August 2002

August 30, 2002
Gone fishing.

In Montreal.

Be back next Tuesday. See you in September.

August 29, 2002
Every now and again, life proffers little nuggets o' gold via the bon mots you overhear whilst making your way down the avenue.

This morning's bounty was delivered by the sweet old lady tying her dog to a post before visiting the Finagle a Bagle on Congress Street. Her admonition to said pooch:

"Don't eat your poop!"

Indeed.

August 28, 2002
This morning, I was ticketed for failure to stop and get a cup of coffee.

So, I have this coffee addiction. I'm O-K with this. After several super-sized (I'm 'merican!) therapy sessions and a weekend retreat/workshop, I've learned to own my addiction. Fine. But every once in a while, I do a little addition in my head (dangerous) and figger that I'm spending, like, shitloads (mathematical term) of cash on the bean. This is probably also indicative of my compulsive spending habit, but that's a whole 'nother Cleansing and Nourishing Seminar(tm).

Anyhow, this morning I decided to do myself right and skip the Dunkin Donuts layover on the way to work. Not only did I save some change ($1.55 for my habitual medium coffee, to be exact), but I saved some time (circa 5 minutes - it's a hellaciously busy Dunkin Donuts, and as I may have mentioned, I'm "shortest-line-picking" impaired). Giddy. I was fucking giddy. I swear my pimped out Tercel actually purred as we coasted by all the lemmings slavishly quenching their coffee joneses.

My morning happy subsided when, near the end of my commute, I got the "pull over pointing" from a cop in the street - you know, they emphatically point at you, then emphatically point at the side of the road. "You! There!" they seem to be saying with just a couple thrusts of their fingers. A marvel of speech-free communication, it is.

It seems I was betrayed by my inspection sticker, which I've since named, Fredo. I wonder if the gas station guy will look at me all funny if I kiss Fredo on the cheek before he's snuffed out with that sticker-scraper thing.

Anyhow, the cop was uber polite: full of "pleases" and "thankyous" and I fucking dig that. I've commented elsewhere about my deep and abiding respect for the cops, and this guy didn't let me down. I'm guessing that's somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen "run in's with THE LAW" I've had over the years, and I've still managed to avoid the assholes in uniforms that Chriz insists describes every cop he's ever met. Personally, makes me wonder who, exactly, has the problem. (this is why I don't have nifty comment boards on my site. I'm certain Chriz would protest in that Vulcan cadence of his. Ha. Eat it. I say that with all kind care and understanding - Chriz is a swell guy. Just horribly misguided in most of his beliefs. COMMENTS - 0)

A light in the darkness that is receiving a ticket was the fact that I could overhear the reason the car in front of me got the "pull over point" - he didn't stop for pedestrians in the cross walk. The cross walk in question is one I use twice daily, walking from the parking lot to work and back at the end of the day. It's less like crossing the street and more like playing Frogger with one life-encompassing quarter. Actually, in Frogger you get a couple "lives" per quarter, so it's not the best analogy. When I lived in LA, cars would screech to a halt when pedestrians looked in the direction of a cross walk. In Boston, it's like everyone is driving the fucking bus from "Speed" - drop under 50 and they're certain they'll fucking explode. Makes for a pleasant saunter to work, it does. I was pleased the ponce ahead of me got stopped. In fact, I wanted to borrow the nice officer's baton and convey my dissatisfaction with the driver's inability to place value on the lives of others, but there's only so much you can do in a day, isn't there?

Ticketed, wished-well, and I was once again on my way. The drive to the lot, and the walk back to the very crosswalk in question took a coupla minutes. Give or take. Of course, by the time I walked from the lot to the place where the cops had set up shop, they were gone.

Save some time and money on the front end, loose a bit more time and money on the backend.

Tomorrow, I'm treating myself to a large.

August 26, 2002
I've got that new Springsteen song "The Rising" stuck in my head (now you do too, likely). Except, in my mind I don't hear:

"Come on up for the rising"

(if, indeed, that's what the Boss is intoning. That guy has the fucking diction of a gerbil.)

Instead of that (or whatever the hell he's mumbling about), I hear:

"Come on up to Verizon"

I've been "replaying" this line over and over in my head all morning long. At first, it was kinda funny. It ain't so funny no mo'.

The thang is, I think Bruce gets his panties all in a bunch about people using his songs in advertisements (much to Bob Seger's delight. Heave some cash at that guy, and he'll let you use "Against the Wind" to hawk bathroom deodorizers). Oh. The irony.

I expect a cease and desist from Springsteen's lawyers any moment now.

August 22, 2002
Since I've received a bunch of complimentary e-mails regarding the new logo, I wanted to give mad props (prizops?) to my boy, Greg Pepin, for the sweet design. I wanted to give mad props (prizops?), but since I'm as white as the day is long, I'll just give thanks, and point you to his website: www.gregpepin.com

My sum total input into the logo was "Make it... you know... cool" before he showed me his first pass at it and "Wow! Frickin great! Done!" after.

August 21, 2002
Our dishwasher stopped working recently. We rent, so it wasn't the biggest of deals. Plus, I'm a fucking champ when it comes to "hand washing" those fucking plates, pots and pans (and utensils!), so it don't mean no nevermind. (today is Foul-mouthed Wednesday. Hold on tight.)

Our washing machine went fucking kaput a month ago, so I figured the goddamn appliances had made some kind of suicide pact and were offing themselves, one machine at a time. I immediately put the fridge on a 24 hour suicide watch.

When the repair guy came out to take a looksee at the washing machine, he said, "I can repair it, but between the cost of the parts and labor, you'd be saving some cash by just getting a new one." Bully fucking good. I dig that kind of honesty (the honest kind, that is). I relayed his recommendation to our landlords who promptly furnished us with a new washer. Well. New to us, that is. Judging by the looks of it, it was new to the rest of the world circa 1980. I'm just happy to have a fully-functional clothes washing device, but I question the wisdom of saving around 60 bucks by purchasing a decade(s) old appliance with a thirty day warranty that's undoubtedly going to crap out in the relatively near future, versus a brand-spanky new one with a five year warranty that's going to run for a good long time. Whatever. Not my call. Just... interesting. My clothes are nice and fucking clean, so I'm pleased.

He took the most cursory of glances in the general direction of the machine and asked, "Did you check the switch?"

Perspiration leapt to my brow. "The.... switch?"

"Yeah, the switch? You check that?" He had pulled a pen from his pocket to fill out a form on his clipboard, and he poked it in the direction of a SWITCH on the wall behind the dishwasher. I know my fucking apartment, ok? There's no switch in the goddamn place I hadn't flipped before. Indeed, I had flipped the switch he was gesturing at, previously. When we moved in, I did a little "switch flipping" recon mission. You know, camo, face paint, the whole fucking nine yards. Because nothing happened when I had thrown it, I assumed it was a dummy switch, not actually connected to anything, a long abandoned switch whose only claim to fame was its proximity to the garbage disposal switch - they're neighbors.

"Um.... no. I didn't."

Repairguy took a quick step in the direction of the dishwasher, leaned over the counter, flipped said switch, pushed the dishwasher closed and "HUMMMMMM" it fired up without pause. It was fucking Zen, the way he did that. One sweeping movement. Repairguy was good.

"It was.... that switch?" I managed to stammer.

"Yeah." Repairguy answered, barely looking up from the clipboard he had returned his pen to.

"I've never seen a dishwasher connected to a switch before," I offered, like a man who had seen countless dishwashers sans switch. "What.... Why.... a switch?"

"It's for safety, basically. In case you have to shut it off in a hurry."

"Ahhh..." I answered smartly. Throw "safety" at most people, and they're very accepting. It's hard to rage against that one. Like, "What the fuck do you mean, 'SAFETY'? I deliberately sought out this place for its lack of safety features! What the fuck kind of nonsense is this?!" It just don't seem right, do it?

It was only much later that I thought, "'SAFETY'? What's safer about flipping a switch located 20 inches from the front of the dishwasher versus just pulling the door open, like I do when I normally want to shut it off, mid-wash?" Maybe for those times when the handle on the front of the dishwasher becomes electrified or hemlock-imbued. You'd want to use the switch then. Surely.

Repairguy looked at me with an expression that said, "Get ready dumbfuck," and said, "Because I came out, I'm going to have to charge you for a service call."

I knew this. Shit, he should have charged me double for subjecting him to so much raw stupidity. That fucking stuff is contagious. He probably left my place 3 to 4 times dumber than he was when he arrived.

Smiling like a fucking dullard, I asked, "You take checks?"

August 19, 2002
Our lives are littered with turning points. Pivots where everything we know, accept, believe about a given aspect of our lives either does a one-eighty and sets us in direct contrary motion, or simply goes all out-da-window and we start again from scratch.

The causes of these little earthquakes can be as varied as the results are predictably chaotic. Sometimes it's a death, a divorce, a birth. For some, it's reaching a long-feared age, usually a nice, even, decade-marking number. You turn 40/get divorced/lose someone close to you/hatch a baby and everything is changed, often, in an instant.

Many times, we don't even realize when this happens til long afterwards. The moment when we turn that corner comes to pass without our notice. Sneaks by. Like a burglar that's long gone by the time you discover your loss. Occasionally, however, we know. We are present and accounted for in that moment. That instant is experienced with the full knowledge and understanding that things will never ever be the same.

I had such a moment last Friday.

Grand Theft Auto 3 on Playstation 2.

Life as I know it is forever changed.

August 7, 2002
Why is it that we can put men on the moon (supposedly), but we can't ink tattoos that don't turn all green-nasty? I don't think I'd ever get a tattoo even if they kept their freshly-pricked lustre, but I sure as hell ain't gettin one that's guaranteed to turn salad-hued on my flabby bicep.

And no color is safe. Even the black, trendy, arm-encircling Celtic knot pattern/thorn branch/Incan geometric links/whatever turn from nice an' coal colored to pukish. Too bad.

If I had BIG GUNS, I might actually give some thought to drawing further attention to them with some faux-deep, swish adornments. (no I wouldn't. I'm too big a wuss.) If you have BIG GUNS and you're in the market for some body art, may I make a suggestion? No? Oh, you scamp, you're kidding, right? Ok, here it is. Skip the vogue designs and get something tatted to your arm that'll withstand the inevitable color shift and will be recognizable for years to come.

Seaweed.

August 5, 2002
That Carlos Santana is one cool cat.

He designs women's footwear and he believes in UFOs.

August 2, 2002
"The deputy in the back went in grabbed the girls, he's pulling them out the back. The deputy on the driver's side looked in, the suspect was coming back up with the gun and [the deputy] shot him twice in the head. And shot him until he stopped.

"We don't have to worry about him being rehabilitated. We don't have to worry about the Supreme Court. He is deceased."

I'm not confident I can express in words how happy that quote makes me.

August 1, 2002
Last weekend, I rented a couple movies. Mulholland Dr and Gosford Park. I was really looking forward to seeing the former, less enthused about the latter.

My introduction to David Lynch came when I was a young man, and my newly-minted girlfriend (meaning "new to me," not literally "freshly created") decided that we should see Blue Velvet. I had heard this was an "odd movie," and wasn't particularly interested in viewing something that could possibly distract us from the task at hand - making out. But she seemed strangely determined to see it. And I learned good an' early the secret to pleasing the ladies - please the ladies.

Off we went.

When the dude found the ear on the ground, I knew things weren't going to go my way.

I didn't really get it then, and I've since come to feel about David Lynch's movies the same way I feel about jazz. The pieces that I can follow, I really like.

Mulholland Dr started very promisingly, for me. All the hallmarks of Lynch's work that I like best seemed to be in place: the stilted dialog, the jarring, non-sequitur scene changes, the wide-eyed, naive characters that seem to have stepped out of the 50's, Angelo Badalamenti, the horror.

But then, everything went terribly awry and the movie sucked. Dammit.

Gosford Park? Well, I can't comment too much on that one. Seeing as how I fell asleep early and missed most of it. Apparently, it was a murder mystery of sorts. Or something. The only problem is I didn't care about these people, I didn't care who died, and I didn't care who done it.

A nice bonus was my inability to follow a good deal of the dialog. (and, no, I don't think this was the reason for my disinterest. At least, not the sole one.) That's the weird thing about the English. They can't fucking speak it.

Memo to the people who make movies: DICTION. Get that friggin boom in there, mate. Do some post-production and clean it up. Make it so I can understand what the characters are SAYING.

Pillocks.

The real reason I brought all this up was not for Movie Rental Roundup. I brought this up as a longwinded way to tell you about my experience renting these films.

Upon arriving at the counter to pony up some bucks and take my entertainment home, the video store clerk girl's cell phone rang. It was in her shirt pocket, and she said, to no one in particular (she certainly wasn't looking at me, so I'll assume her blah-blah wasn't directed at me, either), "My chest is ringing."

She wasn't trying to engage in playful banter. Her voice and mannerisms were completely joyless. She probably saw some teenagers being surly in some teen movie and figured that's the way to go.

Hoo. Hah. Fun. Wow. I used to feign politeness with the good people of the service industry, now I do nothing to mask my boredom with receiving yet more (and more and more) piss poor service. My response to her comment was to get my wallet out so I could pay for the rentals and take my leave. ASAP.

Yet another Ivy League video store clerk girl behind the counter who was unpacking boxes with a manager (God I hope he was a manager, at his age.) offered this bit o' wisdom, "My ass is ringing."

Hoo. Hah. Fun. Wow. I want my movies. I want to leave. Help me.

My initial concern that the rapidity with which I could lay claim to my movies and exit the store would be slowed by the stern "talking to" these video store clerk girls would surely receive from said manager was quickly abated. His reaction to witnessing genius appeared very similar to mine. He seemed to be preoccupied with praying for death.

I'm no prude when it comes to cussing. I fucking love it, after all. But I'm not crazy about being on the receiving end of such language when I'm also the customer. (unless, of course, I've paid top dollar for Mistress Bertha to proffer a blue streak while I worship her feet.) I'd say that it also bothered me that there were young kids in the store, but A.) it's nothing they haven't heard on primetime TV a dozen times a night, and B.) I doubt the kids overheard this exchange, seeing as how they were busy running around the store at top speed and smashing into the display stands.

Christ save us all. Take me home, Jesus.

First video store clerk girl took her cell phone from her shirt pocket, placed it on the counter next to the register, and said (again, to no one in particular), "I guess it would be unproFESSional to answer my phone at Hollywood Video."

If she was waiting for me to insist that she take the call, she was disappointed. After decades, the transaction was complete, and I could emancipate myself. I fought the urge to find and vomit on every single person working at the store, and left.

After all, I'd need all that precious rage for the drive home.