When shopping or, in a broader sense, exchanging money for a good or service, I've always thought that the actual thing received is only a portion of the equation. Atmosphere, clientele, mise-en-scène, and customer service can be just as important, especially depending on what you buy. The latter quality, customer service, is extremely important in my world. Good service is always well-rewarded by me; bad is usually not.
Having spent more than three years in Japan, that country, in my mind, can boast the gold standard in customer service. Indeed, it seems to improve in time. There, the customer is always right; nowhere to be found is any of this "workers' rights" crap or ornery teenagers acting as if you just asked for a kidney rather than a coffee refill.
Two years ago, I returned to the Island for a year stay after a seven year long hiatus. My second time in Japan I discovered a new wrinkle—new to me, at least—added during my time away: the cupping of the hand. It's really profound what a simple hand to hand contact can do for one's mood; it can thaw the iciest of souls. The hand-cup doesn't occur every time. I'd say maybe one out of every ten times you make a purchase. My old Scottish co-worker and I had many a prolonged discussion over the niceties, implications, and physical effects of the hand-cup, particularly hand-cups at the hands of a concerned member of the gentler sex. A hand-cup is when the cashier gives you change by placing her one hand under yours, putting the change into your hand with the other, all with a smile and an arigato-gozaimasu, or something to that effect. Of course, a male cashier might also hand-cup which suggests it's more cultural or just great customer service…I think. And if a dedicated gal slides her hand(s) across yours, well then…
As for Hong Kong, in the back allies of a Stanley Market, for example, I cannot gripe over crappy service. Yes, one must be prepared to haggle over a rip-off Polo shirt (as this writer once discovered) or a genuine (they sincerely assured me) Rolex for 15 Hong Kong dollars, and in this sense the importance is placed more on the actual exchange itself. But Hong Kong service is no Tokyo. Oh but I do LOVE Hong Kong!
The customer service of the above two locales is to Paris as Jessica Alba is to Sara Gilbert. Realizing earlier on day four of our seven-day stay amongst the froggies that the account was rapidly depleting the Brazilian and I hatched the ingenious and much cheaper scheme of surviving off cheese and crackers alone, gotten from a local grocery store. Alas, there were no hand-cups or even a haggle, but rather a thorough visual inquiry from the patron. We saw his curious personage through the reflection from the glass separating us from the cheese wheels.
Brazil was overall friendly, courteous, and professional. Nothing really stands out here, which means that it wasn't bad. It was good…just no hand-cups.
Mexico, well, if you wanna call Tijuana "Mexico," was the worst. By far. I was staying in San Diego for about four days. A bunch of us decided to go to Tijuana. It was the first time for all of us—about six altogether. Me, another older white dude, and four brothers. We received a full briefing before embarking. The most vital thing to keep in mind—no matter how much you throw back, do not forget this one single rule—is to not swallow the Tequila when the friendly waiters and waitresses circle around ringing their little bells trying to dump Cuervo down the welcoming throats of unassuming gringos. Always ask before you swallow how much they will charge you. Because if not you might just have to fork over $50 or so for one freakin' shot of Tequila. The brothers seemed very savvy in this situation. I followed them, going to such lengths as visibly sucking me lips inward lest the charitable Mexicanos fill my boca. But leave it to the stupid freakin' white guy to start gulpin' down the Cuervo. And of course he didn't have the $20. I mean, doesn't that go without saying? So after five minutes of fruitless quibbling they kicked him out. Along with the rest of us. Final analyis: the customer service in TJ—"TJ," the favorite acronym for Tijuana frequenters—sucked (unless you pay the $20 before services rendered, in which case one can receive much much more than a crappy shot of Tequila, or so I hear).
As for south central Pennsylvania, more often than not customer service is the pits. I reside in a place approximately 40 miles north from where I was born and raised, but the two cultures are actually starkly different, my place of birth being superior, to be sure. Yes, where I come from local gals are wont to throw plenty of "hons," "sweeties," and smiles one's way; where I now live is quite another story.
Just the other day I hurried to a local "Giant" (Giant's a popular grocery store where I come from and now live) to pick up some low carb bars before work. A woman employee happened to be stocking the shelves opposite to the low carb shelf. Her cart was obstructing access to the low carb bar shelf. No problem, she'll surely move it after I convey a few subtle messages most normal people can understand. So I squinted my eyes a little to make it appear as though my view was obstructed; I tilted my head around and between the cart and shelf. I moved to the other side and stretched my head even farther between the two objects, so much so that I was actually on one foot. It was all to no avail, for this, folks, is the hallmark of a baser "civilization"—the inability to read a tacit message in the absence of a direct, verbal encounter. Savages are blunt, emotional, and hostile. I am sure she saw me. I walked off only shaking my head, certain that she would finally then get the message. Surely, she was a native Keystoner and not a transplant (Baltimoreon, or as the locals say in a peculiar fit of wit, "Baltimoron") like this writer.
Perhaps at a later date, not too distant in the future, we can expound on the Island's customer service. There are other unnoticed aspects of great interest to mention.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Paris Stoned: Observations from Wonderland
Four years ago, that was the first time I heard the words "Paris Hilton."
I was taking an English class when my late 30s, bachelor of a teacher said something like, "…Paris Hilton, who's never done anything of worth in her entire life…" That was the only thing I remember from that day, that, and googling "Paris Hilton" as soon as I got home.
I bring this up now because as I laid down to my usual book skimming before sleeping several nights ago I happened to turn on FOX News, always a breath of fresh air; I was not disappointed. Bill O'Reilly's heated discussion with himself had been going on for a while on the nation's current drama—the downfall of Paris Hilton. What's more, for the next hour we were promised still more commentary—"Hannity and Colmes" style—on the Paris plight. There would be no book skimming. No, I and the rest of the world were ready to see new, revealing pics of Paris in an orange jumper suit. We would also have an exclusive interview with one of Paris's ex-friends from the third grade, live on the FOX set, speculating on just how Paris may have come undone.
Personally speaking, Paris Hilton has always been a source of charm. With the lone exception of her appearance in House of Wax, I've long admired her from afar. Besides the fact that she would not only be on my top three list of "best party of all time" invitees, there are no false pretenses with the babe. Like the Good Son, hypocrisy bothers me more than any vice or "vice." For this reason, gents like Al Gore and Rush Limbaugh, both smoldering hypocrites, do not particularly rank high on my list. Paris does.
Last year, I stayed two nights at a Hilton hotel in Arlington, VA. I don't remember much other than walking those long, empty, curvy halls, with the attractively patterned carpet and closed door after closed door. I love walking quiet, empty halls. During some more inspirational moments I even imagined Paris walking by with a smile and a "hi," this being the limit of the fantasy, for fate or selection has kept me from experiencing supremely cool moments such as that.
During a commercial break my thoughts wandered off to Dr. Tucker, my English literature teacher/Paris Hilton hater.
One can understand why the professor might be a little upset, a little envious, if you will. Even some…rage?…yes, rage, rage in the more…quiet moments. Those soon forgotten Friday night moments. When yet another week passes without getting it.
You wash down your seething disgust with another Heineken. For sure, full of damned sureness, you knooooowww, see, know that things will turn for the better soon, not sure when, but soon, soon. Your sureness, you try, to help shout down that bit of doubt, invincible doubt that insists that next Friday night will be full of Heinekens and quiet curses and reruns of Thirtysomething. It pisses you off to no end that you're smarter than Paris, you're older, like, worked—and worked damned hard—in your life. Why the hell does some hussie like Hilton make more money than you? She didn't even graduate from high school, for chryssake. Before you taught at Penn State, you were at Boston College, instructing kids on the deeper meaning of Gertrude Stein's Brewsie and Willie. Now you're beginning to write your life's magnum opus on Jane Austen's classic, Sense and Sensibility. You hope to tell the world your theory—how Austen's work shows the conflict between classicism and romanticism and how this conflict ironically ushered in the romantic age…And then you look at that Paris bitch. And you hate her because…who the hell is she? But then…Paris…a woman…reminds you of your last significant other…her name is…Joanne. You're both on amiable terms now. Friends, actually. Indeed, she works just three rooms down the hall teaching philosophy. And you think, Joanne has more talent in her little goddamned finger than that bitch. You have nothing to do. Can't sleep. Friday night is not Saturday morning. So you go online, aimlessly going from site to site, link to link. Until you end up on some celebrity porn site. There is a Paris Hilton archive at the top, with a fire-fonted "NEW!" next to it. You click on the link. And you want to hate, but, ignoring the tightening, you know on some level that you're better than that Paris…you then go to your favorite, more sobering, websites like salon.com and treehugger.com. It bothers you when you think of Paris and the world…Paris vs. the world…because…how could she have so much fun when the world suffers so? You think of African children and Bono and your $20 monthly contribution to the Lifetime network and those sad polar bears made homeless bears because of the new Toyota Sequoia. How the hell could that stupid blonde have so much fun? You love to see her in jail and you love to see her cry.
Coming to, a debate between one of the FOX hookers and a genuinely concerned woman who personally knows Paris caught my attention. The Fox girl said that because Paris first drove drunk and then later drove without having a state license, she therefore committed an action that was a "danger to society." Yet, as I slumbered in preparation for another scintillating day in the Keystone State, while Paris whooped it up 3000 miles westward, it remains a bit unclear as to how I was in danger, presuming, of course, that I am included in the FOX babe's definition of society. Just which society was left unexplained. Nor was any comprehensible definition of society adduced.
The FOX ho, however, appeals to a certain audience—the fiery guy and the zealous lass who see their America crumbling, and who are certain that through only "punish, punish, punish!" may it thereby be saved. Seeing Paris cry, seeing her in orange—especially in light of the Hilton family dissing a court of law, or so FOX reminds us—these things assure them that all is right in the republic, and that Providence does perhaps work through our law interpreters in particular and our state elected officials in general. To mock our high priests and bring disgrace to the City upon a Hill is well-nigh heresy and must thus be eradicated.
As this blog concludes, the dust is now settling. The nation has cleansed itself; has undergone yet another religious rapture; has corrected another heretic; has stoned another whore.
I was taking an English class when my late 30s, bachelor of a teacher said something like, "…Paris Hilton, who's never done anything of worth in her entire life…" That was the only thing I remember from that day, that, and googling "Paris Hilton" as soon as I got home.
I bring this up now because as I laid down to my usual book skimming before sleeping several nights ago I happened to turn on FOX News, always a breath of fresh air; I was not disappointed. Bill O'Reilly's heated discussion with himself had been going on for a while on the nation's current drama—the downfall of Paris Hilton. What's more, for the next hour we were promised still more commentary—"Hannity and Colmes" style—on the Paris plight. There would be no book skimming. No, I and the rest of the world were ready to see new, revealing pics of Paris in an orange jumper suit. We would also have an exclusive interview with one of Paris's ex-friends from the third grade, live on the FOX set, speculating on just how Paris may have come undone.
Personally speaking, Paris Hilton has always been a source of charm. With the lone exception of her appearance in House of Wax, I've long admired her from afar. Besides the fact that she would not only be on my top three list of "best party of all time" invitees, there are no false pretenses with the babe. Like the Good Son, hypocrisy bothers me more than any vice or "vice." For this reason, gents like Al Gore and Rush Limbaugh, both smoldering hypocrites, do not particularly rank high on my list. Paris does.
Last year, I stayed two nights at a Hilton hotel in Arlington, VA. I don't remember much other than walking those long, empty, curvy halls, with the attractively patterned carpet and closed door after closed door. I love walking quiet, empty halls. During some more inspirational moments I even imagined Paris walking by with a smile and a "hi," this being the limit of the fantasy, for fate or selection has kept me from experiencing supremely cool moments such as that.
During a commercial break my thoughts wandered off to Dr. Tucker, my English literature teacher/Paris Hilton hater.
One can understand why the professor might be a little upset, a little envious, if you will. Even some…rage?…yes, rage, rage in the more…quiet moments. Those soon forgotten Friday night moments. When yet another week passes without getting it.
You wash down your seething disgust with another Heineken. For sure, full of damned sureness, you knooooowww, see, know that things will turn for the better soon, not sure when, but soon, soon. Your sureness, you try, to help shout down that bit of doubt, invincible doubt that insists that next Friday night will be full of Heinekens and quiet curses and reruns of Thirtysomething. It pisses you off to no end that you're smarter than Paris, you're older, like, worked—and worked damned hard—in your life. Why the hell does some hussie like Hilton make more money than you? She didn't even graduate from high school, for chryssake. Before you taught at Penn State, you were at Boston College, instructing kids on the deeper meaning of Gertrude Stein's Brewsie and Willie. Now you're beginning to write your life's magnum opus on Jane Austen's classic, Sense and Sensibility. You hope to tell the world your theory—how Austen's work shows the conflict between classicism and romanticism and how this conflict ironically ushered in the romantic age…And then you look at that Paris bitch. And you hate her because…who the hell is she? But then…Paris…a woman…reminds you of your last significant other…her name is…Joanne. You're both on amiable terms now. Friends, actually. Indeed, she works just three rooms down the hall teaching philosophy. And you think, Joanne has more talent in her little goddamned finger than that bitch. You have nothing to do. Can't sleep. Friday night is not Saturday morning. So you go online, aimlessly going from site to site, link to link. Until you end up on some celebrity porn site. There is a Paris Hilton archive at the top, with a fire-fonted "NEW!" next to it. You click on the link. And you want to hate, but, ignoring the tightening, you know on some level that you're better than that Paris…you then go to your favorite, more sobering, websites like salon.com and treehugger.com. It bothers you when you think of Paris and the world…Paris vs. the world…because…how could she have so much fun when the world suffers so? You think of African children and Bono and your $20 monthly contribution to the Lifetime network and those sad polar bears made homeless bears because of the new Toyota Sequoia. How the hell could that stupid blonde have so much fun? You love to see her in jail and you love to see her cry.
Coming to, a debate between one of the FOX hookers and a genuinely concerned woman who personally knows Paris caught my attention. The Fox girl said that because Paris first drove drunk and then later drove without having a state license, she therefore committed an action that was a "danger to society." Yet, as I slumbered in preparation for another scintillating day in the Keystone State, while Paris whooped it up 3000 miles westward, it remains a bit unclear as to how I was in danger, presuming, of course, that I am included in the FOX babe's definition of society. Just which society was left unexplained. Nor was any comprehensible definition of society adduced.
The FOX ho, however, appeals to a certain audience—the fiery guy and the zealous lass who see their America crumbling, and who are certain that through only "punish, punish, punish!" may it thereby be saved. Seeing Paris cry, seeing her in orange—especially in light of the Hilton family dissing a court of law, or so FOX reminds us—these things assure them that all is right in the republic, and that Providence does perhaps work through our law interpreters in particular and our state elected officials in general. To mock our high priests and bring disgrace to the City upon a Hill is well-nigh heresy and must thus be eradicated.
As this blog concludes, the dust is now settling. The nation has cleansed itself; has undergone yet another religious rapture; has corrected another heretic; has stoned another whore.
A Week in the Force
Personally, the last several days have been a time of excitement, of fascination, when ideas flood one's body, energizing it to the point of near paralysis. While ideas abound and time being scarce, perhaps it is opposite of writer's block. What you see in a typical blog is only a very small fraction of what I'd like to write about. If I could, I would write at least five longer blogs per week. My ultimate goal is to write full time. How? I'm not yet clear. In the meantime, let us write.
A couple days ago I came home to the Brazilian who was busy cooking some sort of stir-fry. All was going according to plan until the she asked me what I wanted to watch over dinner. My first thought was to go either Duck Tales, Gummi Bears, or He-Man; Smurfs, of course, are reserved for Saturday mornings for the next three or four years. Before I could decide, she said, "How about Star Wars V?" Bingo. This is why I married the Brazilian. Not only can she read minds, but she's got great taste in film. "Sure, what the heck," I responded. Actually, though, I momentarily forgot that Episode V was actually the second released installment, "The Empire Strikes Back"; this was strange because I'd trained myself at length to speak of them as episodes and not according to when each was released. I was actually hoping to see "Attack of the Clones," but no matter since any Star Wars is a good Star Wars. Of late, I've become fixated on Episodes II and III, which are now my favorites.
Even though I've always been a Star Wars addict, the interest has clearly instesified since last November when the Brazilian had her car accident. Thankfully, other than some persistent headaches, she came out fairly unscathed. The car, however, was killed. To console ourselves that weekend, I did what any other loving husband would do: I made a late night run to Wal-Mart and picked up all six Star Wars installments, for it was destined to be a wookie-filled weekend.
In truth, however, I had been in tune with the Force since last summer—albeit to a lesser extent. I had downloaded The Empire Theme one morning and thus began my work commute with it. Three minutes and two seconds later it was repeated. And three minutes and two seconds after that it was repeated again, three minutes and two seconds after that…and again, and again, again…again…again, until I pulled up to place of work, where I went from being a Scottish-accented, light saber-swinging Obi-Wan to performing my typical Mr. Anderson routing for the next eight hours. My mind was made as clear as the bright July morning, so thoroughly was the moment captured. Indeed, so logical was my drive, so ruthless, so ruthlessly logical, and so logically ruthless.
Although Episode III was already my favorite at that point, Episode II has since become my second favorite, followed by Episodes VI and V, with Episodes I and IV being a push, in that particular order. It could be because I find much in the two favored episodes that mirror the real world—whatever. They have a type of foreboding spirit—and for obvious reasons—that pervades both films.
Just yesterday, I downloaded five additional Episode III pieces, one of which is the much sought after "Anakin vs. Obi-Wan," which since then has fixated my mind on the Force to near schizo-proportions. All throughout the day as I looked through my monitor, I saw light sabers clashing, lava pits exploding, and Yoda duking it out with Palpatine as John Williams' piece danced in my head. When work finished I almost ran out to my car like some junkie needing a fix: back to a timeless world of Jedis and clones, heroes and tragedy, republics and empires, philosophy and mysticism, back to a place where the line between doubt and belief is razor thin.
Star Wars is a smorgasbord for the imaginative mind.
One last thing: I'd be glad to challenge anyone in a light saber duel, but all bets are off if I throw my back out, get low blood sugar or just tire out. In any event, I'm bound to kick some ass.
A couple days ago I came home to the Brazilian who was busy cooking some sort of stir-fry. All was going according to plan until the she asked me what I wanted to watch over dinner. My first thought was to go either Duck Tales, Gummi Bears, or He-Man; Smurfs, of course, are reserved for Saturday mornings for the next three or four years. Before I could decide, she said, "How about Star Wars V?" Bingo. This is why I married the Brazilian. Not only can she read minds, but she's got great taste in film. "Sure, what the heck," I responded. Actually, though, I momentarily forgot that Episode V was actually the second released installment, "The Empire Strikes Back"; this was strange because I'd trained myself at length to speak of them as episodes and not according to when each was released. I was actually hoping to see "Attack of the Clones," but no matter since any Star Wars is a good Star Wars. Of late, I've become fixated on Episodes II and III, which are now my favorites.
Even though I've always been a Star Wars addict, the interest has clearly instesified since last November when the Brazilian had her car accident. Thankfully, other than some persistent headaches, she came out fairly unscathed. The car, however, was killed. To console ourselves that weekend, I did what any other loving husband would do: I made a late night run to Wal-Mart and picked up all six Star Wars installments, for it was destined to be a wookie-filled weekend.
In truth, however, I had been in tune with the Force since last summer—albeit to a lesser extent. I had downloaded The Empire Theme one morning and thus began my work commute with it. Three minutes and two seconds later it was repeated. And three minutes and two seconds after that it was repeated again, three minutes and two seconds after that…and again, and again, again…again…again, until I pulled up to place of work, where I went from being a Scottish-accented, light saber-swinging Obi-Wan to performing my typical Mr. Anderson routing for the next eight hours. My mind was made as clear as the bright July morning, so thoroughly was the moment captured. Indeed, so logical was my drive, so ruthless, so ruthlessly logical, and so logically ruthless.
Although Episode III was already my favorite at that point, Episode II has since become my second favorite, followed by Episodes VI and V, with Episodes I and IV being a push, in that particular order. It could be because I find much in the two favored episodes that mirror the real world—whatever. They have a type of foreboding spirit—and for obvious reasons—that pervades both films.
Just yesterday, I downloaded five additional Episode III pieces, one of which is the much sought after "Anakin vs. Obi-Wan," which since then has fixated my mind on the Force to near schizo-proportions. All throughout the day as I looked through my monitor, I saw light sabers clashing, lava pits exploding, and Yoda duking it out with Palpatine as John Williams' piece danced in my head. When work finished I almost ran out to my car like some junkie needing a fix: back to a timeless world of Jedis and clones, heroes and tragedy, republics and empires, philosophy and mysticism, back to a place where the line between doubt and belief is razor thin.
Star Wars is a smorgasbord for the imaginative mind.
One last thing: I'd be glad to challenge anyone in a light saber duel, but all bets are off if I throw my back out, get low blood sugar or just tire out. In any event, I'm bound to kick some ass.
The Bargain Bin
Continuing on from my last blog, "Spring and Sushi, but of course," after enjoying some cranberries and grass, I made my way to Wal-Mart to order my allergy meds. It would take about an hour, I was told, so I made myself at home. At one point I found myself rummaging through the "2 for $11" DVD bins; this is another reason, by the way, that I like Wal-Mart. I was absolutely elated to find a collection of "He-Man and the Masters of the Universe" set of two DVDs carrying the fan selected 10 best episodes (or so the case tells us—of course, it does have the "Evil Seed" episode, which has always been one of my favorites). And then, when I found "Short Circuit," well, allergies or no allergies, it was a "chalk one up in the win column" kinda day.
As a side note, since then the Brazilian and I have been watching He-Man everyday and loving life. It's great; I know the He-Man opening verbatim and start every thrilling episode narrating along with He-Man. She does the same—in Portuguese. Indeed, so taken is she with He-Man that she actually got mildly annoyed when I suggested we watch "Short Circuit" last night instead of our typical He-Man diet. (By the way, what the hell happened to Steve Guttenberg? Police Academy and its 82 sequals, Cocoon, Short Circuit, Three Men and a Baby, and Three Men and a Little Lady—and poof! Gone.) Six or seven months from now we fully plan on starting junior's world with a healthy regimen of "By the power of Grayskull…"
One thing I find funny is how Skeletor has become my favorite character instead of He-Man, if for nothing else than his laugh, which is simply priceless. He-Man's too goodie goodie, but Skeletor is a riot!
While we're on the subject, here are some vexing questions that—being now an adult—I'm no longer afraid to ask:
Why is Adam such a freakin' wimp? I mean, he's just as buff as his alter ego He-Man. Come to think of it, everybody else is as buff as He-Man. Uhhh…gangs anybody?
Who's hotter, Teela or the Sorceress?
What the hell is that thing that sticks up across the neck of Man-at-Arms uniform?
Orko?
This discovered treasure really got me into an 80s cartoon kinda mood. So the other day, when I googled something like "Smurfs DVDs" or something to that effect, I found the Holy Grail of cartoons: a complete set of every single Smurfs episode (as long as it contains the episode where a choice few Smurfs are selected to travel to the four corners of the Earth in order to obtain the four elements—earth, wind, fire, and water—so, if memory serves me right, Hefty Smurf can be saved from turning into stone, I'll be a happy man) known to man, and for only $29.95. However, I'm not sure how "official" it is, meaning it likely comes with no pretty plastic case but probably only some generic white sleeve or something. Still, it's quite a coup, bootleg or no. And as a bonus I also purchased 88 episodes of Duck Tales along with 60-some episodes of Gummi Bears for $15.95 and $12.95, respectively. Every Saturday morning for the next two years or so is set. And that's if I watch each episode only once. I was planning on putting off buying them for another month or two, but the Brazilian was getting impatient—"Scotchie, just order!"—and, well, OK, it didn't take too much encouragement, I ordered them.
After pulling in my two prizes from the DVD bargain bin, and an hour having elapsed, I headed back to the pharmacy window to pick up my meds, where I would receive a surprise...and a mood change…
As a side note, since then the Brazilian and I have been watching He-Man everyday and loving life. It's great; I know the He-Man opening verbatim and start every thrilling episode narrating along with He-Man. She does the same—in Portuguese. Indeed, so taken is she with He-Man that she actually got mildly annoyed when I suggested we watch "Short Circuit" last night instead of our typical He-Man diet. (By the way, what the hell happened to Steve Guttenberg? Police Academy and its 82 sequals, Cocoon, Short Circuit, Three Men and a Baby, and Three Men and a Little Lady—and poof! Gone.) Six or seven months from now we fully plan on starting junior's world with a healthy regimen of "By the power of Grayskull…"
One thing I find funny is how Skeletor has become my favorite character instead of He-Man, if for nothing else than his laugh, which is simply priceless. He-Man's too goodie goodie, but Skeletor is a riot!
While we're on the subject, here are some vexing questions that—being now an adult—I'm no longer afraid to ask:
Why is Adam such a freakin' wimp? I mean, he's just as buff as his alter ego He-Man. Come to think of it, everybody else is as buff as He-Man. Uhhh…gangs anybody?
Who's hotter, Teela or the Sorceress?
What the hell is that thing that sticks up across the neck of Man-at-Arms uniform?
Orko?
This discovered treasure really got me into an 80s cartoon kinda mood. So the other day, when I googled something like "Smurfs DVDs" or something to that effect, I found the Holy Grail of cartoons: a complete set of every single Smurfs episode (as long as it contains the episode where a choice few Smurfs are selected to travel to the four corners of the Earth in order to obtain the four elements—earth, wind, fire, and water—so, if memory serves me right, Hefty Smurf can be saved from turning into stone, I'll be a happy man) known to man, and for only $29.95. However, I'm not sure how "official" it is, meaning it likely comes with no pretty plastic case but probably only some generic white sleeve or something. Still, it's quite a coup, bootleg or no. And as a bonus I also purchased 88 episodes of Duck Tales along with 60-some episodes of Gummi Bears for $15.95 and $12.95, respectively. Every Saturday morning for the next two years or so is set. And that's if I watch each episode only once. I was planning on putting off buying them for another month or two, but the Brazilian was getting impatient—"Scotchie, just order!"—and, well, OK, it didn't take too much encouragement, I ordered them.
After pulling in my two prizes from the DVD bargain bin, and an hour having elapsed, I headed back to the pharmacy window to pick up my meds, where I would receive a surprise...and a mood change…
Spring and Sushi
This past Monday, because of my typically unbearable spring allergies I left work early to go to the doctor. The weather was absolutely smashing. On my way home, with windows rolled down I looked out into a fantastically green pasture, simply amazed at the contrast of brilliance with blandness. And then, as a perfect complement to the mood, The Cranberries "Ode to My Family" hit came on. All bets were off then. Especially when I began singing at the top of my lungs. The surrounding barbarians seemed curious.
It's completely understandable why the ancients held fertility festivals with nothing but day after day of wine and screwing...and a few animal sacrifices, but who's counting? Spring is a time of new beginnings, a time of birth, a time of ecstasy. They knew this. So do I.
At some indiscernible point on the road, I lost awareness and began thinking about a recent happening in my life.
A few weeks ago I had a most remarkable experience, the kind of experience that makes planet Earth such a fascinating place.
I went on a business trip—well, a drive down the beltway, really—with the big boss and a contractor. So it's just me and the big boss around 12:00 PM or so. He asks me if I'd like to join him at the local Japanese restaurant for the lunch buffet. "Absolutely, Dr. Naylor," I replied. One thing you must understand—and this is a phenomenon related only to my current boss—I in no way, shape, or form can ever tell my boss "no." I know not how this predicament arose or how it cemented. I have come to accept it, however, for there are some things in life that one cannot change; this is one of them. There is no foreseeable limit to this odd eunuchism of mine. Quite plausible it would be if the big boss said something like, "Scott, sometime today I want you to jump out the third story window." "Oh, sure. Yes, yes, of course, Dr. Naylor, I'll get on it right away, right this second in fact." "Oh, and try to do a swan dive on your way down; it'll be bloodier that way." "With pleasure, Dr. Naylor. Absolutely. I'll have my blood on your desk by the end of the day for sure. Have a good one."
Anyone who knows me intimately understands that, having spent three years there, I simply love Japan. They also might know that Japanese food, as far as ethnic food goes, ranks fairly low on my list. I will say, though, that I have come around more as time has passed. Indeed, my most recent stay there I tried raw squid in addition to sashimi twice. Both times I was not repulsed beyond imagination as per the first occasion but simply left unimpressed. Sashimi is basically a tasteless, cold piece of raw fish dipped in soy sauce. Excuse me for not agreeing with all the hullabaloo; it was bland. And raw.
So the big boss and I arrive at the restaurant. I was fully aware that there would be little possibility of avoiding the sushi buffet. I gave it scant thought. Strangely, when one is left without choice, there is no reason to dread. Quite without hesitation, I followed big boss up to the buffet and proceeded to cover my plate with various colored and assorted raw pieces of fish placed on top of rice balls—sushi. I wasn't shy. And when I got back to my seat, after finishing my plate with some fried rice in addition to some Korean veggie specialties, I spared no time in attacking the sushi. First one, hmm…not bad. Second one. Third one—until my plate was empty. As soon as big boss suggested seconds I made my way straight for the sushi bar. The second time was even better than the first. There was no holding of the breath while methodically chewing. Nor was any booze needed to wash down any lingering slivers or any persistent fishy aftertaste. It's all quite remarkable in addition to being a completely unexpected breakthrough.
Friends, if I of all people can come around to sushi, well then anything is possible.
Also unexpected has been a touch of cockiness my sushi conquests have entailed. My Ukrainian coworker came into my office the next day. She made small talk and asked the obligatory questions about my trip. When the subject came around to the Japanese restaurant, since she would be in that area on work a couple of days afterward, she mentioned something about Japanese food not agreeing with her barriga. I quickly, and with a very under-the-radar shit-eating grin, interjected: "Not into raw fish, are you?" (I mean, after all, why wouldn't you be, freak?) "Ahh…sushi schmushi…" she replied. "Ohh…you don't know what you're missing. I love sushi, love it," responded I, the sushi connoisseur.
Fast forward to last week when we went to the same restaurant for yet another business trip. This time there would be no pressure from big boss. I would dine with the Ukrainian and another coworker. We arrived, settled in, and marched up to the buffet bar to do some fishing. This time was promising to be different for there was no reluctance, no shame in my heart; thus I was in full attack mode; I was gonna eat the hell out of some fish, really pound it.
That shit-eating grin was really showing as I happily plucked no less than two sushi from each platter. The total had to have been at least fifteen. I'm sure some people were annoyed by the amount of time I took not in choosing but simply loading up.
I didn't wait for my companions to even get back to the table before I dove in. I really lost myself in it; nay, I completely forgot to calculate the carb count, which would later come back to bite me. And then, I noticed that of all things—and entirely unknowingly—I was doing airplane motions—just like some annoying mama and her babe—with my chopsticks and sushi: "Blowfish Airlines…Flight #$14.99…approaching Conway Airport…11:00…landing gear deployed…….burp." The moment was particularly up-tempo as I had Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" on repeat mode in my head.
I returned for seconds, my plate even more full than the first trip.
About midway through plate two, the evaluation moment came. I bit into a piece, and it tasted a little, um, fishy. The inevitable doubt began to whisper, growing louder and louder until Astley's voice was drowned out.
But then I reproached myself for harboring thoughts of jumping the good ship sushi, "Don't give up; have faith in sushi; you've come this far; don't give up on sushi; trust it." And then I started hearing Astley again. And, with a belch, that was that.
The rest of the day I was belching and holding back fish farts in crowded rooms of stuck-up, overly opinionated dweebs.
It's completely understandable why the ancients held fertility festivals with nothing but day after day of wine and screwing...and a few animal sacrifices, but who's counting? Spring is a time of new beginnings, a time of birth, a time of ecstasy. They knew this. So do I.
At some indiscernible point on the road, I lost awareness and began thinking about a recent happening in my life.
A few weeks ago I had a most remarkable experience, the kind of experience that makes planet Earth such a fascinating place.
I went on a business trip—well, a drive down the beltway, really—with the big boss and a contractor. So it's just me and the big boss around 12:00 PM or so. He asks me if I'd like to join him at the local Japanese restaurant for the lunch buffet. "Absolutely, Dr. Naylor," I replied. One thing you must understand—and this is a phenomenon related only to my current boss—I in no way, shape, or form can ever tell my boss "no." I know not how this predicament arose or how it cemented. I have come to accept it, however, for there are some things in life that one cannot change; this is one of them. There is no foreseeable limit to this odd eunuchism of mine. Quite plausible it would be if the big boss said something like, "Scott, sometime today I want you to jump out the third story window." "Oh, sure. Yes, yes, of course, Dr. Naylor, I'll get on it right away, right this second in fact." "Oh, and try to do a swan dive on your way down; it'll be bloodier that way." "With pleasure, Dr. Naylor. Absolutely. I'll have my blood on your desk by the end of the day for sure. Have a good one."
Anyone who knows me intimately understands that, having spent three years there, I simply love Japan. They also might know that Japanese food, as far as ethnic food goes, ranks fairly low on my list. I will say, though, that I have come around more as time has passed. Indeed, my most recent stay there I tried raw squid in addition to sashimi twice. Both times I was not repulsed beyond imagination as per the first occasion but simply left unimpressed. Sashimi is basically a tasteless, cold piece of raw fish dipped in soy sauce. Excuse me for not agreeing with all the hullabaloo; it was bland. And raw.
So the big boss and I arrive at the restaurant. I was fully aware that there would be little possibility of avoiding the sushi buffet. I gave it scant thought. Strangely, when one is left without choice, there is no reason to dread. Quite without hesitation, I followed big boss up to the buffet and proceeded to cover my plate with various colored and assorted raw pieces of fish placed on top of rice balls—sushi. I wasn't shy. And when I got back to my seat, after finishing my plate with some fried rice in addition to some Korean veggie specialties, I spared no time in attacking the sushi. First one, hmm…not bad. Second one. Third one—until my plate was empty. As soon as big boss suggested seconds I made my way straight for the sushi bar. The second time was even better than the first. There was no holding of the breath while methodically chewing. Nor was any booze needed to wash down any lingering slivers or any persistent fishy aftertaste. It's all quite remarkable in addition to being a completely unexpected breakthrough.
Friends, if I of all people can come around to sushi, well then anything is possible.
Also unexpected has been a touch of cockiness my sushi conquests have entailed. My Ukrainian coworker came into my office the next day. She made small talk and asked the obligatory questions about my trip. When the subject came around to the Japanese restaurant, since she would be in that area on work a couple of days afterward, she mentioned something about Japanese food not agreeing with her barriga. I quickly, and with a very under-the-radar shit-eating grin, interjected: "Not into raw fish, are you?" (I mean, after all, why wouldn't you be, freak?) "Ahh…sushi schmushi…" she replied. "Ohh…you don't know what you're missing. I love sushi, love it," responded I, the sushi connoisseur.
Fast forward to last week when we went to the same restaurant for yet another business trip. This time there would be no pressure from big boss. I would dine with the Ukrainian and another coworker. We arrived, settled in, and marched up to the buffet bar to do some fishing. This time was promising to be different for there was no reluctance, no shame in my heart; thus I was in full attack mode; I was gonna eat the hell out of some fish, really pound it.
That shit-eating grin was really showing as I happily plucked no less than two sushi from each platter. The total had to have been at least fifteen. I'm sure some people were annoyed by the amount of time I took not in choosing but simply loading up.
I didn't wait for my companions to even get back to the table before I dove in. I really lost myself in it; nay, I completely forgot to calculate the carb count, which would later come back to bite me. And then, I noticed that of all things—and entirely unknowingly—I was doing airplane motions—just like some annoying mama and her babe—with my chopsticks and sushi: "Blowfish Airlines…Flight #$14.99…approaching Conway Airport…11:00…landing gear deployed…….burp." The moment was particularly up-tempo as I had Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" on repeat mode in my head.
I returned for seconds, my plate even more full than the first trip.
About midway through plate two, the evaluation moment came. I bit into a piece, and it tasted a little, um, fishy. The inevitable doubt began to whisper, growing louder and louder until Astley's voice was drowned out.
But then I reproached myself for harboring thoughts of jumping the good ship sushi, "Don't give up; have faith in sushi; you've come this far; don't give up on sushi; trust it." And then I started hearing Astley again. And, with a belch, that was that.
The rest of the day I was belching and holding back fish farts in crowded rooms of stuck-up, overly opinionated dweebs.
A Refill at Wal-Mart
I'm almost always fascinated by my occasional deployments to Wal-Mart. Nearly every time I go I'm left with passions stirred—joy, like the recent day when I briskly scooped up a set of three DVDs, The Mummy Collector's Set: The Franchise Collection, for only $13.72; disgust, like when one goes on a typical Saturday and Wal-Mart is packed with wall-to-wall white trash; and perplexity, reasons for which I cannot accurately and succinctly explain.
I go likely for the same reason that everyone else does: "Always low prices. Always." Money alone, however, is not the sole reason for going. As a "supercenter," Wal-Mart is extremely consumer friendly. It's not difficult to pick up more than you originally set out for, seeing that they offer most everything that one could ever need. From feta cheese to curtains, to oil changes to haircuts to banking services to Cheetos to KY, Wal-Mart has it all. They excel more in breadth than depth of product, for Wal-Mart, as a supercenter, by definition doesn't do specialties very well, only offering a few name brands for any given product.
A few days ago, realizing I was on the verge of running out of test strips for measuring my blood sugar, and letting remote notions like waking up with one less limb or perhaps turning on the lights without the light, bother me, I went to the pharmacy before work to order a refill.
The pharmacy windows were closed up, so I took my time perusing for the best low-carb bar available; indeed, quite the internal debate was raging over whether I should purchase my usual Advant Edge Peanut Butter Crunch or the Atkins Smores Bar; I chose the latter. There was no disappointment. I started to hear some commotion behind the pick-up window and thus realized that they were opening up within the minute. I then began walking down the aisle and toward the drop-off window when some–by all appearances—housewife, who was much closer to the window already, began to slither on to the front as she leisurely scanned through coupon after coupon.
Housewives—there was a time when I really loved. I thought they represented the best of old regime culture, and, with rich and elaborate fantasies of fresh, homemade sugar cookies and crisply ironed shirts, I had thus fully planned on my wife being one. To be sure, my own mother was a housewife for many years until mom and dad realized that bein' poh ain't so cool. That same reality hit me. With frozen lunch entrees, leftovers, and unmade beds galore, it keeps on hitting.
Things changed, however, when I was on the Island. I had much more exposure to housewives over there, not necessarily because there are more—perhaps, but that's beside the point—but rather simply because I left my house a lot more than I do here. Since the Island, I've been hyperaware of all passive aggressive tactics housewives like to use. A main reason why they can be so bothersome is because they present a clash of worlds, basically. We're operating at different speeds. I like to keep moving, not only because it gives me less chance of contact with others or because I have a scarcity of time, but because it keeps me fresh, with energy, I mean.
A housewife, though, faces none of these issues. Gone are the days when a housewife actually worked at home. Nowadays, "housewife" is the dictionary equivalent of "a portly woman who believes in the virtue of at least 22 rotations on the couch per day along with the mass consumption of Maury Povitch and Malted Balls." Each and every day proceeds as a blissful, slow-mo bitch-fest.
From a helpless distance, I could see the housewife approaching the pharmacy window. Of course, she made it there first. And as I patiently waited for nearly 10 minutes as she thrice gave a verbal recitation of her medical history, it surely never crossed her mind to let me pass in front of her. Oh, no, that's right, I have, like…things to do. Time is money for me. And late time makes for angry bosses. To the housewife, however, all this is quite incomprehensible since, again, she operates by a different clock.
In fairness, the above experience would almost always be more pleasant than an exchange with either Robert or Pam.
Anonymous housewife having concluded negotions, I approached the front, informing Robert that I would need a refill. He asked me "name and date of birth?" Check. Then the problem; it's always a problem with these people: "Here or later?" I was confounded with this question. What the hell does it mean? I gave him the ole' Bush blank stare for about four seconds before shaking my head and responding, "I don't understand that question." "Will you be staying here for the pick-up or will you come back in, say, a few hours?" "Oh, yes, of course; I'll be coming back later," I said.
This incident of customer service—albeit a tad more cordial—is almost perfectly parallel with that of man-hater Pam.
The very first encounter with Pam was the most memorable. Here goes:
With a stern staccato voice, Pam asked the following questions: "Name?" "Date of birth?" "What for?"
After "what for?" I was completely lost. "What the hell does that mean?" I thought. Umm…I have diabetes; might you request a colonoscopy perhaps as well? I told Pam, "I have diabetes." She reacted nervously, sarcastically, completely jaded, semi-enraged, and with an agitated chuckle. I suppose she had never been thus challenged. "What for?" "What are you getting refilled?" asked Pam again. "Oh, I see, you said 'what for,' meaning for what malady I have. You should have said something along the line of 'What are you refilling?'" Oh, but of course you couldn't do that for you might be required to speak in complete sentences.
Checkmate, bitch.
That was that, however irksome.
I had planned on stopping at Wal-Mart on my way home for the pick-up, and, in this way, the best was yet to come.
Returning to the pharmacy, I was met with a pick-up line at least, say, 60 feet long and stretching all the way to the end of an aisle.
It is through still, crowded moments like these when one really confronts the nature of Wal-Mart's rank-and-file clientele. And it's an enigma to the superficial because Wal-Mart is profoundly capitalistic, but—while still catering to everyone—from my view a great number of Wal-Mart customers are lower class; more still, shopping elbow to elbow with these undesirables must surely resemble some government distribution center for necessities to the masses in the old Soviet Union—that's my impression when I go to Wal-Mart. Literally every Saturday the most repugnant conditions are set, where one must wade through wave after wave of unwashed masses. Literally every Saturday I go to Wal-Mart, I develop things like shortness of breath, violent mood swings, and low blood sugar.
It's a package deal, though. One cannot separate the proletariat from "Always low prices. Always." That's the tradeoff. And because I like Wal-Mart, it's one I make at least once a week.
Despite the line's length, it was moving moderately fast. But not too fast for the man in the motorized cart in front of me.
At what point, I wonder, did this whole motorized cart craze in Wal-Mart become in vogue? So increasing is their use in these parts, I sometimes wonder if I should be riding one. To be sure, a few genuinely need the assistance; as for the person who gains 15 extra pounds and subsequently finds walking a difficult chore, I have my doubts.
Let them ride, though. They are perfectly within their rights; so am I—to can their ass in obscure blogs, that is.
My imagination, still ringing with Madonna's La Isla Bonita from the ride from work, was then interrupted by the movement of the line, which was brought to a standstill. I looked ahead to the other pick-up window only to see another motorized cart housing a plus-sized older woman. The lady was very talkative and schooled in the persuasive arts of voice inflection and indeed very rhetorically practiced as she was describing in depth her malady du jour while holding high in the air a small orange container of capsules as exhibit A of some perceived injustice. The pretty yet frazzled cashier—apparently she is a neighbor of mine—having placated our crises-ridden, motorized damsel, manned the other cash register again, allowing the line to proceed at a more satisfactory pace.
I then reached second from the front, again, behind the motorized man. I wasn't paying any particular attention until motorman, now standing up, finished his transaction and effortlessly walked back to his cart in front of me. Apparently, I was standing too close behind his cart and thus preventing him from reversing and then moving forward.
The picture of it all, now ad absurdum, I couldn't even make eye contact with the fellow for fear of showing my hand—laughter. And then I found power, real power, when I slowly rotated my eyes to various points slightly above my own height and took slow, short steps backwards, all the while steadfastly refusing to make eye contact or even acknowledge the event. I will do this more in the future for it seemed quite effective.
Finally, I arrived to the front of the line.
This was when lisp-lipped David, our friendly pharmacy cashier, no doubt full of frisky thoughts for untouched, fair young lads like myself, felt at liberty to inquire in a nonchalant quasi-whisper and with an oddly contorted facial expression, "Do you wear contacts"? "Oh, uhh, what?" I confusedly responded. "Do you wear contacts?" he asked again. "Oh, uhh, no," I replied. David then felt the urge to reveal, "You have the most beautiful eyes"; said I: "Ha ha, thank you. Yes, I see. How much you say…$11.38?" This little revelation of his was followed by more than one nervous "but I'm just sayin.'" Sure David, and I'm just goin'.
Such, friends, is the typical venture to Wal-Mart. There is no meaning to it; only low prices, convenience (sometimes), madness, confusion. A circus, namely.
I go likely for the same reason that everyone else does: "Always low prices. Always." Money alone, however, is not the sole reason for going. As a "supercenter," Wal-Mart is extremely consumer friendly. It's not difficult to pick up more than you originally set out for, seeing that they offer most everything that one could ever need. From feta cheese to curtains, to oil changes to haircuts to banking services to Cheetos to KY, Wal-Mart has it all. They excel more in breadth than depth of product, for Wal-Mart, as a supercenter, by definition doesn't do specialties very well, only offering a few name brands for any given product.
A few days ago, realizing I was on the verge of running out of test strips for measuring my blood sugar, and letting remote notions like waking up with one less limb or perhaps turning on the lights without the light, bother me, I went to the pharmacy before work to order a refill.
The pharmacy windows were closed up, so I took my time perusing for the best low-carb bar available; indeed, quite the internal debate was raging over whether I should purchase my usual Advant Edge Peanut Butter Crunch or the Atkins Smores Bar; I chose the latter. There was no disappointment. I started to hear some commotion behind the pick-up window and thus realized that they were opening up within the minute. I then began walking down the aisle and toward the drop-off window when some–by all appearances—housewife, who was much closer to the window already, began to slither on to the front as she leisurely scanned through coupon after coupon.
Housewives—there was a time when I really loved. I thought they represented the best of old regime culture, and, with rich and elaborate fantasies of fresh, homemade sugar cookies and crisply ironed shirts, I had thus fully planned on my wife being one. To be sure, my own mother was a housewife for many years until mom and dad realized that bein' poh ain't so cool. That same reality hit me. With frozen lunch entrees, leftovers, and unmade beds galore, it keeps on hitting.
Things changed, however, when I was on the Island. I had much more exposure to housewives over there, not necessarily because there are more—perhaps, but that's beside the point—but rather simply because I left my house a lot more than I do here. Since the Island, I've been hyperaware of all passive aggressive tactics housewives like to use. A main reason why they can be so bothersome is because they present a clash of worlds, basically. We're operating at different speeds. I like to keep moving, not only because it gives me less chance of contact with others or because I have a scarcity of time, but because it keeps me fresh, with energy, I mean.
A housewife, though, faces none of these issues. Gone are the days when a housewife actually worked at home. Nowadays, "housewife" is the dictionary equivalent of "a portly woman who believes in the virtue of at least 22 rotations on the couch per day along with the mass consumption of Maury Povitch and Malted Balls." Each and every day proceeds as a blissful, slow-mo bitch-fest.
From a helpless distance, I could see the housewife approaching the pharmacy window. Of course, she made it there first. And as I patiently waited for nearly 10 minutes as she thrice gave a verbal recitation of her medical history, it surely never crossed her mind to let me pass in front of her. Oh, no, that's right, I have, like…things to do. Time is money for me. And late time makes for angry bosses. To the housewife, however, all this is quite incomprehensible since, again, she operates by a different clock.
In fairness, the above experience would almost always be more pleasant than an exchange with either Robert or Pam.
Anonymous housewife having concluded negotions, I approached the front, informing Robert that I would need a refill. He asked me "name and date of birth?" Check. Then the problem; it's always a problem with these people: "Here or later?" I was confounded with this question. What the hell does it mean? I gave him the ole' Bush blank stare for about four seconds before shaking my head and responding, "I don't understand that question." "Will you be staying here for the pick-up or will you come back in, say, a few hours?" "Oh, yes, of course; I'll be coming back later," I said.
This incident of customer service—albeit a tad more cordial—is almost perfectly parallel with that of man-hater Pam.
The very first encounter with Pam was the most memorable. Here goes:
With a stern staccato voice, Pam asked the following questions: "Name?" "Date of birth?" "What for?"
After "what for?" I was completely lost. "What the hell does that mean?" I thought. Umm…I have diabetes; might you request a colonoscopy perhaps as well? I told Pam, "I have diabetes." She reacted nervously, sarcastically, completely jaded, semi-enraged, and with an agitated chuckle. I suppose she had never been thus challenged. "What for?" "What are you getting refilled?" asked Pam again. "Oh, I see, you said 'what for,' meaning for what malady I have. You should have said something along the line of 'What are you refilling?'" Oh, but of course you couldn't do that for you might be required to speak in complete sentences.
Checkmate, bitch.
That was that, however irksome.
I had planned on stopping at Wal-Mart on my way home for the pick-up, and, in this way, the best was yet to come.
Returning to the pharmacy, I was met with a pick-up line at least, say, 60 feet long and stretching all the way to the end of an aisle.
It is through still, crowded moments like these when one really confronts the nature of Wal-Mart's rank-and-file clientele. And it's an enigma to the superficial because Wal-Mart is profoundly capitalistic, but—while still catering to everyone—from my view a great number of Wal-Mart customers are lower class; more still, shopping elbow to elbow with these undesirables must surely resemble some government distribution center for necessities to the masses in the old Soviet Union—that's my impression when I go to Wal-Mart. Literally every Saturday the most repugnant conditions are set, where one must wade through wave after wave of unwashed masses. Literally every Saturday I go to Wal-Mart, I develop things like shortness of breath, violent mood swings, and low blood sugar.
It's a package deal, though. One cannot separate the proletariat from "Always low prices. Always." That's the tradeoff. And because I like Wal-Mart, it's one I make at least once a week.
Despite the line's length, it was moving moderately fast. But not too fast for the man in the motorized cart in front of me.
At what point, I wonder, did this whole motorized cart craze in Wal-Mart become in vogue? So increasing is their use in these parts, I sometimes wonder if I should be riding one. To be sure, a few genuinely need the assistance; as for the person who gains 15 extra pounds and subsequently finds walking a difficult chore, I have my doubts.
Let them ride, though. They are perfectly within their rights; so am I—to can their ass in obscure blogs, that is.
My imagination, still ringing with Madonna's La Isla Bonita from the ride from work, was then interrupted by the movement of the line, which was brought to a standstill. I looked ahead to the other pick-up window only to see another motorized cart housing a plus-sized older woman. The lady was very talkative and schooled in the persuasive arts of voice inflection and indeed very rhetorically practiced as she was describing in depth her malady du jour while holding high in the air a small orange container of capsules as exhibit A of some perceived injustice. The pretty yet frazzled cashier—apparently she is a neighbor of mine—having placated our crises-ridden, motorized damsel, manned the other cash register again, allowing the line to proceed at a more satisfactory pace.
I then reached second from the front, again, behind the motorized man. I wasn't paying any particular attention until motorman, now standing up, finished his transaction and effortlessly walked back to his cart in front of me. Apparently, I was standing too close behind his cart and thus preventing him from reversing and then moving forward.
The picture of it all, now ad absurdum, I couldn't even make eye contact with the fellow for fear of showing my hand—laughter. And then I found power, real power, when I slowly rotated my eyes to various points slightly above my own height and took slow, short steps backwards, all the while steadfastly refusing to make eye contact or even acknowledge the event. I will do this more in the future for it seemed quite effective.
Finally, I arrived to the front of the line.
This was when lisp-lipped David, our friendly pharmacy cashier, no doubt full of frisky thoughts for untouched, fair young lads like myself, felt at liberty to inquire in a nonchalant quasi-whisper and with an oddly contorted facial expression, "Do you wear contacts"? "Oh, uhh, what?" I confusedly responded. "Do you wear contacts?" he asked again. "Oh, uhh, no," I replied. David then felt the urge to reveal, "You have the most beautiful eyes"; said I: "Ha ha, thank you. Yes, I see. How much you say…$11.38?" This little revelation of his was followed by more than one nervous "but I'm just sayin.'" Sure David, and I'm just goin'.
Such, friends, is the typical venture to Wal-Mart. There is no meaning to it; only low prices, convenience (sometimes), madness, confusion. A circus, namely.
Imus Vaporized: Observations from Wonderland
Uhhh…ohhh…jeez…myyy gosh!...huuhhhh…ha ha ha!
No, friend, the sounds above did not accompany yet another successful nooner. Rather, I'm only reacting to still another gravely moralistic, "end-of-civilization" commentary on the Don Imus controversy. Trudging through the teeming swamps of talent-challenged morons in the main stream media and their armies of lay-yes-men as well as the blogosphere can be a discouraging pursuit.
For those who are unaware, you can read the story here. In short, on his morning simulcast show, Imus (pretty cool last name, no?) referred to the women's Rutgers college basketball team as "some nappy headed hos."
Naturally, it's self evident why some are predicting the Four Horsemen to come next week.
Every morning I wake up and go to first antiwar.com (not only is this the best source on the web, or anywhere for that matter, to get all your war news, but I just like to get an imperial report and make sure the federal government hasn't nuked the anybody before I start my day) followed by Lewrockwell.com where altogether I spend roughly two hours reading article after article along with two cups of coffee in either one of my two favorite mugs—their names are "Shinsengumi Story" and "Flattely will get you nowhere"—and a piece of toasted, buttered rye bread. I'm a news-junkie, I confess.
But before I do any of this I start my day by testing my blood sugar. Sometimes while pricking myself I'll flip on the tube just for the sake of it. Typically, my remote control trigger finger starts at channel 31, where I watch FOX News for comic relief; then I go to channel 29 and CNN; finally, I'll go up to MSNBC on channel 33 where commentator Don Imus has his show. Imus always struck me as a little quirky for nothing other than the cowboy hat he wears. The hat was unique, though, and thus, however slightly, expressed an outside-the-box type mentality. Without much background knowledge on Imus this gave me a mild appreciation for the man, for a rumor, let alone an actual manifestation, of genuine originality--however awkward--is as rare as a free American.
Knowing what it would entail, I winced when I read of Imus' faux pas early last weekend, but I assumed it would have died a quiet death with a few hundred apologies, some self-flagellation sessions, a Crisco party with Imus on all fours hosting every offendee, a copious enough amount of brownnosing that he'd need only two cartilage transplants afterward, and a promise of five years of intense psychoanalysis open to all interested parties.
In any case, as mentioned above, the witch hunters are out in full force, followed by a growing number of devoted amen-ers.
Particularly comedic are the legions of white folk all tripping over themselves trying to out-condemn the heretic Imus. Permit me to throw out a sample or two taken from over 1000 different articles of identical DNA, starting with hottie Mechelle Voepel's diatribe:
"When someone says something so astonishingly cruel, so pathetic and wrongheaded and thoughtless as what Don Imus; his executive producer, Bernard McGuirk; and his sports announcer, Sid Rosenberg, said about the Rutgers women's basketball team, I'll admit my first reaction is a little violent. OK, more than a little."
Ahh…nothing better to wake one up than the curdled prose of an uptight, mannish, doggish, Yankee dame armed with an opinion and ready to drill her lessers. Do you, like I, also get the feeling that Voepel would love to suplex the scrawny Imus?
Not to be outdone, Tim Keown, also of espn.com, gives us his piece:
"Congratulations, Don Imus. The lowest common denominator, or LCD, is yours. Enjoy it while you still can. There's something you must know, though: There are many more blithering idiots racing to take your crown."
"Blithering idiots"—irony, anybody?
Go on does Tim:
"Somehow, we've reached the point in our society where Imus' comments about the Rutgers women require debate. Should he be punished? Was he wrong? It's scary to think that people actually believe those question marks apply."
Indeed Tim, chilling. I've already bought the duct tape and canned food.
Sadly for Timmy Junior, 'Chelle, or little Jemele, mommy and daddy never sat them down and told them there's no need to pitch a fit if other people don't always agree with them; that "sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me"; and that they'll be roundly considered dickwads if they didn't follow the above two pieces of advice.
And this, reader, is what flies for top-notch writing these days—lots of thickly larded diction and boring and utterly predictable commentary all instructed in first person, monosyllabic, baby gurglings. Each column is literally a carbon copy of every other mainstream opinion, told with the same self righteous rhetoric, as every other mainstream article. One merely alters some blunt adjectives or heaps on a few more, changes author name and—voila!—vox populi has decreed! Insta-idiot!
For one who's read truly great writing it brings pains to wade through slop like the above. "Great writing," I say? Where? 'Tis true? Could it be? Yes, well allow me to trot out a few musings from one of my top three favorite writers: Baltimore's own Mr. H.L. Mencken.
Mencken is the only writer who consistently evokes from me spontaneous bursts of uncontrolled laughter; even the mere mention of his name can start things off. Reading vintage Mencken for the first time is an experience akin to Dorothy leaving a black and white Kansas and opening the door to a world of color and little people. One's perspective is never the same. So what would H.L. say to the opinions above? Let us consult his "A Second Mencken Chrestomathy" to shed some further light.
As per his "Commonwealth of Morons" essay, H.L would disclose to Mechelle something like the following: "The taboo is the trademark, not of the civilized man but of the savage, and wherever it exists it is a relentless and effective enemy of the enlightenment. The savage is the most meticulously moral of men; there is scarcely an act of his daily life that is not conditioned by unyielding prohibitions and obligations, most of them logically unintelligible. The mob-man, a savage set amid civilization, cherishes a code of the same draconian kind. He firmly believes that right and wrong are immovable things—that they have an actual and unchangeable existence, and that any challenge of them, by word or act, is a crime against society. And with the concept of wrongness, of course, he always confuses the concept of mere differentness—to him, and provided with either white wings or forked tails. All discussion of them, to interest him, must take the form of a pursuit and scotching of demons. He cannot think of a heresy without thinking of a heretic to be caught, condemned and burned. In all such phenomena I take unfeigned delight. They fill me with contentment, and hence make me a happier and better American."
According to his "The Pursuit of Ideas" essay, Mencken would probably tell tender-eared Timmy that "In the United States there is a right way to think and a wrong way to think in everything—not only in theology, or politics, or economics, but in the most trivial matters of everyday life…For an American to question any of the articles of fundamental faith cherished by the majority is for him to run grave risks of social disaster. All such toyings with illicit ideas are construed as attentats against democracy, which, in a sense, perhaps they are. For democracy is grounded upon so childish a complex of taboos, else even half-wits would argue it to pieces. Its first concern must thus be to penalize the free play of ideas. In the United States this is not only its first concern, but also its last concern."
If Imus had read his Mencken, he might have spared himself this whole brouhaha of blubbering bozos.
If Imus should be castigated for something, if he should be raked over the coals, gutted, and served up at the nearest Hoss's, it should be for his lack of accuracy, his lack of mot juste. To be sure, this gang of burly babes certainly has no "hos." I mean, what dignified gent—or gal—would ever want to get with one of them?
Imus was thus way off the mark and should be suspended, if not fired, as he rightfully has been, for what he said. What he should have said is something like "sweaty behemoths" or something along those lines. We could all then nod in tacit agreement and move on to the next factitious, asinine "controversy."
No, friend, the sounds above did not accompany yet another successful nooner. Rather, I'm only reacting to still another gravely moralistic, "end-of-civilization" commentary on the Don Imus controversy. Trudging through the teeming swamps of talent-challenged morons in the main stream media and their armies of lay-yes-men as well as the blogosphere can be a discouraging pursuit.
For those who are unaware, you can read the story here. In short, on his morning simulcast show, Imus (pretty cool last name, no?) referred to the women's Rutgers college basketball team as "some nappy headed hos."
Naturally, it's self evident why some are predicting the Four Horsemen to come next week.
Every morning I wake up and go to first antiwar.com (not only is this the best source on the web, or anywhere for that matter, to get all your war news, but I just like to get an imperial report and make sure the federal government hasn't nuked the anybody before I start my day) followed by Lewrockwell.com where altogether I spend roughly two hours reading article after article along with two cups of coffee in either one of my two favorite mugs—their names are "Shinsengumi Story" and "Flattely will get you nowhere"—and a piece of toasted, buttered rye bread. I'm a news-junkie, I confess.
But before I do any of this I start my day by testing my blood sugar. Sometimes while pricking myself I'll flip on the tube just for the sake of it. Typically, my remote control trigger finger starts at channel 31, where I watch FOX News for comic relief; then I go to channel 29 and CNN; finally, I'll go up to MSNBC on channel 33 where commentator Don Imus has his show. Imus always struck me as a little quirky for nothing other than the cowboy hat he wears. The hat was unique, though, and thus, however slightly, expressed an outside-the-box type mentality. Without much background knowledge on Imus this gave me a mild appreciation for the man, for a rumor, let alone an actual manifestation, of genuine originality--however awkward--is as rare as a free American.
Knowing what it would entail, I winced when I read of Imus' faux pas early last weekend, but I assumed it would have died a quiet death with a few hundred apologies, some self-flagellation sessions, a Crisco party with Imus on all fours hosting every offendee, a copious enough amount of brownnosing that he'd need only two cartilage transplants afterward, and a promise of five years of intense psychoanalysis open to all interested parties.
In any case, as mentioned above, the witch hunters are out in full force, followed by a growing number of devoted amen-ers.
Particularly comedic are the legions of white folk all tripping over themselves trying to out-condemn the heretic Imus. Permit me to throw out a sample or two taken from over 1000 different articles of identical DNA, starting with hottie Mechelle Voepel's diatribe:
"When someone says something so astonishingly cruel, so pathetic and wrongheaded and thoughtless as what Don Imus; his executive producer, Bernard McGuirk; and his sports announcer, Sid Rosenberg, said about the Rutgers women's basketball team, I'll admit my first reaction is a little violent. OK, more than a little."
Ahh…nothing better to wake one up than the curdled prose of an uptight, mannish, doggish, Yankee dame armed with an opinion and ready to drill her lessers. Do you, like I, also get the feeling that Voepel would love to suplex the scrawny Imus?
Not to be outdone, Tim Keown, also of espn.com, gives us his piece:
"Congratulations, Don Imus. The lowest common denominator, or LCD, is yours. Enjoy it while you still can. There's something you must know, though: There are many more blithering idiots racing to take your crown."
"Blithering idiots"—irony, anybody?
Go on does Tim:
"Somehow, we've reached the point in our society where Imus' comments about the Rutgers women require debate. Should he be punished? Was he wrong? It's scary to think that people actually believe those question marks apply."
Indeed Tim, chilling. I've already bought the duct tape and canned food.
Sadly for Timmy Junior, 'Chelle, or little Jemele, mommy and daddy never sat them down and told them there's no need to pitch a fit if other people don't always agree with them; that "sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me"; and that they'll be roundly considered dickwads if they didn't follow the above two pieces of advice.
And this, reader, is what flies for top-notch writing these days—lots of thickly larded diction and boring and utterly predictable commentary all instructed in first person, monosyllabic, baby gurglings. Each column is literally a carbon copy of every other mainstream opinion, told with the same self righteous rhetoric, as every other mainstream article. One merely alters some blunt adjectives or heaps on a few more, changes author name and—voila!—vox populi has decreed! Insta-idiot!
For one who's read truly great writing it brings pains to wade through slop like the above. "Great writing," I say? Where? 'Tis true? Could it be? Yes, well allow me to trot out a few musings from one of my top three favorite writers: Baltimore's own Mr. H.L. Mencken.
Mencken is the only writer who consistently evokes from me spontaneous bursts of uncontrolled laughter; even the mere mention of his name can start things off. Reading vintage Mencken for the first time is an experience akin to Dorothy leaving a black and white Kansas and opening the door to a world of color and little people. One's perspective is never the same. So what would H.L. say to the opinions above? Let us consult his "A Second Mencken Chrestomathy" to shed some further light.
As per his "Commonwealth of Morons" essay, H.L would disclose to Mechelle something like the following: "The taboo is the trademark, not of the civilized man but of the savage, and wherever it exists it is a relentless and effective enemy of the enlightenment. The savage is the most meticulously moral of men; there is scarcely an act of his daily life that is not conditioned by unyielding prohibitions and obligations, most of them logically unintelligible. The mob-man, a savage set amid civilization, cherishes a code of the same draconian kind. He firmly believes that right and wrong are immovable things—that they have an actual and unchangeable existence, and that any challenge of them, by word or act, is a crime against society. And with the concept of wrongness, of course, he always confuses the concept of mere differentness—to him, and provided with either white wings or forked tails. All discussion of them, to interest him, must take the form of a pursuit and scotching of demons. He cannot think of a heresy without thinking of a heretic to be caught, condemned and burned. In all such phenomena I take unfeigned delight. They fill me with contentment, and hence make me a happier and better American."
According to his "The Pursuit of Ideas" essay, Mencken would probably tell tender-eared Timmy that "In the United States there is a right way to think and a wrong way to think in everything—not only in theology, or politics, or economics, but in the most trivial matters of everyday life…For an American to question any of the articles of fundamental faith cherished by the majority is for him to run grave risks of social disaster. All such toyings with illicit ideas are construed as attentats against democracy, which, in a sense, perhaps they are. For democracy is grounded upon so childish a complex of taboos, else even half-wits would argue it to pieces. Its first concern must thus be to penalize the free play of ideas. In the United States this is not only its first concern, but also its last concern."
If Imus had read his Mencken, he might have spared himself this whole brouhaha of blubbering bozos.
If Imus should be castigated for something, if he should be raked over the coals, gutted, and served up at the nearest Hoss's, it should be for his lack of accuracy, his lack of mot juste. To be sure, this gang of burly babes certainly has no "hos." I mean, what dignified gent—or gal—would ever want to get with one of them?
Imus was thus way off the mark and should be suspended, if not fired, as he rightfully has been, for what he said. What he should have said is something like "sweaty behemoths" or something along those lines. We could all then nod in tacit agreement and move on to the next factitious, asinine "controversy."
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