: "Well, I guess you're not. Otherwise, you'd be picking up your stuff."

ME: "Are we done here? Can I go now."

CASHIER: "Yes. Thank you. Come again."

ME: "I will. I've still got to pickup those shirts."

CASHIER: "The one's your wife brought?"

ME: "My wife didn't bring any."

CASHIER: "Ok, then. Thanks."

I'm thinking that if this place is turning a profit at all, then I should be a millionaire.

Newk's - 10.06.09

Newk's - 10.06.09

The Promenade, pronounced prah-men-odd if you live in Bayou View and prah-men-aid if you live in Diberville, opened up recently. It's a few acres of the latest and greatest in shopping and food for this area.

There's a Best Buy, an Olive Garden, a couple hotels, an AT&T store,
several random shopping village type stores and variety of restaurants all nestled around a winding strip of roads that surround the headliner, Target.

All up amongst the middle of this spaghetti junction of turn lanes and crossovers and four-lane nastiness, that's sure to be programmed in the favorites section of your local ambulance's Garmin, sits a little restaurant that, quite frankly, I'd never heard of before. I guess I don't get out enough. Newk's is a great little secret of this new Promenade. It's owners are local folks. It's founders are the same group of people that started McAlisters Deli. So that should at least get you in the door the first time.

Before I get started, I must say that the atmosphere there is nice, the food is great, the service is exceptional. Kudos! We have eaten there a couple of times already. I highly recommend it, if you get the chance to go by.

However, you've got to know this. Once again, I was both shocked and amazed during my most recent visit. It blows me away the rollercoaster level of service we get here on the Gulf Coast. But Newk's does it right!

There are two ways to enter. First there is the main front door. Then, there is a side/back door entrance that requires you to walk through past the fountain machines and through the crowd a little to get to the order counter. This time we came in the front.

The restrooms are to the right and I thought it was very fitting to have a sink out front in plain site to wash your hands before placing an order. That was a nice little touch. Since I had not been in their restrooms before, I thought I'd check that out first. I always like to see how clean the restrooms are. It's amazing how similarly restaurants maintain their restrooms and their kitchens. You can't always see how clean the kitchen is. But you can always check out the restrooms. I opened the door and was blown away.

As I said earlier, this is a fantastic little secret in Diberville. You simply must go! But I wish I had not gone into the restroom first. It's very poorly designed. I will explain. (You may want to skip down a couple or three paragraphs.)

I opened the door and took a step forward. The main stall there inside is facing the entry door. And more importantly the gap between the door and the facia where the latch is, is about 3-4 inches wide. Get the picture? If someone is sitting there doing their business, and this time they were, then they are in your exact line of site as you enter, and this time they were. And if they react, as human nature would have us, they might look up, as they did this time. And if they look up, like they did, they will, without a doubt make complete and total eye contact, just like this guy did last night.

Talk about uncomfortable. What was I to do? I made eye contact. I didn't mean to. But I don't see how it could be avoide. I'm sure he didn't want to see me any more than I wanted to see him, but our eyes met. It was uber uncomfortable. I didn't want to make eye contact with a guy doing his business. That's private. And to make it worse, I said "How ya doin'?"

How ya doin'? How ya doin'? Not only do I already know how he's doing, I also know what he's doing. And even though it's a perfectly natural occurence and everyone does it all the time, it's just one of those moments I wish I could take back. But I couldn't. Then he said "Not much, man." Now, I knew he was uncomfortable too. Just like me. I asked "how ya doin'?" and he answered with an answer that didn't even make any sense. I guess in a way it was kinda funny. So I did what I went in there for and left. That was the longest 1 1/2 minutes I've lived through in quite some time. Just awkward.

So I meet back up out front with my wife.

She asks "So how are the restrooms?"

"Oh, they're nice" I say. Apparently I had this shit eating grin on my face because she said "Oh, ok. Alright." And then she smiled too.

Of course, I'd have to tell her later. How could I not. I guess I'm still a 4th grader on the inside.

I've only been here once and I've not done any menu research. So I really don't know what I want to order. Pizza? Salad? Soup? I'll just get a suggestion from the house. I'm actually expecting, "Oh, well what are you in the mood for?" or "It's all good" or "I'm sure you'll like it all." I've already prepared so that I don't have a repeat of the C&G incident. I'm standing at the order counter, tapping my hands in nervous rhythm and looking over my right shoulder trying to read the ill placed menu. And that is where the amazing part kicked in.

The girl at the register asked "Hello and welcome to Newk's. Can I take your order?"

The following happened in the course of about 30 seconds. I was not as prepared as my wife.

She ordered first...

"I think I'll have a sandwich."

"Chicken Salad, Club, Grilled Chicken, Shrimp Po-Boy, Italian, Newk's Q, Pesto Chicken, Pimiento Cheese, Roast Beef, Smoked Ham, The Wreck, Turkey Breast or Veggie Club?"

I stand a little closer to listen. This is gonna be good.

"Can you describe the Italian?"

"Sure. It is capicola, mortadella, pepperoni, salami, provolone, mayo, spicy Creole mustard, lettuce, tomato, yellow onions, hot sliced cherry peppers and Italian cheese."

This girl really knows her stuff.

"What's on your Club."

"Ham, turkey, cheddar, swiss, Applewood bacon, tomato, lettuce, our original honey mustard and mayo."

She didn't miss a beat! Wow! This girl is flawless!

"I'll take that. No mustard. No mayo."

"One Club, with ham, turkey, cheddar, swiss, bacon, tomato and lettuce. No mustard. No mayo. Would you like a drink with that?"

"Sure, what do you have?"

"Pellegrino, Evian, Acqua Panna, Coke, Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Sprite, Diet Sprite, Mr. Pibb, Powerade, Iced Sweet Tea, Unsweet Tea, Bud Light, Michelob Ultra, Coors Light, Miller Light, Heineken, Amstel Light, Orangina, Fresh Ground Coffee and we have a list of wines available bye the glass or by the bottle."

Holy moly! And all this is from memory. I'm still looking over my shoulder trying to double check her work. It's spot on!

"Unsweet Tea."

"Would you care for a desert? We have Banana Cake, Big Krispy (regular and peanut butter), Brownies, Caramel Cake, Carrot Cake, Chocolate Cake, Pineapple Cake, Red Velvet Cake and Strawberry Cake."

"No thank you."

"And you sir?"

I'm not really sure that I am prepared to answer with all the choices. But I'm so enthralled with her ability to quote directly without using a cheat sheet. I'm taking a step closer to the register to make sure I can accurately hear her and I'm still trying to look over my right shoulder to see the menu. Not that I will need it. This girl is fantastic!

I stare at her in awe for just a second becaue I've never, and I repeat NEVER, come in contact with such an efficient young person to take my order. This is great!

"I will have a salad."

"We have Black & Bleu, Caesar, Chef, Cobb, Greek, Newk's Favorite, Shrimp Remoulade, Simply Salad, Southern Salad and Ultimate."

"What's on the Newk's Favorite?"

"Mixed greens, grilled chicken breast, gorgonzola cheese, dried cranberries, grapes, artichoke hearts, pecans (pronounced 'puh-cons', so I know she's a local) and croutons tossed with Newk's sherry vinaigrette."

I want to hire this girl.

"And the Ultimate?"

"Mixed greens, grilled chicken breast, ham, turkey, bacon, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheddar cheese and croutons tossed with Newk's original honey mustard."

I could do this all day long. She doesn't miss anything.

"I'll have that without the tomatoes. No cucumbers. Axe the honey mustard. I'll take something close to Italian."

"That would be our Greek Dressing. It's clear like Italian, with a tangy kick."
"That works."

"Ok. I have an Ultimate Salad with mixed greens, grilled chicken breast, ham, turkey and bacon. No tomatoes. No cucumbers. Substitute Greek for Honey Mustard."

"That's it. Exactly."

"Would you like a drink with that?"

"Coke."

"Regular, Diet or Zero?"

"Regular."

"Any cake, krispy or brownie?"

This gal is efficient.

"No thank you."

"Your total is $16.02. Will that be cash, credit or debit?"

"Debit."

"Please swipe your card and enter your pin."

I did.

"Please press ok."

I did.

"Ok sir, your number will be 180. Please take this and place it in the holder located on the top of the table of your choice and we will have someone bring it right out to you."

I'm still smiling. Never once, did she say "oh, it's good" or "oh, you'll like it". Just short, direct and to the point. That's my kinda deal.

"I will. And thank you very much. I don't think you know just how pleasant that was. They are lucky to have such a great employee."

"Thank you, sir. (pause and smile) Can I help the next person in line please?"
We walked over to the only open booth. This place is packed. The table is clean. The tabletop is not sticky. The food came out momentarily. And it tasted great!

Quite honestly, the food could have been less than par and I'd still want to do business there again just because of the treatment we received and the good service we got.

I'm still not all that excited about the restroom set up.

But I can go before I go next time.

Waitstaff

Waitstaff -- 09.27.09

As with most of the annoying things in life, I've learned to just chalk most of them up as "the way that it is". However, as I get older, I've noticed that it has become more and more improbable that I will ever be able to ignore some of the unnecessary comments made by servers. Speaking primarily about the waitstaff of finer establishments.

I don't know about you, but when I go to a nicer place to eat, I don't go just to eat. I go for the experience. I like tableclothes. I like forks that are made of metal, not plastic. I like choosing from a variety of sides. I like to pick what temperature my meat cooked to. I enjoy the large plate with the small portions and that French sounding sauce drizzled all over for added flair. It's not often that we drop a hunsky for dinner, but when we do, we expect something nice. We don't expect the world. Just a little better than what we get at the local burger joint.

Now, I love the local burger joint. But I'm picky. There's something about a frozen hamburger that comes out of box that can be good if the mood hits me. At those places, I expect the sticky tables and an occasional drip down the side of the A1 bottle. It just happens. These people get paid half of minimum wage in most cases to be food servers. They usually work long hours on their feet. And most of them have to work Holidays in order to get ahead. Because of this, I sympathize. So I don't expect great things. And, here's the biggie, I tip well. Usually, no matter what. If the food is remotely decent and I'm pretty sure the food is free of the server's saliva, then I tip. And I don't tip a percentage. I just give them a few bucks based on how easy it was for me to keep my cool.

Example. I hate pickes and mustard. Not only do I not eat them, but I don't like it when other people eat them. Neither one. I don't like the way they look. I don't like the way they smell. And if I even think I taste what might be a pickle or mustard, the food comes right out. End of story. There is no room for error on this topic. It's so bad, in fact, that I don't even walk down the pickle or mustard aisles at the grocery store.

So when I place an order at the local burger joint, I clearly specify: "I'd like a plate with meat and fries. No condiments. No garnish. No nothing. Nothing extra. Just a plain clean plate, with meat and fries." I leave no room for mistakes. Usually, this is an easy order to fill. And when it comes out correctly, I gladly leave $3-4 extra just because it came out right. Ok, it's a little non-conventional, but it's the way I like it. I guess I'm an unconventional guy.

Now, luckily, when we go to a nicer place, it's a lot less necessary to specify such things. At a nicer establishment I usually order a ribeye or filet and some type of potato. Simple and sweet.

I believe that the reason I get so bent out of shape in a better restaurant is because, at one time, I was trained as a fine dining food server. It wasn't anything spectacular. It was about a week or so of listening to what they expected out of me, and most importantly, what they didn't expect out of me.

Here's what I learned. Of course, I will paraphrase.

First, they said not to introduce myself as the server. This would be obvious they said. After all, I'm the one in the tuxedo jacket and white shirt, right? Shouldn't it already be obvious to them?

Second, they said not to ever, under any circumstance, tell patrons anything about my personal life unless it were specifically asked of me to do so. And that includes my spouse, my kids, my mama, my friends, my boss, my car, my house, my bills, my hours, how busy we are, how slow we are, etc. They don't care. They come here to get away from their problems not to hear mine. This actually made good sense to me, that people don't go out to eat so they can have a conversation with me. They are trying to get "away" from such trivial things as conversation. They also said, in a polite way, that customer's don't really care about "me". They just want their experience to be a good one.

Third, they said that the entire table gets sat at once. The entire table receives their food at once. And the entire table gets cleared at once.

Lastly, I was told to explain things if asked and to leave out my opinion, unless asked. "Our feature is sauted in a white wine sauce with cherry vinegarette." Not "its really good". And never, "Oh, you will like it". Especially not "I'm sure you will like it". Under promise and over deliver. And leave out the flowery over talking.

Four things. That's what I remember. I'm sure there was more. But that's what I remember. I learned that immediately. I have since carried that with me into my current profession. And I must say, it has served me well.

Quick introductions. Leave out the personal stuff. Start it and finish it at once. It's pretty simple really.

So even though I learned and have used those standards in my life, it seems only natural that others would have done the same, right? Wrong.

It's quite depressing sometimes when you really take the time to see what all is just done "half-way" nowadays. There is very little, if any, attention to detail. No one cares about anything, it seems. It's all about them. It's never about the customer. And it's never as good an experience as it could be.

Today we wanted to go out to eat. Nothing too nice, but not Sonic. Ya know?

So we decided to go to The Island View. They have a nice little menu slash salad bar buffet thing going on there. That would be fine. Soup. Salad. Tableclothes. Perfect.

And I swear to you, this is exactly what happened.

First, we were immediately seated. That part was the great part. There was no wait at all. I was impressed. Nowhere to go but down now, right? Just kidding. But that's exactly what happened.

This guy comes over to our table and says he would be helping out our server because she was new. Not the most professional introduction, but it's C&G, not Emeril's. But that's not what got my attention. What got my attention was that he forgot our server's name. Even that didn't bother me so much. But it totally threw him off his game altogether. I don't know about you, but I've never yelled for "Margaret" across a crowded room in my life. So it's fair to assume that I probably would not start doing so tonight. My server's name, really was none of my concern.

Just bring some water. Keep it full. And we'll be done in a minute.

But this guy got so overwhelmed with concern after forgetting her name that he forgot to even take our drink order. That deer in the headlight thing was going on. It was like he was in a trance.

He stared down. He looked around. He smiled that OMG/WTF smile. And then walked off like he was going to crawl into a hole. I'm thinking, dude, it really doesn't matter, but I am a bit thirsty.

So he walked off and, after a brief moment, came back. He immediately clarified that her name was... whatever-it-was, even though her name was not the answer to the riddle. So now that he was back, I was going to use this opportunity to order some water. I don't know why I'm so thirsty, but I am.

"Can we just place our order with your now?"

He said that the girl with the newly clarified name would be by to take our order.

"Ok."

But we are at C&G, I'm thinking. And it's really pretty much a buffet or menu deal at this joint. Today we are part of the buffet crowd. Why can't we just start our trek amongst the buffet (which stands for B-ig U-gy F-at F-olks E-ating T-ogether) anyway? Is it necessary that we wait to have our order taken? So we wait to the tune of 12-15 min for the newly clarificated girl.

She's new so its sorta ok, right.

We order drinks.

We mention the buffet, like we should have done almost 15 minutes ago.

And we're on our way.

I get gumbo first. Because of this, I need some hot sauce. I ask the guy that first didn't take our drink order and forgot her name for hot sauce. That's exactly what I said. Hot sauce.

"Could I get some hot sauce, please?" I swear to you, he asked me... "hot or mild?"

I said "Hot sauce."

He asked intellectual question number two. "Louisiana or Tabasco?"

I said "Just hot sauce."

Then come the unnecessary comments. "Ok, I will be glad to bring Tabasco. But if you'd have said Louisiana, I don't think we have it in hot. I think we only have it in mild hot sauce."

You have got to be kidding me. Mild hot sauce? What planet is this guy from?

He turns and walks away just as I hear something being placed on the table next to me from the other side. I turn to the other side of me and see the leatherette check holder.

I look up and make eye contact with the clarified girl as she says, "There's no hurry. This is just here for your convenience."

"For my convenience? How about that glass of water I ordered 20 minutes ago? How about taking that check away and replacing it with a glass of water for my 'convenience'? Now, that would be convenient."

I'm not loud. I'm really not that obnoxious. But I am irritated. And it's evident in my speach. I'm not a mean person. I really do care about people's feelings. But this is hard to accept. The check? Now? Come on now! I think to myself, "You can do better than that, right?" I'm wondering, "Didn't she go through orientation?"

So before the golden boy got back with my hot hot sauce, the new girl had already prepared our bill. And then delivered our bill. I have not chewed the first bite of anything and all of a sudden if the urge hits me to pay, or pre-pay rather, I can, and of course, "there's no hurry" and "it's all at my convenience".

I've been here 20 minutes. I've already been embarassed. I've embarrased my wife. I've shown my ass. I've pondered the probability that the word "hot" holds no meaning in the term "hot sauce". I'm still thirsty. And my gumbo is getting cold. But the staff here is making sure that it's convenient for me.

She takes away the bill and wonder boy brings my water. I trash that cup of gumbo and get another one. It's actually pretty good with the Tabasco. The meal has took a turn for the better.

I decide to fix a salad. I do a once over of the entire salad bar section, so that I can get in my head what I want to have. I decide on a simple and plain "house type" salad. I prepare it all on the plate and look over at the dressing choices. There are about 8 choices and several look good. I see this unmarked creamy italian looking milky one that looks like it might be ok. There are no markings at all on this bad boy. No lettering on the bottle. No sticker. No nothing. So I put some in a small cuplike dish and brink it to the table. When our girl, we'll just call her "Clara", comes back by, she asks, very politely if there's anything she can get for us. I kindly ask if she can tell me what kind of dressing this might be.

Clara smiles and says... and I quote... "Oh, it's good."

"It's good?" I say.

"Yes, sir. It's good."

"Are you kidding me? Am I on Candid Camera? Is this some kind of joke? It's good? It's good to whom? It's good to you? Is that the best you can do? Is that the name? It's good is the name? What are it's contents? Are they good contents? Apparently so. Why even have a menu. Just have a list of good shit and bad shit. That'll save alot of time for people like me. It's good! Are you out of your mind? What if I'm allergic to butter and this shit has butter in it? What if I'm allergic to pepper sauce and this shit has peppers in it? Better yet, what if I don't fucking like pickles and this shit has pickle juice in it? Are you gonna tell the next person that it's good while your are trying to get the vomit stains out of your burgandy carpet down there? So, Princess, can you Clara-fy that one for me? Here, I'll give you another chance. Can you please tell me what kind of dressing this might be?"

That was about the time the manager came over and asked if there was a problem. I quickly calmed down. Not out of respect. But more or less out of pity.

I got myself together and with all the kindness I could bring together, I said, "We were just discussing what type of dressing this might be."

The manager said, "Oh, that's a house favorite. It's a creamy italian with a little kick."

I thanked here. And returned to my meal.

I poured the now well described concoction onto my salad and began to eat. Apparently, I was alot more distracted through all of this than I had realized.

Upon the second bite, I noticed a slight twang that I wasn't used to.

But with all the bacon bits and croutons and nuts and frustration, I didn't put my finger on it too quickly.

I took another bite.

I stopped.

I looked at my wife.

I pointed at the dressing.

Clara was at the next table.

My wife spun around and tapped Clara on the shoulder. "Miss, I'm very sorry to interrupt you. But, we need you to ask the manager to come back over here please."

Like, Johnny-on-the-spot, Clara's manager is back over at our table. By this time I've transferred the contents of my mouth into the cotton napkin that had resided in my lap until this point. My wife is handling this for me, because I am unable. We don't discuss it. We don't have to. But she knows. No words are needed. She knows what is happening.

"Yes, mam." My wife continutes, "You mentioned the dressing had a 'kick'. Can you tell us exactly what that 'kick' is?"

The manager smiles. "Sure. I'd be happy to."

This is all happening in slow motion. I feel like I am watching it on a movie. The words are all drawn out and slow, but I hear them clearly.

"It's pickle juice."

During the last 30-45 seconds, I had played this outcome out in my head no less than 10 times. And through them all, the ending did not change.

I was not proud.

The coming outcome was one that for me was completely unavoidable.

I did not want to.

But I did.

I hurled.

Oh, God, did I hurl.

I must've have lost last week's lunch in the process.

I have never lost it quite this bad before. This put the incident at Outback on the back burner. This one was definitely one for the record books. I had not puked in public in 9 years. I had hoped to hit ten. A personal milestone of sorts. Double digits. But I would have to start all over tomorrow.

I left $20 tip for a $30 meal. It was the only thing I could think of that would remotely come close to an apology.

But, you know, I've thought it all over since it happened and I'm not so sure I was really "all that to blame". I will admit, this was pretty bad. For lack of a better phrase, I think it was just the straw that broke the camel-toe's back.

Either way, it's over.

I still get bent out of shape about stupid things that happen.

Probably always will.

It's just the way that it is.

The Truth

The Truth - 09.22.09

I'm gonna type this as loud as possible so that those that wish to read it can hear it over my ego.

An old friend came by the bus stop today. The only thing is, there’s no actual bus stop. That’s the rather sarcastic way I like to refer to my suite. And by suite, I actually mean office. Eh… office is just this side of a stretch. I think cube might be more appropriate. A cube with a 3 inch thick door, big window and shades. The cheapie, thin, trailer park kind of shades. Blinds really. And a combination, digital door lock. I guess I'm important. And while we’re at it, friend is probably not the right word either. I mean, we get along. Always have. We’ve known each other for years. More than an acquaintance. Not really a buddy. Maybe a buddy. But definitely not a pal. Nowhere near family. I’ll say friend. That works.

Why would I use a term like bus stop, you might ask? Did you ever go past a bus stop and see people hanging out. Maybe reading a book. Or better yet, doing nothing. Sitting there with their shopping cart from God knows where. That blank stare like they are waiting on death because that might be better than this. The bus comes. The people stay put. Besides, their stolen shopping cart wouldn't go up the bus' steps anyway. The bus leaves. The people are still there. Basically they are oblivious to what’s going on around them. I can almost hear Nurse Ratchett in the background. "If Mr. McMurphy doesn't want to take his medication orally, I'm sure we can arrange that he can have it some other way. But I don't think that he would like it." They literally have not one single thing better to do than just hang out. They have no schedule. Are in no hurry. Have no sense of time. Butt on the bench and arm on the shopping cart, like it's going somewhere. Well, that’s what they do around my cube. They hang out. And they bring their 'stuff'.

Now it's obvious to me that society needs this subgroup to make the ones of us that follow 'responsibility and accountability' rather than 'just routine' appear more productive. I choose not to be a member of the sheeple. So be it. But it still amazes me everytime they "just pop in" for a visit at exactly the wrong time. I can almost predict or pinpoint the exact moment the passers by will invade my territory. It's laughable to some extint. If I'm balls to the wall, I can almost guarantee a pointless visit from a bored acquaintance. I can have nothing going on for three days in a row. Then all of a sudden on a firehouse day, when the flames are coming from all directions and I'm carrying the hose, the 'sorta buddy' non-family 'more like a friend' stops by to catch up on all the things that don't really matter. He is wanting to visit with me. Me, of all people. So I guess that makes me the jack ass. But I understand that going in, so does that make it ok? Remember? If there's something wrong with them, then there's really just something wrong with me, right? But the truth is, they don’t even know it. That's the annoying part. And they don’t even care. How could they care about something they don’t even realize or understand? If it is them, they just don't see it. And if it is me, they could at least recognize, understand and show appreciation for my gratitude. I'm important, remember? Refer back to paragraph one for that if you've forgotten. I made that clear early on.

But they don't. It’s not in their nature. It's very similar to the guy that you cannot offend no matter what you say. They just won’t go away. But, I am busy. Usually. Doing something that's got to be done. And if I’m not, I try to look as though I am when they come by. I grunt a little. I sigh and sit back in my chair. I place my hands in the manger formation and place them on my stomach in disgust. I rudely look past them for seconds on end as if something is going on behind them. I make sure my eyes follow a person, real or imaginary, outside of their peripheral vision. They always turn to see what's not actually back there. Wouldn't that imply that I'm more interested in what's not going on behind them than their random rambling? You would think, right? But it doesn't. Because, for a second, our eyes meet and I can tell that during that brief moment they just think I'm crazy. Not mean. Not rude. Not wishing with all my fervor that they'd really just go away and leave me alone so that I can keep this hose under control. All of this to no avail. It does no good. They cannot be offended. They will not go away.

So today, this was not such an unusual occurance, as I am pretty used to it by now. A busy day. Mostly just 'busy work'. The kind that doesn’t make any money, but occupies hours on end. Add in a little new business. Throw in a never ending array of random phone calls and messages and today was not a good day for a visit. Especially the random visit. The kind where I have to show genuine interest. The kind that’s perceived in their mind as kind and polite because they were thinking of me. When in actuality they are really just very bored people and have no idea how to cope with reality. "Let's stop in and see what Jayson is doing." But I’m supposed to feel sorry for them and stop what I’m doing and put business on hold and entertain them from their random boredom. I get it.

So… as I was saying, an old friend came by the bus stop today.
Wait! Hold up! Age for emphasis. You gotta see the age difference here. We are quite similar. He and I think mostly alike. We laugh at the same things. We see stupidity as it rears it's ugly head in the world. And we have moderately similar, yet totally different backgrounds. The only problem, or issue, I mean, no... challenge, rather, is the age gap. If I'm pushing post retirement, and he and I are sitting and leaning back, in old, rickety chairs out front of the 'feed mill' with Jim Dyar and Uncle Clyde talking about Woodrow and his wheel barrow, then all is right in the world. But there's about a 30 year gap in between my friend and myself. I'm still in the work force. I'm not pulling the 'hourly' at Wal-Marks just yet. I don't work for the post office where the only way I lose my job is by stealing hundreds of other people's Netflix DVDs as they come through the mail. No, I'm still trying to hold down my fort. Maybe in 30 years, I'll just say I'm done, pack up my sleeping bag and come over to your fort. But I'm still fighting indians in this one for now. My campfire's not buring out just yet.

Back to the story... an old friend came by the bus stop today. My first thought was how glad I was to see him. I guess it had been a year or so since our last visit with each other. My second thought was what bad timing this really was. Kinda made me smile in disgust on the inside. I wanted to do like that guy on The Office that tries to hide the fact that he really likes the receptionist, and he can't get very far in his job because Michael is such a dimwit and he just turns and looks directly into the camera, wrinkles his mouth over to the side, cocks his head over a little, raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders at the viewer. But I can't shoo him away. I need a break from all this 'stuff' anyway. After all, I do enjoy talking to the guy. That is, right up to the part where he usually starts rambling gossip at me about all the incorrect 'facts' on people we used to work with that he's gotten 3rd hand from who knows where and I start staring at the imaginary world going on behind him. I could do without that part. But we talk. We laugh. We catch up on everything.

Three minutes pass. I'm a watch watcher. Bad habit.
I was told a long time ago that when people begin to ramble, give them 3 minutes to wrap up whatever they want to say. After that, it's ok to cut them off.

At the end of about the 3rd minute (or 2nd hour, depending on if you are listening from my perspective) I heard the question that always comes up when me and this guy get together. "So have you talked to (I'm not putting his name here)?"

Jesus, Lord, Mary and Joseph. For a brief moment in time, I was Catholic.

If I were a 15 year old Girl Scout, and I got that in a text, "So have you talked to (fill-in-the-blank)?" I'd have hit them back with the double-whammy "omg wtf". But I'm not. I'd like to think I'm more refined than a 15 year old Girl Scout. Nothing against Girl Scouts. It's just a reference. But I can handle this in my own tactful way.

The only problem is, my tact is in a period of hibernation. I don't realize this until my mouth is already open. And here it comes. I wasn't loud. I wasn't mean. I was just 'to the point'. I'm at A and we're gonna be at B before you can blink, so hold on.

"Now why in the world would I have talked to (Blank)? If I had wanted to know what was going on with (Blank), I damn sure would not have talked to him. You can't get a straight answer out of him. I would probably have called you to find out about him. Or (so-in-so). But there's no way on God's green Earth that I would have called (Blank) diretly for him to tell me anything about himself. He's nothing but a walking lie. I may call him for the long, flamboyant dissertation about 'how the world has wronged him and if I could just listen for a minute I might understand better' version. But who wants to hear that? I'm not interested in that imaginary world going on inside his head. You aren't either. He's a nice guy, don't get me wrong. He's never, ever, done anything to me, directly, that would make me hold a grudge, or even really be upset at the poor guy. But he is a liar. Simply put, he's a liar. There's no other way to say it. And I don't think I want to have any conversations with the guy. But he's still a nice guy. Now, if I wanted to know about him. I may call the police department to find out how he is. Or the parole board. Or the place he was working last month. Or his ex-brother-in-law. But I wouldn't call him directly. No way! I'd never get the truth out of him. He doesn't know what the truth is! His whole entire world is a lie. (Blank) would rather climb up a tree just to tell a lie, than keep his ass on the ground and tell the truth. You know that! Now, do you actually want the truth or do you just want someone to visit with? To kill some time, before you go pick up your crazy check from the Post Office you don't work at anymore?"

Uh oh. Brakes. Went too far. Shouldn't have brought that up.

Ya know, I must be part of the evolutionary chain of events that put microscopic nasal sensory neurons on the eyelids that seem to be on my feet because I can clearly smell what I just stepped in that I didn't see coming.

Hold up. I'm lucky. He just laughs. So I laugh. Good thing. We're friends right. I certainly wasn't out to hurt his feelings. Afterall, I like watching movies too. And if 2 or 3 are good, then one thousand eight hundred and ninty-two (or ninty-seven, depending on which attorney you're talking to) of them has got to be better, right? It's ok with me, because I sorta understand. But I understand in the Chris Rock kind of way. "OJ should NOT have killed Nicole! But I understand...."
So then my old friend gives me the blank bus stop stare for a split second and then bursts into laughter. We both laugh.

My friend says, "No, your right about that. He can't tell the truth, about nothin'! Little bastard."

I thought 'little bastard' was a bit much, but I nodded in agreement.

"Now, speaking of (Blank), somebody told me that..."

Wait! I had to stop him. I can't bear a 'round two'.

"Old buddy", I said, "As mush as I'd like to keep this up, I've really got to finish some of this that's on my desk. I'm gonna have to get back to work."

And I smiled.

And he nodded, because he's one of those guys I was talking about that doesn't get offended.

And he left. He left in his old piece of shit that I've always admired. It's an age unknown van. A minivan. A brown minivan. An ugly, brown minivan. It's a Previa. The old style. None of that sleek early 90s styling crap. This is not the one shaped like a bullet. This one is shaped more like a piece of firewood. They quit making those snub nose, rattle trap, cracker boxes on wheels for a reason. And guys like him won't let them die. Thank goodness. They are much cooler now, 20 years past production, than they ever were when they were new. It's age unknown because there are screwdriver gouges where the vin plate used to be and grinder marks in the door jambs. The engine is not original. Nothing on this old turd is original, except the dirt.

There's a hula girl in a grass skirt smoking a joint on the dash. She shakes more than an epilleptic at a strobe light convention when he hits a bump or a pot hole. The seats lost their cushion years ago. They make your butt feel like you're sitting on an old wire milk crate. And this little dumpling was born without any air. But she's got plates, passes inspection, and doesn't leave him stranded. And virtually impervious to theft. That old van is a part of him. A very good part of him. And me sort of. It keeps him grounded. And it gives me perspective.

I watched my old buddy pull out of the parking lot that day and it occured to me that I was watching myself in about 30 years. There goes a perfectly nice guy who's only problem is time. There goes me. Who was I gonna go visit and tell stories to in 30 years? Who's gonna listen? There's no 'feed mill' now. What else is gonna be gone in the not-so-distant future? I can vividly remember things that happened at 6 years old. Not alot, of course, but some. And they are crystal clear. And it doesn't seem that long ago. However, it does seem like alot has happened since then. It just doesn't seem like it took too very long for it as it was all happening.

I'm thankful for friends like him. And I'm glad he let me climb up this blog tree and tell my version of exactly what sort of, pretty much, actually happened.