September 30, 2005
Jesus Christ Penney
What the fuck is going on in this goddamned country? Did everybody turn into a fucking Jesus Freak on me while I wasn't looking? When the hell did it become a good business decision for a major department store to have a Jesus section? I mean, fuck!
A couple days ago, I went to JC Penney in the mall near my place of employment. You see, the seasons are changing which means I can find some cheap clothes from the previous season to update my wardrobe. Anyone that knows me can tell you that my wardrobe needs some serious updating. My wardrobe still reflects living in San Diego. Shorts, shorts, and more shorts. Oh, and an assload of tee shirts. But I digress.
I am walking around the store and a Family Guy tee shirt catches my eye. I approach the display table and begin poking around. There are a few Family Guy tee shirts in addition to Napoleon Dynamite shirts, and couple random shirts with painfully stupid sayings emblazoned on the front. It suddenly dawned on me that the majority of the shirts in the display were Jesus themed. Shirts with messages like:
"Souled Out: The Jesus Tour"
"Jesus Athletics"
"Jesus Lifeguard"
Oh, and get this one! I'm not exactly sure if it was part of the Jesus display but it sure as fuck fit the underlying theme. The shirt design was that of a traffic sign with the text, "SORRY: Mind closed until further notice." I shit you not!
It didn't stop there. As I stared at the display in disbelief, the background shopping music began to claw its way toward the foreground of my consciousness. Oh my fucking god! They were playing Christian shopping music. I began picking out snippets of lyrics such as, "Faith is all there is," and "You have to believe." WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!?!? Is this some sort of Pavlovian experiment? Or has the JC in JC Penney always stood for Jesus Christ and I have just never noticed before?
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September 28, 2005
Things Are Not Always What They Seem
So I have to go to the development department's resident weirdo's (3PO) office. The reason I have to go there is that I have to talk with 3PO's relatively normal officemate about some aspect of the current project I am working on. Anyway, I go in there and begin to lay out my concerns and issues to 3PO's officemate concerning my project. As usual 3PO has to somehow involve himself in the coversation. Generally I ignore 3PO to the point of not even looking his direction. However, as 3PO interjected from his desk, I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
I turned toward 3PO just enough to discover I now needed the question answered, "Why the fuck is 3PO waving a big fat red dildo around." So, I went ahead and asked the question aloud, "Uh, 3PO - What exactly are you planning to do with that dildo?" 3PO had a perplexed expression on his face as he repeatedly looked back and forth between myself and the bid red dildo in his hand (which he had ceased waving about). After a long moment, 3PO finally decided to say nothing and he placed the red gel wristpad back at the base of his keyboard. Needless to say, I was quite relieved.
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September 25, 2005
I Will Always Be A Veteran
Yesterday, I marched through the streets of my country’s capitol with more than 100,000 like-minded people excercising our first amendment right in the form of protesting the war in Iraq – I felt so very proud to be a veteran.
As I stood in front of the White House void of our disconnected, unconcerned President - I felt so very indignant to be a veteran.
Reflecting on the practices of recruiters and their tendency to prey on the poor, the disadvantaged, and the young - I felt so very used to be a veteran.
When I witnessed the people carrying a length of rope with 1,900 photographs attached; each of an American troop killed in Iraq – I felt so very guilty to be a veteran.
Upon realizing that countless people were wearing signs bearing the names of innocent civilians killed in Iraq - I felt so very ashamed to be a veteran.
Walking by the small but vocal conservative, Christian contingent gathered to call us names, accuse us of forsaking our troops, equate us to terrorists, and celebrate the deaths of their own soldier children - I felt so very disgusted to be a veteran.
Thanking the one police officer we encountered that was good-spirited, and helpful rather than stoic and unresponsive like so many of the others - I felt so very vindicated to be a veteran.
I came away from the march feeling as if I had just disembarked a roller coaster. I was physically and mentally exhausted. It is clear that my status as a veteran is inextricably entwined with my emotional state. As a result, my feelings on being a veteran are in a constant state of flux. But there is one thing I cannot change - I will always be a veteran.
Riding the metro home, standing next to her; exhausted but beautiful - I felt so very joyful to be here to say, "I am a veteran," whether I like it or not.
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September 23, 2005
Band Bitch
Sometimes I hate being in a band. The internal struggles, personality conflicts, artistic disagreements, and various other conflicts can become quite tiresome. We are currenlty in a heated debate over a contract we have been asked to sign in order to play a music conference gig in Baltimore. I feel the contract is too broad in its scope and is a thinly veiled mechanism designed to usurp small-time bands on the off chance that one of the bands will hit it big someday. The contract uses words like, "Forever," and, "Worldwide," during the the course of discussing their ownership and licensing rights of all photos and recordings taken at the conference. To me, it smacks of hidden agendas.
In the beginning of all this, the conference was smaller in scale, scheduled to occur in a park near my house, and focused on local music. Now, the coference is blown out of proportion. The venue has been changed to a fucking parking lot between sports stadiums And has lost its focus on local music by trying to draw bands nationwide. I am just not interested in it anymore. My sudden disinterest has angered the band member that did all the leg-work to book the gig. I can't say I blame him but I don't think it is reason enough to go ahead with the gig. As far as I am concerned, the conference altered its mission and should expect some bands to pull out as a result.
So, all five of us are sending emails back and forth airing our gripes and frustrations with the conference as well as each other. There are several private, parallel threads flying around griping about so-and-so's last response. It is, quite honestly, catty. But to end on an up note, as much as I dislike this part of being in a band I am glad I know these people. They are good friends and I will miss them greatly when I move.
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September 21, 2005
Pig Cock
My carpool buddy is an angry driver. One of the angriest I've ever experienced. When not driving, my friend is a very nice and polite person but put him behind the wheel of a car and he spontaneously contracts turrets syndrome for the duration of the drive. Now, I have heard him scream some foul things at people but yesterday he out did himself.
We were exiting the southbound 895 tunnel on our way to work. As we were merging down to two lanes after the tunnel, a Maryland state trooper cut us off and merged in front of us. It is important to note that this particular state trooper was female. Now, my friend is by no means a misogynist, sexist, chauvinist, or any other "ist," for that matter. However, I do think his frustration with his wife, child, etc. manifests itself in an extremely agressive fashion while driving. But, hey, that is just my take on it.
I should also note that I am not a big fan of civil authorities. I was raised by a cop and I know first hand that there is no such a thing as an honest cop. Probably never was. Probably never will be. In fact, I believe that the only crime worthy of the death penalty is violating the public trust and it should be handed down generously to corrupt cops. Over the years of our carpooling together, my friend has developed the tendency to refer to cops as pigs. He didn't take to it right away, but I persevered and successfully incorporated the term into his vocabulary.
Anyway, so this female state trooper cuts us off. My friend lost his flippin' mind. He screamed so loud that I thought the windows might break. He turned red in the face and his voice went up a couple octaves. Then he screamed the foulest thing I have ever heard him say: "Why are you in such a big fuckin' hurry, huh? What?!?! Do you have some pig cock you need to go suck?!?!?"
I laughed my fucking ass off.
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September 08, 2005
Internal Issues
The morning of our locks tour in Seattle, I walked to the nearby Plaid Pantry to get coffees for our group. The evening before, we had been at a keg party and went out after that to catch the end of someone's birthday party. We were all good-n-buzzed but not sloppy drunk or anything like that. Anyway, I was feeling a bit hung over but mostly functional, hence I found the the motivation to brave the walk down a portion of Queen Anne Hill and back up again with a tray containing four large coffees.
The walk down was uneventful, in fact, it was quite pleasant on what was a crisp Seattle morning with a spectacular view of downtown and Seattle Center. Entering the Plaid Pantry, I knew something was about to go wrong. The dim, yellow tinted flourescent lighting gave the store an eerie glow. I suddenly had an ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach. In retrospect, this would have been an opportune time to bail and embark on the return trip. However, I opted to forge ahead with my mission - damn the torpedoes!
Initially, I wandered about the store aimlessly looking for vaguely healthy breakfast snacks. Finding nothing but donuts, I eventually gave up and made my way to the coffee stand. It was a typical convenience store coffee stand equipped with pump-style coffee butlers. No cause for alarm. As I approached, the aroma of coffee grew stronger and, oddly, I found myself thinking of the heavy keg beer we drank the night before. The flourescent lighting flickered almost imperceptibly and there was that feeling in the pit of my stomach again.
I tested the weight of each coffee butler and discovered only one still contained coffee. I grabbed a cup and began the dubious process of extracting four large coffees from a single butler. I pumped the top of the butler, forcing the aromatic liquid into my waiting cup. The vapor wafted up and into my nasal passage, permeating my sinus cavity, working its magic. A warm sensation ran through my body and I vaguely remember thinking, "Wow, this must be strong coffee."
With the first cup filled and capped, I started on the second. Again the hot, pressurized liquid blasted into my waiting cup, frothing and steaming its way toward the rim. I think this was about the time I realized that I sweating but no matter, I would soon be outside in the crisp morning air. Then it happened. The coffee ran dry. Now, pump-style coffee butlers don't just run dry, they make a loud, wet, hollow, gurgling noise not unlike the the one my bowels made in response.
Holy shit, Batman! I needed a bathroom in a big, fat, fucking hurry!
I looked to my left to find a door bearing a sign that read, "Sorry, no public restrooms." Panicked, I looked to my right to find the cashier, a woman in her fifties and appeared to be of Native American descent, eyeing me from behind the counter. I looked back at the door. Back at the cashier. Utlimately, I had no choice but to plead my predicament with the cashier.
Now, I am certainly not an ugly person but I am also not a member of the Beautiful People Club. That is to say, I cannot flash a pearly white smile, flex my pecs and expect women (or anyone else for that matter) to fall under my spell and do whatever I wish. A play to the cashier's sympathy was my only hope.
I approached the counter with my cup and a half of coffee. "Hi. Um, I'm sorry but I have a bit of a problem and I desperately need to use the restroom," I explained in the calmest tone I could muster. The cashier looked at the sign explaining the store's restroom policy. She looked back at me, eyed me up and down briefly as if to gleen some new information regarding the validity of my claim. I tried to look as pathetic and harmless as I possibly could. After what seemed an incredibly long moment of silence the cashier said, "We don't have a public restroom."
"Yeah, I read that but this is knd of an emergency. Do you think you could..."
"Sorry. No public restroom."
"You don't understand. I really need to use the restroom," I continued, drawing out the really to emphasize the desperation of my situation.
"Sorry."
"Couldn't you..."
"No."
"Thanks alot," I said but this time with as much contempt as I could muster. "Here, enjoy these coffees," I added and walked out the door with as much composure as is possible when squeazing one's butt cheeks together.
I have heard that every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I wonder if the coiner of that phrase was looking up Queen Anne Hill at its conception. I further wonder if that wordsmith was about to loose bowel control when crafting that phrase. My guess is, not so much. Had the unknown (to me anyway) poet been in a predicament even vaguely similar to my own, I'll wager the phrase would go a little more like, "Every journey that begins with a step that nearly makes you shit a river might as well be a thousand mile journey because you probably aint gonna fuckin' make it anyway."
My bowels protested mightily to that first step and every single step after that, I might add. I developed a gait that seemed like it just might work. However, imagine a prisoner wearing ankle shackles being forced up a hill against their will by repeated cattle prods to the small of the back. Got that image? Well, that is the best way to describe my gait as I walked up that goddamned hill.
Inexplicably, I found myself at my destination with clean underwear. I stood outside the door wondering what I would say when I entered without the coffees and breakfast snacks I was so gung-ho to retrieve. Thinking of coffee was not good as it caused my guts to do some sort of Tony Hawk maneuver that forced me to barge through the door.
Of course, I entered the apartment to find everyone not only awake but looking at me expectantly. "There you are," said one as I stood frozen clamping my spincter closed, "I thought you were going for coffee."
"Well, it was a pretty fruitless trip," I managed to say, "They ran out of coffee." Now this was not a lie, I just opted to leave out the part that they ran out of coffee and it somehow resulted in my spontaneous contraction of dysentery. "We can pick up some coffee on the way," I offered, "Guess I better use the restroom before we take off." With that I walked toward the bathroom desperately trying to look normal.
Ahhhhhhh ... Sweet, fucking release!
When I say release, I mean R-E-L-E-A-S-E! If you have ever heard the MK 15 Phalanx Close-In Weapons System (CIWS) let loose a salvo then you have an idea of what it sounded like at that moment in these poor, unsuspecting folk's bathroom.
Okay, sorry, that was a very inside, very navular reference but please bear with me. I thought it might be funny if somebody Googled, "Weapons systems," and found this blog entry. And just in case you're wonderin'... Yeah, I was in the Navy. So what!?!?
Anyway, as I was saying, I thought my skull might implode due to the sudden loss of internal pressure. But at that moment I feared not death. If death came at that particular moment, my corpse would be discovered with an ecstatic, possibly orgasmic, expression permanently etched in rigor upon my face. In fact, the problem with not dying was dealing with the aftermath.
After a couple false starts (or finishes, however you want to look at it), about three rolls of toilet paper and 4,500 gallons of water were expended in support of the subsequent hazardous material containment operations at a cost of untold hundreds of cents. I think FEMA was placed on emergency standby. The job was ugly but I did, "Git 'er done," to quote a big, fat idiot.
I emerged from the bathroom feeling like a new man. I was pleased to discover no one was looking at me as if I had just killed a kitten, nor had anyone asphyxiated. It seemed I had pulled it off like a pro. I was in. I was out. Nobody was the wiser.
We packed into the car and headed for Lake Union to catch our tour boat. After finding a place to park we walked to a nearby convenience store gas station to get the coffee we all so badly needed. Inside, we looked around a bit and again found no healthy snacks so we opted for packages of donuts. We got our coffees, this time with no objection from my bowels, and headed for the cash register.
Standing near the register was one those guys you always see hanging out at convenience stores. You know the type, somewhere between punk-ass and homeless and always interested in talking to you. Well, this guy looks my way and I an thinking, "Great! What the fuck dies this want?"
"Dude, Did you find a bathroom?" He asked.
"What?" I asked, vaguely wondering about his word choice.
"A bathroom man, did you find one?"
"I wasn't looking for the bathroom. I was looking for donuts."
"Nah, dude! At the Plaid Pantry. I was in there."
The room did a Matrix style pan-up-spin-360-degrees-pan-down. There he was still standing there looking at me with a shit-eating grin on his face. Of course he was there, why the fuck wouldn't he be there? This guy probably stops in every convenience store within Seattle city limits over the course of a day. And our schedules seemed to be happily synchronized.
"Yeah, dude, that lady was cursing your name when you walked out without those coffees. Ha! Ha! Ha! She was like, that mother fucker! That son-of-a-bitch! Ha! Ha! Ah, man it was funny! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
I'm not really sure why I was embarrassed by this whole morning. I think it had much to do with not really knowing half of our group. Normally, I would have gotten a kick out of telling this story right after it happened. But this time, I wanted to keep it to myself. I thought the gig was up for sure.
Fate was on my side this day. Convenience Store Guy just kinda let it go after his little laugh at my expense. I was able to play it off (or so I think I was) by giving the folks in my group a variation on the, "Ya got me! Must be crazy," look. I am hoping to never run into that guy again but knowing my luck not only will I run into him again when I move to Seattle but he will remember me and pick up the story right where he left off. For all I know he followed me up Queen Anne Hill laughing his ass off the entire way.
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