Spoiled by a Competing Laundromat!

I had to go to the Laundromat yesterday. I hate going to the laundromat near my apartment. It's nasty and dirty. It's dark inside, like the owner is afraid of using too much electricity or something. Forget about the washers and dryers, let's save electricity by keeping the lights set to "mood." I had no choice yesterday, however, or at least no viable choice - one of the cats horked on my sheets. They're lucky they're soft and cuddly, because otherwise, any reasonable person would have made them into a nice hat-and-gloves set by now.

And the worst part is that I've been spoiled by another laundromat. I was staying with my sister-in-law, and went to the local laundromat, just whatever was closest to the apartment. It's pretty swanky. Big, high ceilings, fully-lit lights. Not one, but TWO change machines. About a hundred old magazines and whatnot for customers to read. And a suggestion/comment box, with complaint cards and everything. There's a cafe next door, and benches outside to sit on.

I had unwittingly run out of dryer sheets, and opted to buy some from the dispenser mounted to the wall. I was a little concerned that there was no price sign on the machine. There was one of those sliding coin acceptors, with slots for two quarters. Using my powers of deduction, I figured they were $.50. I put in my coins, and nothing. I tried two more quarters. Nothing. Well, fuck that, I'm no fool. I just said "to hell with it," and did my drying without the softener. But I filled out a complaint card. Nothing nasty, just the facts of the matter, and the comment "Please put a price on the soap machine!"

Within about 72 hours, there was an envelope in my mailbox with a dollar and a nice letter. I checked, and they did, in fact, put up a price sign. It was $.50, but apparently had run out of product before I got there.

And there was even entertainment, of a sort. Despite my general disregard for arbitrary rules, there are certain social conventions that I support. For example, posted on the laundromat's change machines are signs stating that "These Change Machines are for Rainbow Wash Customers ONLY! If You Need a Large Quantity of Quarters, please Visit Your Local Bank!" I fully support these signs. I mean, I've changed a buck in a laundromat's change machine without doing a load, but I see people get ten, twenty dollars worth of quarters all the time, and it pisses me off. There's no attendant - if the machine runs out of quarters, the store is fucked, because people can't run the machines off of good intentions.

I had just put my clothes in the dryer, and coincidentally had emptied one of the change machines - the red light that says "Out of Service" started blinking as I got my quarters.I was sitting on a bench, waiting for the dryer, and a lady came in. No laundry bags, so I knew she was just going to get change and leave. I watched her as she approached the machines. She pulled out a plastic baggie, whipped out a Ten, and started trying to put it in the Out-Of-Service machine. The one with the blinking red light. The one RIGHT NEXT TO another fully-functional machine. No luck. The machine was rejecting her bill. She kept trying to put the bill in, but failing. She looked around, lost. She backed up, furrowed her brow, looked at the machine closely, and said, "Ohhhhh!", like she finally figured out that the machine was out of money. And then, instead of using the other change machine less than three inches away, she put her money back in the baggie and walked away.

I used to think I was trainable, but now I'm not so sure.

"What trait do you have that would be valuable to this company?" Anyone who's filled out a job application has encountered this question or something similar, at some point on their life. My go-to answer has always been that I learn things quickly. It's true, too. Got a huge cash register with 217 buttons? Gimme four hours with it, and we're golden. Retail bookkeeping and inventory management system? No problem. But I'm starting to wonder if I'm slipping.

I've been cooking at home a lot in the last six months. All of my meals, in fact, or nearly all of them. I've gotten to know my oven and stove fairly well. I know its quirks, how quickly it heats up, etc. I think it might be missing some kind of heat shield between the oven and the stove top. One of the unit's "quirks" is that when the oven is heated past about 400 degrees, the back of the stove top gets quite hot, even though the burners are off. Really hot, actually. I've been known to leave a metal pot on the stove, and had it get hot enough to burn me. More than once. You think I'd have learned.

The other night, I roasted some chicken. It's my favorite dinner, and I make it almost every night. After the prep stage, I really didn't have a clear place to put a few empty pans, so I put them on the stove. I was very careful to make note of them, and I remembered not to touch them, because they get hot. I made myself a salad while the chicken was cooking. When I was done chopping up the lettuce, I set the cutting board on top of the dishes on the stove. The plastic cutting board. It's made of extremely thick, tough plastic, but it's still plastic. Forty minutes later, I walked in to find a pool of plastic in my nicely-seasoned cast-iron skillet. Stupidly, I didn't take a picture, I concentrated on stopping the house from burning down, but I did snap this of the aftermath : 

The deep impression was flowing into the skillet, which luckily contained most of the mess. And I was even able to salvage the skillet, it just needs to be seasoned again.

Have I learned anything? I guess. I've added the burn unit to the list of emergency numbers next to the phone...

Is It Possible That I'm the Asshole, Not Safeway?

Yesterday, I complained that my lack of job has led to an end to the constant stream of ready anecdotes. A result of working in retail is that there are always stories about humorous customers, but it's also true that the simple fact of interacting with the rest of humanity results in strange things sometimes happening. Clearly, I just need to leave the house more often, because when I do, stupid stuff surely follows.

I'm (attempting to be) a writer. I exaggerate at times. I take artistic license. Stuff you read here should be assumed to be generally true, but with some massaging of reality in the interest of humor. But I swear to Dawkins, Jesus, Allah, whatever you believe in, that I am not making up this Safeway shit. I've written about the strange problems I seem to have at the LaPlaya Safeway near Golden Gate Park on three previous occasions. It's become a running joke between me and my roommate. This morning, when she passed my room on the way to the bathroom, she asked "Anything stupid happen at the store, haha?" And of course, the answer was "Yes."

I go in the early morning to avoid crowds. The aisles are full of boxes, but that's OK. Nice trade-off, usually - the boxes in the aisles are always off to the side, unless they are actively being stocked, so there are no major traffic issues.

Two very minor things this morning - no green beans and no chicken. Yeah, no fucking chicken in the whole store, and only canned green beans. Blech. Pork chops and salad for dinner tonight instead. Disappointing, but no big deal. Bacon and whipping cream were on sale pretty cheap, so I called it a wash.

I only needed a few things. I was in the back of the store, at the end of the aisles, and turned down the kitchen supply aisle. I needed dish soap, all the way at the front end of that aisle, right where a couple of employees were stocking. I rolled down the aisle toward them. they looked at me, and kept stocking.  That's awesome, I don't need to be greeted. If I have a question, I'll ask. I got to the soap and grabbed one. I rolled a couple more feet to where the first dude was stocking mops from a big long box. The box was just barely in my way - if I'd been alone, I'd have just pushed it out of the way with my cart, but the guy was actively using the box. He saw me approach, and continued working.

"Is there any way I could squeeze by?", I asked. He reached down for another mop and paid me no mind. So I said, "If you want me to go the long way around, just tell me, don't fucking act like I'm not even here."

He stopped working and turned his head. His coworker a few feet away, who had seemingly not been paying attention, hissed "Move, dude!" The first guy shot him a dirty-ass look, sullenly kicked the mop box the necessary 6 inches, and turned away to contemplate the meaning of life.

As with the last time, nobody involved offered me even a fake, insincere apology. I don't particularly care about that, it just appears to be emblematic of LaPlaya Safeway service. I'll go back, as long as they're the only nearby place to go for groceries at that time of day.

And the guy in front of me in line at 4:45 A.M. had a single item - a tube of Farmer John's liverwurst. The fuck?

I'm Just Looking For Something To Do...

My situation is conspiring against my desire to write this blog. I like to keep it light and funny, but I also like to use my life as a starting point. I have no job right now, however, so that constant stream of retarded customer stories is dried up. My best friend is in Wisconsin, and is at best a bad long-distance communicator, as am I. I mean, what is there to say? "How's that cheese?"

Good god, it's tiresome living in my head all the time. It's so very hard to focus on the future, not to wallow in the present shit show. And I'm not even in a bad mood right now, it's just so discouraging to have nothing in my life worth commenting on, except for things that will make a reader want to go out and hang themselves from the nearest tree. 

I'm stuck on my book project, too. Just fucking stuck. That'll come, eventually, and it'll be a good book, but making progress right now is like wrestling with a cloud. 

I'm trying to find things to do on meetup.com. Seems to have potential, but my god, it's like I've suddenly materialized in the middle of one of those crazy Indian traffic jams. Everyone is doing something, but it's impossible to figure out exactly what the fuck is happening at any given moment. So many very, very tightly-focused groups that, at first glance, it seems impossible that I won't find SOMETHING to do.

I've been doing the OK Cupid thing, too. I've sent a lot of messages, and had about a 20% return rate. I've had a couple of nice text chats with women, but nothing's developed. Just hasn't worked out. Despite the fact that I need companionship, and not just a "girlfriend," I find it monstrously disappointing to make a "friend" on OK Cupid. It's not called "OK, Make a Friend," for Christ's sake. So fucking frustrating. It really makes a guy want to say "fuck it." Especially when it seems just so easy for some people, so goddamn easy. 

Ah, well. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I've got it so much easier than about 75% of the people in the world. I must be a blue-ribbon asshole for complaining.

Insert Clever Pot-Related Title Here

Butch is having particularly evocative dreams as he's sleeping here in the sunbeam. He's been like a log for an hour or so, as I've been farting around on the internet and playing Civilization III. About 15 minutes ago, he poked his head up and craned his neck at me. I stopped playing and looked at him. He held my gaze for about 4 seconds, and plopped back to sleep. And just before I started typing this paragraph, his legs started twitching. Then his head. Then he snorted and hissed at invisible demons as he opened his eyes. And asleep again before I could count to ten.

*     *     *

You know that scene in the 1971 movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with the kids frolicking in the room full of candy flowers and a chocolate river and whatnot? That's how I feel when I go to the marijuana dispensary. I don't smoke too too much anymore, but I've been at least an occasional smoker for about 20 years. For the first nineteen of those years, I was doing it completely illegally - either in a total-ban state, like NJ or GA, or here in CA, but before I got a Medical Marijuana card. 

The entire ritual and experience of using pot has changed drastically since I've been doing it legally. The most obvious change is the fact that you never have to fret when you run low. As a kid, there was nothing worse than a dry time in the weed business. You take what you can get, and pay what you have to, if you're lucky enough to find something. You get scammed by fucking dickheads on Haight street selling oregano cut with grass clippings as "Primo Kind Buds, dude!" And the pot was treated as precious. You make sure every last tiny little speck of green is put to good use, because you just never know. I used to be like a goddamn weed accountant, scraping out the baggie and meticulously sweeping up the nearly-invisible crumbs. Accidentally knocking some loose herbs onto the carpet, where they are utterly un-recoverable, was a relative disaster. 

Now, I have a dispensary that I go to about once a month or so. They have a sign, and posted hours. They make no attempt to hide what they do, as they shouldn't. I can go there and, on a BAD day, choose from a dozen different strains and price ranges. On a good day, there are literally three or four dozen one-gallon containers full of different varieties of marijuana, at prices ranging from cheap as hell, but acceptable product, to mid-priced great weed, to extremely high-dollar exotics that I'd never even consider because of the price. And a dozen or more different edible creations, from cookies to brownies to lollipops. Yesterday, they had marijuana-infused chocolate-covered peanut-butter-filled pretzels. I almost ejaculated in my pants, but unfortunately had to pass, as I don't eat sugar and flour anymore.

I'm toying with the idea of quitting, though. It's about $20 a week (very rough guess) to keep both me and my roommate sufficiently stocked with weed, and that's not insignificant. I know, lots of people spend a LOT more money on their hobby, but twenty bucks is twenty bucks. And it definitely makes me just a hair duller, in a very specific way - I am absolutely useless as a writer after a hit or two of weed. I can converse and act perfectly well, but I can't focus my thoughts enough to put anything worthwhile on paper.

And no, I'm not always high when writing this blog, it just naturally sucks.

Your Oscar Night Recap

I used to LOVE the Oscars. For almost as long as I can remember, certainly as far back as the year "Pulp Fiction" was nominated, I've participated in pools or contests centered around the ceremony - who's going to win, who should win, etc. I even won a newspaper contest for most correct picks one year (I was one of the only entrants who picked Eminem to win best song for that rap-battle movie, which won me a steak dinner.) But my interest has waned as of late. I saw zero of the nominated movies this year. Last year, I saw one (Moneyball). The previous year, two (The Social Network and Black Swan.) I just don't care anymore.

It's gotten to the point that I barely watch movies anymore. I worked at a video store for about 6 years back in the late 90s and early 2000s. I watched movies all day, every day. I had free rein to play anything I wanted, as long as it could reasonably be considered appropriate for kids - no nudity, no hard swearing, that type of thing. It was nice, but even then, I was experiencing some kind of... tiredness of the format, maybe? During shifts, I'd find myself watching the same few dozen films over and over and over again. We had free access to take home and watch ANY movie in the store, with limiting conditions, and we had fully free access to pre-release promotional "screener" tapes of all the major releases. Almost exclusively, I'd take a couple home, and bring them back the next day, unviewed. Why? Just didn't want to watch 'em.

I think it's because there are so, so many distractions at home. There's always a computer to play with. Cats crawling all over me. A channel changer if I get bored. It's never as dark as a theater either, and the upstairs douchebag playing Dance Dance Revolution doesn't help. At a movie theater, assuming it's not full of dicks, which is a risky assumption, the distractions are nearly nonexistent.

I'm going to start going to the theater more often. The last time I saw a movie in a theater was "The 40-year-Old Virgin," all the way back in 2005. I think I've been afraid because I've been so fat for so long. But I've lost enough weight so far that it's fully practical to go to a theater, and I do miss it. I'm also one of those people who has no trouble going to a movie alone, although a companion is much preferred.

Anyway, last night's Oscars kinda sucked. Seth McFarlane as host went off moderately well. He had some fantastically uncomfortable but funny moments. He doesn't seem to care too much about offending people, and why not - he's a goddamn hundred-millionaire, he can do whatever he wants, and not worry about going hungry or homeless. He can sing and dance well enough. My favorite line from the night, which only Robert Downey, Jr. had the fucking stones to applaud :

Lawyers, Stop Being Dicks, Please

All of a sudden, it looks like it's going to be a gorgeous day. The sun is shining, but it's still morning-cold, kinda how I like it. It's not super-clear, but I can see cargo ships in the Pacific - no mean feat, since the beach is about 12 blocks away, and the ships are miles out to sea (or so I assume).

I'm pretty sure it's going to be a good day. I tend to have shitty weekends, but it's been a decent week.

Sometimes I just want to stab my brain right in the goddamn face. I can reason out any issue. I can put any situation into perspective, and say to myself, "Dude, any shitty feelings are just temporary. Just live your life, and don't mope like a 14-year-old Joy Division fan! You are improving yourself on a daily basis." But it's just not as easy as it should be. I'm smart, and I should be able to figure all this shit out, right? Fucking asshole brain.

*     *     *

Someone posted a comment on an older update yesterday. It was the one in which I got hit by a car. Here's the comment :

You're such a nice guy for not taking legal action against the driver. That car should have slowed down since he'll be turning on a blind spot. If ever you'll be bumped again by a car and the driver didn't offer any help; I would suggest you take note of the plate number of that car in case you've been hit and run. Also, call an officer to assist you. That way you can take legal action to what happened to you.

I almost took the comment at face value, as just someone commiserating with me. Then I hovered my mouse pointer over her name, and it revealed her website, a goddamn ambulance chasing law firm. I'm fully aware that blog comments are fertile planting grounds for advertising, but I get so few comments on these posts, that actually receiving one, only to see that horseshit, really pisses me right off. My response :

When I hover my cursor over your name, your ambulance chaser website is revealed. Fuckheads like you, encouraging lawsuits over bullshit, are what makes people despise lawyers. Go piss up a rope.

I'm going to leave your comment visible, and hope against all hope that you feel shame.

What are the odds that she'll feel shame? Do people like this even have feelings as we understand them?

No, Really, Safeway Is Trying To Kill Me

It's really quite funny. I have been shopping at the Ocean Beach Safeway, literally across the street from the west end of Golden Gate Park, for five or six years. Been there maybe a couple hundred times, with generally normal results. But I am in the middle of a strange streak of utterly stupid visits to the store.

First, I broke their stuff. Then, I had to go and make a scene. Now I think they just release the hounds as I approach.

As mentioned before, I like shopping in the very early morning. I've tended to be an early riser over the last few months anyway, and the store is usually deserted. I was up at about 4:40 this morning and at the store by 5. I pulled into an empty spot, got out, and grabbed a random cart that was floating around the lot. I turned the corner and approached the doors, and was greeted by a group of a half-dozen raccoons just chilling on the sidewalk in front of the doors. I could see a few people on the other side of the door, and I think they had the automatic doors locked in terror. Or maybe the raccoons weren't heavy enough to trip the door sensor.

Raccoons are not AT ALL uncommon in and around the park, but I very seldom see them buying their sundries at Safeway. A year or so ago, I was working a morning shift - 5 AM to 2 PM. Went outside to the car at about 4:30, and saw a family of cats playing around under a parked car. As I was sitting and waiting for the car to warm up, I watched them frolic. "Damn, those are some fat-ass street cats! And just a little weird-looking. Wait a minute... are those... skunks?" Fucking skunks, partying about 20 feet away. Before I got into the car, I had considered approaching them just because I love cats. I bet that would have gone well.

Anyway, this morning, it was raccoons, and I just stood with my cart, about 40 feet away, and watched. After a few minutes, they must've come to the conclusion that no food was forthcoming, and took a field trip to the dumpsters. When I made it inside, it was like Obama had visited. Everyone was atwitter. "Did you see the raccoons? Wow, what a day! Wild animals!" Etcetera, etcetera. I can certainly understand that - as a retail drone, anything that shakes up the day, but doesn't make your job any harder, is like finding a diamond in the toilet.

Off the Ledge

I'm feeling much better this morning. Thanks to the people I love for caring. Every so often, I have to vent my frustrations, just like you do.

Doesn't change the fact that my life ain't so funny.

I'm starting to very seriously consider giving up my super-dooper smart phone, or at least the expensive data plan, once our contract is up. I love it, but it's getting to be redundant. I use it for texting,word games, and pictures. And it's my alarm clock. Since we installed WiFi, I can use my laptop for every other useful function that the phone has, in a much more comfortable-to-use package. Mine is old and clunky, but have you seen what they can do with laptops these days? The ex has a MacBook Pro (or something), and it's indescribably cool. Thin as hell, and I don't think there is a single thing that our desktop can do that her laptop can't. Well, except that it's a Mac and games are sparse, but that's a programming issue, not a laptop vs. desktop issue. And right now, I could get a non-Mac laptop with similar capabilities or better for a relative pittance. I don't see myself ever buying a desktop computer for personal use ever again.

*     *     *

I think one of the cats is trolling me. Trudy is a known, inveterate floor-pisser. According to the vet, she does not have a urinary tract infection, which is often the cause. And I'm not going to lie - sometimes the cat boxes go a day without being cleaned. But she goddamn KNOWS when the boxes are clean - she pokes her head in, sniffs around, and uses the box correctly, when she so chooses. But she's been known to piss on the floor, in front of a box that was cleaned less than 30 minutes prior.

Well, this morning, as I was in bed coming to life, I heard the tell-tale floor-scratching that indicated she was trying fruitlessly to cover her piss-puddle. They cover their waste by scooping dirt or litter on top of it, and when she pisses on the floor, there's no litter, so she scratch scratch scratches at the floor in a vain attempt to hide it. It's a very distinct sound, her claws clacking on the bare wood floors over and over and over again. At 5 AM, I heard it, sighed, and resigned myself to cleaning it up. But when I got up a minute later, Trudy was right next to me, sound asleep. Not a drop of pee on the floor.

One of the other cats was trying to mess with my mind. It's the only logical explanation. I've wondered if maybe every third or fourth floor-piss is actually done by one of the other cats. Y'know, just to tweak my bum, or to get Trudy into trouble.

And then I remember that they're cats, and cats are stunningly stupid.

Cognitive Dissonance

I've mentioned before that I've lost a significant amount of weight recently. I still have quite a way to go, but one of the things I'm most looking forward to is wearing non-plain T-shirts. It kills me deep in my soul that I feel this way - I am the type of person who very actively shies away from attention. But goddammit, I miss my old concert shirts! I have maybe a couple dozen from back in (gulp) the late 80s and early 90s - shit that hipsters buy replicas of these days - old AC/DC, Aerosmith, Ramones, etc. I have a killer shirt from Poison's first national tour, circa 1987, that would probably make these guys cream in their corduroys.

Remember those places where you could buy sort-of-custom-made T-shirts on demand? Probably not, but I'm old, and I remember. The walls would be literally covered from floor to ceiling with designs like these. You'd go in, pick a color and size, and spend an hour browsing the cool designs looking for the best one. When you made your choice, the guy would actually iron the design onto your shirt right there! How fucking cool is that? I'd love to be able to wear this :

without wanting to blow my own fucking brains out. But that's just not possible in these trying times of high douchebaggery.

One More Hilarious Childhood Trauma

I'm finding it hard to write today, but for a different reason than the usual "writer's block." I'm agitated today, physically and mentally, and I'm not sure why. I have just a touch of extra energy or something, like I had too much coffee. My brain is all tingly behind my eyeballs, like there are sparks or something in there. My fingers, too, are all jumpy.

Weird, man. I'm not even high or anything, just bonkers.

Writing the last update was fun. It reminded me of something else that happened in second grade.

I went to Catholic school for twelve years. The lower grades, say Kindergarten through about 4th grade, were always required to supply holiday entertainment in the form of some kind of presentation. Easter Pageant, Christmas Extravaganza, whatever. One Christmas, I was randomly picked (we drew names from a hat, I think) to play Santa Claus in the Christmas pageant. As a fat kid, I was mortified, of course, but there was no recourse - the nuns would hear none of it. So I just sucked it up and did it.

I was pretty terrified, but I handled it well. I knew my lines, I didn't get flustered. The butterflies went away eventually, and I settled in. During the climactic scene, in which Santa is giving a speech about the true meaning of Christmas (or whatever), I took my cue to turn toward the crowd and raise my hands. As I did, my pants fell right down to my ankles. I guess my belly was holding the belt up, and when I raised my arms, it shifted, and boom, Underwear Cheech.

Utter pandemonium ensued, of course. I truly don't remember anything after that incident until about fifth grade, when I won the school spelling bee.

The Three Funniest Things I've Ever Seen In Person, In No Particular Order

1. When I was about twelve or thirteen, my parents took me and my friend Sean to Six Flags Great Adventure, a decent (as far as I can recall) amusement park. We had fun, I'm sure, but I don't remember much specific about the trip. We were leaving for the day, walking toward the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Sean saw some hot young thing bending over to tie her shoe or something. He said, "Whoa!" and turned to look. He kept walking and staring, as did I, for about five seconds, until "CLANG!" he walked face-first into a big-ass metal pole. His head was to the side, or he surely would have broken his nose, but in the moment, it was the height of comedy, and I about wet myself. My parents, being parents (and responsible for Sean's well-being) were less-amused.

2. In high school, I wasn't the fattest kid. Oh, I was a fat kid, don't you worry your pretty little head about that, just not the fattest kid. I don't remember his name, but he was very big, probably 350-400 pounds. One year, we had gym class together. Class was held in the basketball gym, which had retractable bleachers lining the sidelines. Before class one day, some random classmate and I were sitting on the bleachers, not interacting at all, just waiting for the rest of the class to finish changing into their gym clothes. Volleyball was scheduled for that day, as there were nets set up. Fattest Kid came out of the locker room, and for whatever reason, was doing karate-type moves - "Hiiii-YA!" with a karate chop or kick, that type of stuff. That was plenty amusing in itself. He saw the volleyball nets, and approached one. He started to do his karate moves toward the net, like it was a floppy sparring partner or something. He stood back and said "Hiiii-YA!", launched a kick at the net, tangled his foot in the bottom, did a couple of desperate one-leg hops, and plopped to the floor. I thought I was going to pass out with laughter. The other guy watching was laughing so hard he rolled down the bleachers a few steps. Fattest Kid picked himself up, brushed himself off, and went to sit in the corner like nothing had happened. Probably the best response.

3. My friend Doug and I used to write reviews of zines for his Zine World. People sent them to his mail drop, and the staff would review them. One day probably about fifteen years ago, we went to the mail drop and picked up a few days worth of deliveries. On the way home, we stopped at a donut shop. As we were eating, we read. He picked a random zine from his backpack. I forget the name, but it was poetry. Neither of us were big fans of poetry, but we can review it objectively. He opened the zine at random and started reading out loud. I can't say I remember the poem exactly, but it was a serious one, and went something like:

The beauty of life
Is soon to be gone
Replaced by death
Sandwich Sandwich Sandwich

I thought the donut guy was going to call the cops on us, we laughed so long and loud. It was a random passage from a random poem from a random zine, and it so fully represented what I hate about some poetry, that to this day, I can make myself laugh out loud by saying "Sandwich Sandwich Sandwich."

I Guess Safeway Hates Me

I'm a very easy-going guy, as a general rule. It's just coincidence that this happened so soon after my last incident at this particular Safeway.

I usually don't have access to the car on weekdays. Yesterday, however, Mrs. Arone took a well-deserved mental health day off, and therefore didn't take it to work. We were out of a few things, and I had three winning Scratcher lottery tickets to cash, received from various in-laws in my Christmas stocking last month. I grabbed the tickets and headed to the Safeway.

I probably had all the money I'd need for the groceries, but I decided to cash the tickets first, just in case. I headed over to the customer service counter, where the lottery stuff happens. The sign indicated that the CS counter was open from 9-5. It was about 11 A.M., but there was nobody manning it. Not a big deal, it happens all the time. I leaned against the counter and started to wait. There were a few employees around, not behind the counter, but milling about in the area, seemingly on break. Again, not a big deal. When employed, I've done retail work for the last 24 years (fuck a duck, I'm old), and I fully understand that employees on break are usually FORBIDDEN from doing work. I've absolutely seen someone at my old store fired for the exact offense. So I was OK with that.

So, I'm standing there at the counter. A minute. Two minutes. No help. I turned around, toward the sales floor, and made sure I was visible. I mean, I KNOW I was visible, as I am still fat as a whale and was wearing my brightest T-shirt. But I wanted to make sure. I was scanning the store, making eye contact with employees. Another couple of minutes, and some motherfucking three-piece suit with a Safeway nametag walked right by me without a word. District Manager? Who knows? I kept scanning, and saw a guy who I was sure was a manager of some sort - I've seen him around the store before, and he was in a more "business casual" uniform than Mr. Gucci. One step fancier than the cashiers. We made eye contact, and he turned away.

Very loudly, though not yelling, I said "You know, if the customer service counter is closed, that's fine, but it would be FANTASTIC if there were a sign or something letting me know!" Every head within 50 feet turned my way. Gucci, business casual, customers, and cashiers. There's a developmentally disabled guy there who is exclusively a bagger and price checker - he asked me if I needed help. Perfectly friendly-like, I responded, "That's why I'm here!" Nice that he was the only one who asked, but he then just stood there, and continued being retarded. The checkers continued checking, of course - that's what they were in the middle of doing. The workers on break were mumbling to each other. Gucci continued his phone call. Manager just stared.

"I don't mind waiting, but am I wasting my time standing here like a moron? Is anyone working the CS counter?"

Finally, the fat little manager (thinner than I am, honestly, but he was all red and shiny, like a tick about to pop) came ambling up, and asked "Do you need some help?"

In my inside voice, I responded "Like I said, I don't mind waiting, but it would be great if you guys could put up a sign that says 'Back in 5 Minutes' or something."

"Sometimes we have to leave the counter."

My blood pressure spiked. "Did you not hear me? The wait is not the issue. A completely desolate counter, with no indication of when or if you'll be back is the issue. Your boss completely ignoring me is another."

He mumbled something about being busy. "Me, too," I lied. Then, loud enough that Gucci could hear, "Guess I have to go to Fresh & Easy!" And I did.

I'll probably be back - I'm not one for making grand proclamations about never returning. As a cashier, I could never give half a fuck when people made that claim anyway. But I'll keep it to the graveyard shift. I'm usually the only asshole in the store at 4 A.M.

Collecting Dust

In yesterday's mail, I received a catalog about gold. The metal, gold. They want me to invest in gold. They might as well send me a catalog advertising fighter jets or diamond-encrusted soup spoons. I have approximately zero dollars to my name, and the odds that I will spend even a thin dime on gold is laughable. I guess I got the catalog because I used to collect coins. Never anything "valuable," of course, outside of an ounce of silver (like thirty bucks or so, right now). But I love to read, and subscribed to two or three coin magazines at one point. In fact, I'd bet a week's paycheck that I actually spent MORE on coin magazine subscriptions than on coins.

I'm pretty much completely over the collecting urge. Not just coins, but collecting anything at all seems like a huge fucking hassle. The two most important elements - spending cash and space - are two elements completely missing from my life. Back at my parents' house in New Jersey, I have about a half-dozen long boxes filled with comics that I collected as a teenager. I might as well have just taken all the cash I spent on them and burned it. Even if I weren't 3000 miles away, I bet I couldn't get a dime apiece for them from a comic store or on eBay. That adds up to a few hundred bucks, maybe, but I spent thousands. I had a minimum-wage job, but lived with Mom and Dad, paid no rent, paid for no food, just car insurance. The worst part was that I almost never read them - I looked at them as a potential investment. What an utter asshole.

My Mom was (maybe still is, I haven't visited in a while) a chronic collector. She loves the idea of collecting, but never seems to be able to settle on one collection. We had a spare room when I was growing up. She wanted to make it "hers." Over the course of a few years, the room went from rainbow-themed to clown-themed, to country-themed. Her rainbow collection led to some laughs - she was completely unaware of the significance of the Rainbow Flag in the LGBT community, and her first visit to San Francisco was fun. "So many people here like rainbows!" The country-style room was the worst, though, because it spread. Our entire house eventually looked like granny's attic - needlepoint on the walls imploring God to "Bless This Mess," sheaves of baby's breath blossoms all over the place, shit like that. She even went through a country music phase, though that was mercifully short. I remember it was right around the time of that song "Elvira." Shudder.

Honestly, if I had space, I'd collect cats. Real cats, not cat-related objects like another one of Mom's phases. To a point, of course, as I have a limit on how many boxes of animal shit I'm willing to have in my house, but I definitely enjoy the companionship. The maintenance can be relatively cheap - bargain food and litter can be had. It helps, however, if you don't mind having furniture so torn-up that it looks like the police were searching the cushions for drugs.

Raise the Roof!

In case anyone reading this is wondering, I did in fact make it through the Super Bowl in one piece. I begged off the big beer blast and went to my Sister-in-law's house. Whoop whoop, raise the roof, right? Meh. I'd much rather go to her place, with only a half-dozen people, all of whom I know and like very much, instead of pretending to enjoy a bunch of hipster doucheketeers and their Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Do other people like their in-laws? I do. I actually enjoy spending time with damn near every one of them, even the Christians, as they're the type of Christian that doesn't need to mention Jesus every 13 seconds. If TV comedians are to be believed, though, nobody likes their in-laws, so I must be doing something wrong. I need to start picking fights with them or something.

The game itself was entertaining - the Niners lost, which is a bummer, but they came back from a huge deficit to make it very interesting. None of us had a major rooting interest in the game, however, and the others seemed to be more interested in the ads, something I simply cannot understand. The fact that advertisers have somehow implanted into the American consciousness the idea that the COMMERCIALS they show during the biggest sporting event of the year are an event unto themselves is appalling.

There is no such thing as a "good" commercial. There are all types of ads - moving, funny, technically accomplished, whatever adjective you can think of. But I draw the line at "good." They are all specifically calculated to make me spend my money by manipulating my emotions, and I just can't have that. How anyone can watch this advertisement for Dodge without getting furious is beyond me. On the face of it, it's a very moving, if annoyingly religion-based, tribute to farmers. Now, farming is a truly noble profession, and I respect a farmer just as much as I respect a teacher or a firefighter. But all Dodge is doing is trying to trick me into buying a Dodge. See, they really CARE about farmers. And farmers need big strong trucks. And not just farmers, but all real men. Just look at all those bales of hay and loads of wood they're loading up into their Dodge Ram! Dodge trucks are clearly for very strong, dedicated, American MEN. If they could do it without having hell rain down on them, there is not one tiny doubt in my mind that they would overtly state that the local Ford assembly line is nothing but a buncha queers, or some other fucked up horseshit.

And yet, I can't help but admire how rugged those trucks look...

Gone Drinkin'

I'm going to a Super Bowl party this Sunday. I like football just fine, and I'm happy that the Niners are back in the game, but I've recently admitted to myself that I'm just not an NFL kinda guy. I've been a baseball fan all my life, and have been counting the days since the last out of the World Series. It helps that the Giants are world fucking champions again, but I've always looked forward to Spring Training, no matter what my team's prospects are for the coming season.

I'm much more interested in Sunday's party than in watching the actual game. Sure, I'll pay moderate attention to the TV, and I'll watch the funny new commercials, but I'll be paying much more attention to the type of shenanigans that two dozen drunken morons can get into. Mrs. Arone is out of town - not that it really matters, because we have mostly separate lives these days anyway, but I do feel more comfortable knowing that she'll be in a different state as I challenge the upper limits of my tolerance for alcohol consumption. It's been a few months since I had a drink, and at least 8 months since I last really drank. I used to drink much more, I just got kinda bored with it. I also get all hot and sweaty when I drink. As an already hot-and-sweaty fat guy, this is not ideal. I am, however, willing to make the sacrifice this one time.

What gives me pause, however, is that the partygoers are almost all going to be strangers to me, and are likely to be significantly younger than I am. The host is a former coworker, one with whom I actually get along very well, but who is only 26. I'm 39, but feel about 49 physically and 79 mentally. These kids were what, three or four years old when Kurt Cobain died? What the hell are we going to talk about? Skype? I hear the kids talk about that shit all the time. Some kind of new shoe polish, I think. Assholes.

I'm gonna have to learn these young whippersnappers a lesson. I can shotgun a beer so fast, I was nicknamed Hemingway in college. These guys have no fucking idea. I may or may not update this site again before the game. Either way, I'll make a report on Monday, once the judge sets bail.

Yet Another Reason Writing is a Stupid Idea

"Well, I certainly seem to have gotten myself into a pickle, here."

I actually said those words out loud this morning. In previous blog entries, I've mentioned that I'm a fat guy. In addition, I have a minor muscle disease - the specifics are irrelevant, but my muscles are about half as strong as those of a normal male of my age group. This is something that is, in general, not overly limiting, and I've learned to deal with it. But sometimes I just don't think ahead, and today, it bit me on the ass.

Being a fat guy, I have a fat guy office chair. I can use a standard office chair, but the fat guy chair is big and comfortable, with an extra wide seat, movable arm rests, and a tilting back that lets one assume a semi-reclining position. Semi-reclining. We're not talking La-Z-Boy here, this is just an office chair, not a place for lounging around. Of course, I routinely lean as far back as possible, just to think or to stretch out. No worries, though - it's a well-balanced chair, and is almost impossible to tip over.

So this morning, I was working on my book, having a little writer's block, unsurprisingly. I was having trouble figuring out how my Hero was supposed to retrieve the stolen documents from inside the zebra without killing it or its unborn calf, and I was at a complete impasse. I leaned back to ponder, and as I reached the usual reclining limit of the chair, I heard a loud "SNAP," tipped back about an additional foot, and stopped. I didn't go to the ground, but I was leaned way back, with my back almost perpendicular to the ground, legs at about head level.

This situation may not sound so bad, but considering my muscle strength, I knew I was fuuuuuuucked. I felt exactly like the proverbial turtle on its back. I was simply not strong enough in my legs or abdominals to right the chair. You know how you can start a swing in motion by moving your lower legs? No use in my case, there just wasn't enough space to generate any momentum. Mac was already on the way to work, so no help there. The cats were, of course, utterly indifferent.

"Well, I certainly seem to have gotten myself into a pickle, here." The thought crossed my mind that I might possibly be stuck for the day, until Mrs. A. came home. The only conceivable exit seemed to be rolling off the side of the chair onto the ground, but I was about three feet off the solid wood floor, and just knew I'd break every bone in my body if I tried. I couldn't see any option, though.

Slowly, slowly, I rolled to the side, and was able to maneuver my right hand into position to prop myself up a bit. So when I did fall off the chair, it wasn't a complete disaster - my arm protected my head, I banged my knee a little, had the wind knocked out of me. Nothing major, though. I'm just really fucking happy that I've been losing some of this fat - a hundred pounds ago, I don't know what I'd have done.

The last time I felt so helpless, I was about eight. I was climbing a tree with a V-shaped branching in the trunk, slipped, and wedged my knee into the V. I was alone and utterly terrified. I remember just wailing and wailing until my Mom heard. She had to call the Fire Department to get me out. Even they couldn't dislodge me. I almost passed out when I saw the chainsaw - I was 100% certain that they were going to cut off my leg, and I begged my Mom to not let it happen. I was 8, gimme a break, man.

Point is, I have an office chair for sale, cheap!

I Really, Really Hate Bugs

Sand fleas. We've got sand fleas. Or at least the cats do. I feel like I talk about the cats too much. But if every time I turn around, there's a hairball on the floor or an unwelcome anus in the face, there's only so much I can do. You have to write what you know, and right now, I know fleas.

There's only one possible place they could have come from - the beach a few blocks away. Y'see, I am an avowed sun-avoider. I love the light, and I love a nice Spring day, but I am white. Not quite Edgar Winter-level, but decidedly pale. I have burned on a cloudy day. But goddammit, it was Mackenzie's turn to pick the afternoon's activity, and she wanted to go to the beach. Not sure of her reasoning, as it's been colder than day-old piss around here, but at least it wasn't crowded. Much fun was had, and the day was soon forgotten.

Fast-forward about a month. The cats were miserable. As soon as I got paid, I took Trudy to the vet. Sand fleas was the verdict, and she even specifically asked if I had been to the beach lately. Grr...

I'm not really that mad. The medicine (Advantage II) prescribed was like some kind of Ebola for fleas - they appear to be gone, only a few days after treatment. And over the decade or so we've had them, the cats have cost us almost nothing other than food and litter. It's worth the companionship. Sometimes I'm stupid though, and I start to imagine that they think like I do.

About eight or so years ago, we lived in a house with lots of windows looking out on grass and trees and whatnot. The cats (we only had two of them at the time, I think, as I look back on it) loved sitting at the windows and talking to the birds. So I got the bright idea of taking them outside! I went out and bought them a couple of hot-pink mini harnesses and leashes. Nothing restrictive of the neck, of course. I had grand visions of walking them like dogs. Yes, this is the point in the story where the reader points and laughs at the moron. For me to have even considered such an idea seems impossible, in hindsight. You can see where this is going, I'm sure.

When the doctor finally took the stitches out, it was the happiest day of my life.

Just One More Log on the Heart Attack Fire

You people probably think I complain an awful lot. I assure you, you have no idea. In real life, at least in the last couple of weeks, I've been nothing less than a whiny little snot, and it's starting to get annoying. To me, I mean - I'm sure that Mrs. Arone is long since past that stage.

When I'm watching TV, and an advertisement comes on, and the narrator blabs on about how his product is "the ultimate [whatever]," I inevitably say, "Uh-oh! It's the very last [whatever]!"

"Every time, Cheech? Every single time?", Mac asks me. "Yes. Every time." It's like a compulsion. At this point in the evolution of the English language, most people probably wouldn't even understand why this usage of "ultimate" bugs me. Hell, man, I barely even understand why - it's an utterly insignificant issue, by any measure of the word. Yet here I am, bitch bitch bitch.

Or the stop sign at the intersection. Our apartment overlooks a medium-busy residential intersection, controlled by four-way stop signs. I love looking out the window, just watching people go by. But I just can't help but monitor the traffic and comment incessantly about how nobody ever fricking stops at the stop signs, in any direction. In general, of course, it's a safe intersection. There are no line-of-sight impediments, so pedestrians and vehicles all have clear views, and I never see any near-misses. And 99.9% of the time, the cars come to an almost-stop, then continue through the intersection. And I'm about the farthest thing there is from a cop. But all I can do is bitch and moan, and have long, completely imaginary conversations with the drivers about what they think "STOP" means.

Or the bicyclers. Oh, those wacky bicyclers. It's great that they're doing what they're doing to keep themselves healthy, but I want to fucking stab them, all of them, right in the face. I don't mind sharing the road, and I don't have a problem keeping their presence in mind. But the number of bicyclers who seem to give not the tiniest little corn-kernel-sized shit about traffic laws must approach 95%. And I'm not even talking just about the bicyclers in my neighborhood, I mean everywhere. This is something I've observed since I first started driving, 22 years ago and 3000 miles away. Dammit, if I, as a 16-year-old taking Driver's Ed, had to learn how to make and recognize bikers' hand turn signals, why haven't I seen a bicycler make one, even ONE, since about 2008? Fuckers. To their credit, however, I must admit this : most of the time, they DON'T simply blast through the intersection at full speed, while not even bothering to acknowledge the other wheeled conveyances in the road. That only happens like seven out of 10 times.

Maniacs. They're all maniacs.

The Juventus guy is at it again. I call him that because his secondary vehicle is a white 1970s-vintage Econoline-style van upon which he's emblazoned about two dozen different decals and adornments boosting Juventus F.C., his favorite soccer team. An entire story in its own right, but that's just background info right now.

Today, he seems to have gone for a drive in his main vehicle, a late-70s Mercedes-Benz. It's nice. A perfectly fine vehicle. But he's kinda nuts about it. This morning, I've been watching him for about the last 9 minutes. He caught my eye as he pulled into the curb spot that's right outside my window, and right next to my computer screen. It appeared to be a normal park-job, perhaps not centered between the driveway entrances sunken into the curb on either end of the car, but reasonably close.

He got out, stepped back from the car six or seven feet, eyeballed it up, got back in, pulled forward six inches or so, and got out again. He was still not centered, but a few inches in the other direction. Mind you, he was still comfortably in the legal spot, just not centered.

He put one hand on his hip, and (apparently, as I saw this all from behind his body) the other on his chin. Clearly, this was a challenge. He got back in, backed up a few inches, and cut the engine. Perfectly centered, from my vantage point. He got out, backed away, and reassessed the sitch. Something was not right. He got back in the car and turned on the engine. For a minute or so, maybe only 30 seconds, he sat there, motionless as far as I could tell. There was some little activity, and the brake lights (or, the one that I could see) came on. The car sort of lurched a bit. No actual forward or backward progress, just a jolt.

He got out and walked around to the other side of the car, stepped up on the curb, and set himself up AGAIN in his thinking pose. He paced up and down the sidewalk three or four times, measuring it up. I fully expected to see him pull out a tape measure, but no. He made a circuit around the car and, apparently satisfied, went into his apartment building. Victory!

And what caused me to write this? The activity described above took place in about 8 minutes. Before the next minute ticked on my computer's clock display, he bolted from the building, got in the car, and drove off.

Everything I Own is Trying to Kill Me

As I type this, the room is filled with smoke. I have every window open, and the kitchen and living room fans are on, and it makes no difference. The cats have abandoned their usual raised perches, and have literally gone to ground, where the air is mostly clear.

I think I've figured out the problem. It started a couple of months ago. I started cooking much, much more often than I ever have in my life. I went from using the stove or oven maybe once or twice a month, to being the primary food preparer, using it at least once, and usually twice or more, daily. The second or third time I cooked something in the oven - likely bacon or chicken - there was a ton of smoke, even though the food wasn't burnt. I figured there was some kind of loose food item in the oven, burning up and making the smoke. Found nothing, and it kept happening intermittently. Long story a little shorter, I found that the baking pans I use to cook bacon suck balls, and when the temperature in the oven reaches about 350, they suddenly warp, causing a muffled "clang" sound, and apparently spraying grease all over the oven. So the NEXT time I cook something, I get the Towering Inferno. Good times.

I tend to lose socks. I wear them in the cold mornings, and they gradually work themselves off over the course of the afternoon. This often happens when I'm just lounging around, so they wind up under or behind the bed, or the couch, or whatever. I (or Mrs. Arone) collect them every week, but the number gets smaller, and I'm sure there's a huge sock nest somewhere in the apartment. So I'm short on socks, and Mackenzie brings me home a couple pair of new socks! "Sweet, thanks for thinking about me!" I put 'em on - they fit like a champ, which is actually rare, as I have one fat ankle (Long story. Trust me.) With my warm, comfy feet, I stand up to go into the other room, and immediately go completely ass-over-tits, as the socks fly out from under me as if made of inside-out banana peels. Turns out that the socks are coated with some kind of space-age sweat-repellent which also functions as a floor-repellent. They are nice and toasty, but to this day, when I wear them, I have to repeat the phase "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" in my head every time I try to step from the carpet to the wood floor.

The three cats seem to be in a competition to see which one of them can murder me first. A clear, empty room is still an obstacle course because of cats weaving between my legs as I walk, or plopping down in front of me as I'm about to step down right there, hands full of dishes, or leaving a nearly-invisible puddle of piss right on the edge of the carpet/floor border, so I step in it, go flying, and break a hip.

When I'm found dead in the middle of the room, with no clues as to the cause of my demise, IT WAS THE CATS.  Disregard the suicide note, as I think I saw Trudy practicing her penmanship last week...

Want Some Cheese With That Whine?

As anyone familiar with this blog should already know, I'm usually not big on complaining over the internet. Ahem. But I'm having a hard time thinking of anything to write about. I know that I don't HAVE to write anything - I'm not on a deadline here, and nobody's lining up to pay for this stuff. And I also know that it's a common conceit for a writer to write about writing. But really, there's just nothing in my life worth writing about, so this is what it's come to.

I've been writing pretty much forever, and have never, until the last month or so, even attempted to write fiction. It's always been about my life, or my opinions, or my (puke) feelings. I recently went through a ton of old crap, and found the original copies of the dozen or so issues of the zines I used to hand-publish back in the Nineties. Such a massive volume of stuff, the equivalent of probably a couple hundred pages, and the majority of it is absolute crap, self-centered whining about how put-upon I, a white, middle-class male living with Mom and Dad in the suburbs, felt. I mean, I DID have a less-than-ideal childhood, but who the fuck didn't? Even rich kids suicide every so often, and I certainly wasn't THAT. It's just that 20 years of perspective makes me realize what a little shit I was.

My point was, It's just so hard to come up with a workable idea for a piece of fiction, at least for me. Right now, I've got approximately the first 6,000 words of a much longer, novel-length piece of fiction, and it's quite good, in the author's opinion, but it's really just a highly-fictionalized version of things I've experienced. It's just so much easier that way. I have no problem coming up with words that make sense, and which tell the story in a concise, entertaining manner, but first formulating that story is massively daunting. If I write about my life, well, I already know how the story goes, don't I?  Makes it flow like milk instead of molasses.

I feel like a rip-off artist when I post an update here, and it's an album review or something like that. I don't even fucking like music, man, what the hell am I doing telling people what I think of it? Not that anything else I write has any intrinsic interest to anyone beyond my tiny circle of family and friends, but the music stuff must be on an entirely higher level of I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck for most people.

And even when I write something that is all about me, I still fight the idea block. If I spend an hour writing one of these things, you can bet you ass that 40 minutes of it was just me, staring at the screen, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, wondering what I've done to deserve such a fate. Then, if I'm lucky, something catches, and I can usually pound into submission fairly quickly.

I always seem to have trouble ending an entry, though. Thank god for YouTube.

I Got Hit By a Car This Morning

I'm very tired of being a complete fat-ass, so I've been going for walks in the morning.  Just walking around the block, or to the park and back, whatever keeps me moving and interested.  I'm actually somewhat proud of my progress - since my first foray out of the realm of the sedentary, I've literally octupled the distance I can walk comfortably.  I'd not go so far as to call it a "long walk," but definitely an accomplishment.

I have found myself rising very early these days anyway, regardless of when I go to sleep, but I particularly choose mornings for my exercise.  I like the weather on the cool side, and a San Francisco morning can be, shall we say, a bit brisk at times.  I like that there are not many people out and about, to see me huffing and puffing down the street, red-faced like some sort of ambulatory tomato.  And I like that there aren't a lot of cars at that time of day.  It's not a major issue, in general - more than half the time, my walk is simply a number of circuits around the block, so I don't even cross paths with cars in the roadway.  But I do sometimes vary the route, to the park, as mentioned, or the 7-11 a few blocks over and down the hill.

This morning, I decided to not walk anywhere in particular, but to widen my "lap" - instead of going around the block four or five times, I'd circle two blocks, twice.  A nice distance, and a view that, in the context of me being on foot, as opposed to driving, was new.

I had completed the first block of the trip.  I was at a four way stop sign, and stopped to look. There was a car coming up behind me, maybe 50 feet down the street.

I started to cross, as I was the only thing actually at the intersection - no other pedestrians or cars.  Luckily, I kept alert.  The car behind me kept coming, and not slowing down, not slowing down.  As I got to almost halfway across the street, I realized that he had ignored the stop sign, and I twisted my body out of the way.  I saw him see me as his front fender just barely got my calf muscle.  I went to the ground, and he immediately stopped and jumped out of the car.

"Where did you come from?  Where did you come from?  Oh my god, where did you come from?" As if I'd simply poofed into existence in his path.  I shook my head a few times and gathered my thoughts.  Did a quick inventory, and found all parts accounted for.  I hefted my ass off the pavement and walked a few paces back and forth, just sort of making sure I was alive. Surprisingly, I had only a few choice words for the driver, nothing too outrageous.  I was fine, and I think I might have been in shock or something.  I mean, now, I can think of all kinds of ways the whole thing could've played out.  At the time, though, I just shooed him away, cursed a little, said "Watch where you're going, asshole!", and went on my way.

Dammit, I should've at least flung some feces or something.

Despite All This, I'm Still a Filthy Bastard

The first baseball game that I ever went to was a Philadelphia Phillies game, some time around the end of the 1982 season.  I'd have been just about to turn nine.  I remember that it was freezing cold.  It was a close and high-scoring game, possibly extra innings.  It was the bottom of the ninth, and I have no idea of the exact score, but the bases were loaded, and Ozzie Virgil was at the plate.  If he got a hit, or knocked in a run in some other way, Phillies win.  It was a pennant race - I don't remember that part, but I looked it up.  So big tension, lots of emotion.  Everyone was on their feet, screaming "Ozzie!  Ozzie!"  And wouldn't you know it, he smacked it right into the stands, grand slam!  I vividly remember the scoreboard flashing a crude animation of a sausage with the words "It's a Grand Salami!" The already-manic crowd erupted, my Dad and Grandfather were jumping up and down.  Good times. The next day, or possibly later that night at home, I was excitedly recounting the game to friends of my Dad's.  When I got to the end, I proudly said, "And Ozzie Virgin hit a grand salami!"

The room just about fell apart with laughter, of course. Someone said, "That's Ozzie VIRGIL. Virgil." For about 5 years, I never got what was so funny.  Eventually, I learned what "virgin" meant, and sure, it was funny.  But I was pissed off to be the butt of a joke that they wouldn't even explain to me.

It's evidence of my parents' weird aversion to even the slightest reference to anything sexual.  They both curse like sailors, and have for as long as I can remember - fuck this, shit that, asshole the other, all day long.  But never anything remotely sexual.  My Mom was in the hospital overnight once, and I visited, of course.  I remember a stereotypical Big Sassy Black Nurse being the primary caretaker while I was there.  I must have been fooling around, because B.S.B.N. told me "You'd better behave, or I'll smack you right in the twat!"  Now, by this time, I had been around the block.  I'd cherrypicked all the sex books from the library, so I sure as hell knew that "twat" meant "vagina."  I asked my Mom, "What does THAT mean?"  She turned seventeen shades of red and said to my Dad, "Well, I'M sure not gonna tell him!"  He just sat there, stupefied.

I later found out, somehow, that apparently sometimes "twat" means "behind." Less offensive than "ass," I guess? Who'd a-thunk it?  If I hadn't looked it up, I'd still be wondering if I looked a little girlish that day.

And the time I kept shortening the word "pimple" to "pimp."  I was about ten or eleven, I guess. Just having fun with words.  Mom got all weird and said to stop saying that, but she would never tell me why.

I mentioned in a recent blog entry that she once kicked me out of the living room during the love scene in The Terminator.  Well I sure wasn't exaggerating.  It's a ridiculously violent movie, with, among other highlights, a dude getting punched right through the heart so the guys fist went through, and the heart was in his fist as it poked out of the other dude's back.  Badass, right?!  My mom must've thought so, because we sat through it.  But the one brief sex scene, which,as I verified at a later date, contains a sad lack of penetration shots, was verboten, and she scuttled me off to the kitchen.  "I don't want you to think love is like that," she said.

I still don't know what the fuck she meant.

Just Waiting For that Knock on the Door...

I had a very, very bad dream this morning.  At least I think, I assume that I did - I can't say I remember any specifics.  The only thing I do remember is opening my eyes, propping my chest up on my elbows, and yelling "FUCK YOU!!" at the absolute, most eardrum-shattering top of my voice.  I think Mac must have about shit the bed - when I came to my senses a few seconds later, she was recoiled as if from a giant praying mantis, eyes like saucers, saying, "Cheech?  Sweetie? You there?"  I grunted, "Guh," or some similarly witty rejoinder, blinked a few times, and the next thing I remember was waking up for real, a couple hours later.

It's not the first time that something like this has happened.  A few years ago, I had a vaguely similar, though less-well-remembered incident, in which I sat up, slapped the wall HARD with a flat palm, and went right back to sleep.  I can only imagine that the guy in the apartment across the hall, whose bedroom shares a wall with ours (I know it's his bedroom.  Trust me.) must think I'm a wife beater.  Thank god that Mrs. Arone is very good at keeping calm in these types of situations. One errant terrified scream, and I'm in the back of a paddy wagon.

The walls here aren't so bad, though.  When I first moved to San Francisco, I had almost no money, and took a room in a $90-a-week crack hotel.  Among many other interesting ...features?... of the old building were the ludicrously thin walls.  I could literally hear my next-door neighbor fart through the one-inch plywood walls.  And since one of the walls was against nothing but naked outside air - it backed up to no other buildings or anything - I froze my nuts off nightly. Can a body feel wind through a wall?  I dunno, but if so, then I felt it.

The old upstairs neighbors moved out a few months ago too, which sucks out loud.  I think they wore slippers or something all day.  Sure, it sounded like they were bowling up there once in a while, but as a rule, they were quiet as an emo church mouse.  The new guys, whose cat you've already met, are loud.  Always.  The cat is a ball-baby bitch, crying like its ass is on fire all the time.  The 14-year-old has either a PS3 or XBOX 360, with, I shit you not, Dance Dance Revolution as what I can only assume is his favorite fucking game - I am right this very second being stomped upon from above.  He does keep that to daylight hours, however, then switches to what sounds like some kind of first-person shooter, like Halo or Call of Duty.  I hate those fucking shooters, but that's more likely because I am an old bastard who stinks up the joint when I try to play them.

Sigh.  I guess the world doesn't owe me shit, does it?

Viper Mad Blues

I honestly wonder whether I was dropped on my head repeatedly as a child. It's the simplest explanation, really. Otherwise, what could have possessed me, as a 16-year-old living with my parents, to ask for this CD as a Christmas present?  It's a compilation of jazz songs, originally released between 1927 and 1943,exclusively about marijuana, with a dash of coke thrown in for spice.  

I'm sitting here wondering, how on earth did I manage to sneak this one by?  And what audacity to even try - I must have assumed that Mom and Dad were clueless, and would never notice the subject matter.  Hell, my Dad is approximately clueless about everything more illegal than scotch. Mom only seemed to give a damn about stopping me from seeing sex - she once kicked me out of the living room during the love scene in The Terminator, for fuck's sake.  Ha!  It's actually all coming back now.  It was ordered from a catalog of all jazz CDs, and I also asked for (and received) Louis Armstrong, Spike Jones, Ella Fitzgerald, Stan Getz, Charlie Parker, and Billie Holiday.  (No, I'm not a big jazz guy, but I've certainly wet my feet.)  I figured "Viper Mad Blues" would blend into the background.  And I guess I was right, because here we are.

It's not exactly a secret that musicians and drugs are often fast friends, but it seems that some people think that the Beatles brought that first reefer across the pond or something.  No, here we have Cab Calloway, Bessie Smith, Ella, Benny Goodman, and other prominent musicians singing, among other songs, "The Stuff is Here, and it's Mellow" (1935), "Dope Head Blues" (1927), and Fats Waller's cleverly titled "The Reefer Song" (1943).  The CD is a lot of fun, if of somewhat poor audio quality.  Not a problem, really - I certainly understand that these aren't necessarily recordings taken directly from diamond-encrusted masters, or whatever. It's raw, full of pops and crackles, but so am I.  

Alright, I gotta go refill the bong.  Back tomorrow...

Old Man Yells at Cloud

We're having a tech from Comcast (spit) come to install wi-fi at the Arone homestead this afternoon, and I'm old-man excited.  This is what officially puts me right there on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise and ushers me fully into the world of commonplace sci-fi technology.  It's simply astounding to me that merely an eye-blink of 25 years ago, I was 14, in my room playing games on my Commodore 64, which was hooked up to my shitty CRT TV, and had no access to BBSs because my mom wouldn't buy me the expensive 1200-baud modem, nor would she let me use the phone that much.  I used 5 1/4 inch disks to load comparatively tiny pieces of software slowly into memory.  There was a lot of switching disks, and even a cassette tape drive before mom sprung for the several-hundred-dollar, loaf-of-bred-sized disk drive.  And now I have more computing power in my front pocket than the entire Apollo Moon Landing's Mission Control room.

Excuse me, I need to adjust the onion on my belt.

Print is dead.  Oh, yes it is, it just doesn't know it yet.  I mourn the loss, but that's for some other time.  And if print is dead in general, then for porn, it's double-secret dead, the fine paste left over after being sucked into a jet turbine.  When I was 12, I had to steal Penthouses from the local drugstore, and watch scrambled cable porn, hoping for a glimpse of muff.  By the time I was of age, I could proudly (?) stride into the 7-11, and say, "One copy of Swank, please!  Why, yes, I am 18, here's my ID!"  Soon after, I found the porn stores.  Two entire stores - one near each end of town - filled with pornography.  Huge racks full of every standard newsstand-quality porn rag. Endless aisles of video tapes, those stupid gigantic boxes taking up a ridiculous amount of real estate. Porn newspapers like Screw, even.  And the lubes, condoms, cuffs, dildos, vibrators, fuck dolls, sex swings.  You name it, they had it.  There were even little booths in the back where you could watch a variety of porn in private, right there in the store, doled out in increments of four minutes for a quarter.  I made a few 75-cent transactions there myself.  It was porn heaven for a frustrated 18-year-old.

I imagine that for a kid of 18 or 20 today, it must be a feat of nearly-impossible mental gymnastics to understand just how different the landscape of pornography is now.  Once the wi-fi is installed, I'm done, finished, good-bye Cheech.  FROM MY BED, I will be able to, on a complete whim, turn on my detached, wireless computer, type into a search engine any possible combination of filthy words, and be immediately offered hundreds if not thousands of videos depicting people doing those filthy things.  FOR FREE.  No ID needed.  Just press this button promising that you're 18. And the filthiest stuff is no longer hidden - at the good ol' porn store, I never saw scat, or pissing, or any of the really heavy (legal) stuff.  But I can Google "midget transsexual horse fucking a blue whale" and be offered a choice of several different whales.  A stack of soggy, used-up Hustlers just can't compete in this day and age.

It's a Cow-tastrophe!

"We're Not Gonna Take It" by Twisted Sister is the Greatest Rock Song of All Time

Well, maybe not.  The other strong contender is "I Want To Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles.  

I get strange looks, if not outright derisive laughter, when I talk about "We're Not Gonna Take It," but the song moves me like few others.  It's not really the music - the vocal style is good, and fits the song, the drums are mixed poorly, IMO, and the guitar solo is lame at best.  But I defy you to find a song that better epitomizes the true spirit of teenage angst.  It's viscerally effective on someone like me, who puts individual freedom as his primary life ideal.  I'm fully aware that I grew up a white, middle-class male, with little to really complain about, but that's irrelevant, isn't it? Despite the fact that nothing in this existence is universal, pretty much everyone I knew when I was a teenager HATED their parents, at least occasionally.  Hell, I hated them because they tried to love me, what's more typical than that?

Something with a similar feel would be "Killing in the Name of..." by Rage Against the Machine. It's hard not to like a repeated refrain of "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!"  But in my head, I often hear, "Fuck you, I won't tidy my bedroom!"  Y'know?  The song is effective, yet a little childish.  "But Cheech, it doesn't GET any more childish than 'We're Not Gonna Take It!'  It's the exact same as 'Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me,' isn't it?"  Sure, but I don't have a defense. And if I did, I don't think I'd present it.  There's never a more valid argument for a song's merit than "I love it!"

"I Want To Hold Your Hand" is the same song, except that it's about that desperate brand of hopeless, formless, hormone-induced lust that most of us have felt.  The heart-skipping, breath-stopping, choking certainty that you are going to DIE if she rejects you.

The song quite clearly resonates with the artists of today - Akon barely changed the words for this one.

I Caused a Commotion at Safeway This Morning

Goddamn cats.  Everything would've been fine if cats weren't bitches.  But no, "Feed us!  Feed us!" Sigh.  Off to Safeway on a scrotum-shearingly cold 5:30 January morning.

Grocery stores at off-peak hours can be a mixed blessing.  I love that there are very, very few customers to get in my way - morning joggers, derelicts looking for their first bottle (sorry, guys, 6 AM in California!), and humanity-avoiders like myself.  But inevitably, the shopping space is marred by the dozens of pallets lining the aisles - it seems that the dead of night and early morning is the best time to stock a very busy store.  That's not so bad - I'd rather slalom between mini-forklifts full of Chef Boyardee than seventeen blue-hairs in the Metamucil aisle.

This morning, there was a customer in front of the store trying to pack about six gallons of milk into her backpack and bicycle basket.  She seemed very earnest, but I had my doubts as to her foresight.  Inside, the store was eerie - the lights were at about 50% power, and they seemed to be working with an almost-skeleton crew.  The aisles had the usual to-be-shelved merchandise, but only a dozen or so stockers for a full 15-or-20-aisle store.  Fewer people means less hassle, even with floors full of stock, so it was a quick circuit around the store.  Green beans, cat food, cat litter, and trash bags - ooh, look, a 55-cents-off coupon for the trash bags!  Score!

The cashiers at this particular Safeway (NON-self-serve, unfortunately) don't handle the coins they give as change.  They have these coin dispensers at the end of each aisle - the cashier gives you the bills, the machine gives you the coins.  This morning, the worker was having a hard time removing the self-adhesive coupon from the trash bags.  I noticed his short nails, and said, "I have longer nails, let me try."  And as I reached over to help, my forearm hit the change dispenser and knocked it approximately to China.  Coins everywhere.  I mean, everywhere.  Yes, literally, even in space.  Everywhere.  "Oh, Shit!", is of course, what I said.  I tried my best to help, but there was money under the counter, under the Claw Game and Lotto machine off to the side, under the gum display.  Just a debacle.

The cashier did a valiant job of not giving me too much of an overt stinkeye.  He did wonder out loud why this particular machine wasn't bolted down, and I think that's my best course of action - blame it on the machine.

As I was heading out, the lady with the milk was still struggling, but with her bike lock.  It had been ten minutes, so I said, "Do you need any help?  You were having trouble when I went in..."

"No, asshole, keep it in your pants!"

Oh, the Books...So Many Books

I've been on an austerity kick lately.  I've been confronted with the fact that, though there's still an uncertain time frame in which I'm working, I will almost certainly have to move some time within the next couple of years.  Maybe not a city relocation, but at least an intra-San Francisco move.  In a perfect world, I'd have only whatever half-dozen pieces of larger furniture or computer hardware, and a backpack or suitcase to move.  That level of clutter-reduction doesn't seem feasible, but I am cutting to the bone, very gradually.  I'm having trouble with my books.

I love to read.  Books, magazines, whatever is around, even if I'm not interested in the content. "Shape" Magazine while waiting at the dentist, though my "shape" is a perfect sphere.  "Golf Digest" while my car is being smogged.  "People," even though I hate them so.  In literature-deprived bathrooms, I've gone so far as to read up on the mechanics of tampon insertion and hemorrhoid relief.  I've accumulated a lot of books over the course of almost 20 years in the wild, and the worst part is that I haven't even read at least half of them.  I always get, and appreciate, a book or three for most gift-giving holidays, as well as Amazon gift cards.  I also have a pattern of spree-shopping for books well before the last stack is through, and that has resulted in shopping bags full of unread gems.

Well, this morning, a friend asked a question that I had never really considered.  "Why," he asked, "do we even HAVE the current model of book distribution?", referring to mass-market retail books, not texts or institutional tomes.  "A $30 hardcover, followed 8 months later by the paperback or trade paperback that everyone wants? The fuck is that?"  The answer, obviously, is "A massive cash grab."  I pointed out how many millions of people were waiting, dicks in hand, for the last Harry Potter book to be published in hardcover, willing to fork over ANYTHING to be among the first to find out Hermione's terrible secret.

But of course, that's the .001% of books.   For the other 99.999%, hardcover is nothing but a tax on being an early adopter, like when buying the newest iPhone.  Sure, some people like hardcovers better - they look nice on a shelf, they are more durable, and they can foil a mugging if well-aimed.  BUT!!  A paperback book has, in theory, the exact same function as the hardcover of the same title - the content doesn't change. UNLIKE with the release of the newest gadget, which is usually a marked IMPROVEMENT.  When "The Hunger Games'" third installment was released in paperback, a year (or whatever) after hardback, could you read it with 40% less attention span? Was the paper made of a space-age polymer that repels liquids?  No, of course not.  No, it was just smaller and lighter.

That's my point.  Though I don't buy them, I am often given hardcover books as gifts.  If I had my entire collection in paperback instead, I estimate a savings of about 50% in volume, and the same in weight.  And then maybe I could keep all of my books.  Not that I'd read them all, but you know. And I'd probably buy more books anyway.  I'm not even going to touch on the idea of e-books. That I could have the entire library in my pocket is a real mind-blower.

I don't want to ban hardbacks, but for shit's sake, release a paperback alongside the more expensive version.  Then maybe I'll buy it new, and not for $4.00 used at the Book Hutch.

Why Do I Watch This Shit?

I'm not a big fan of sit-coms anymore.  I watched the Cosby-Family Ties-Cheers-Night Court combo back in the '80s, like everyone did, but really think they've stagnated as a humor-delivery vehicle.  But I do find myself watching "The Big Bang Theory" pretty much every day.

I'm still amazed that the producers haven't been burned for heresy yet, simply because the show isn't called "Intelligent Design." Actually, that's probably the answer to the question in the title of today's update - I watch because SCIENCE!  But it's really poorly written. Not in a "Two Broke Girls"-style, "every joke is like a corpse hitting the floor" way, but in an annoying, "Every character is a hard-core stereotype" way.

Sheldon is a terrible human being. He has shown that he can learn to follow "non-optional social conventions," yet he can't speak a sentence without mentioning how literally EVERYTHING and EVERYONE other than himself and his work is utterly meaningless. And his friends don't help him learn, they accept his shit and roll their eyes. He seems to think of women as truly unworthy of anything other than reproduction. He is destined to be beaten to death.

Raj is a terrible human being. He's given the most childish lines, using words like "wee-wee" and "doody," with no follow-up as to why his character says way more stuff like this than the others. Not only can't he talk to attractive women, he can't utter a word to ANY woman - old, young, fat, thin, white, brown, doesn't matter. Except when alcohol touches his lips (literally - he goes from mute to Casanova in the space of time it takes to raise the glass and put it down once). And then, he becomes supreme douchebag #1, and frankly a borderline date rapist, after a molecule of alcohol.

Howard is a terrible human being. He despises his mother, despises living with her, yet cannot even think of moving out. When Bernadette suggests it (going on memory, here), he not only assumes that she will literally wait on him hand and foot, as his hated mother did, he doesn't even pretend to consider her feelings, in the slightest. She's Hollywood gorgeous, "So round, so firm, so fully packed," as Bugs Bunny might say, and fucking brilliant, but settles for this repellent personality?

Penny is a terrible human being. Not in relation to others, but in how she treats herself. Sheldon dismisses her completely, without a moment's thought, because she's a non-academic (unintelligent, as he has literally stated), and a woman. Raj can't talk to her, but CAN whisper jokes about her pussy to Howard, right in front of her. Howard is a complete lech toward her, and she's lucky he hasn't tried to finger her in her sleep. And she is BESTEST BUDDIES with them.

Leonard is the only character that seems to be written as human. He has emotions, and desires, and the capability for deep introspection (as much as a sitcom character can).  But he's still JUST a nerd, really, a cute li'l' scamp who somehow gets the girl.

The other regular female characters are fully inconsequential - a female Sheldon in Amy, and a beautiful doormat in the aforementioned Bernadette.

I wonder if it's on now...

An Early Obituary for a Funny Man

This will happen some time in 2013:

A lot of people tell me that I'm a funny guy, and that makes me feel good.  Obvious, I know - people enjoy praise.  But it makes me feel extradoubleplusgood because I love comedians.  The great standup comedians, in my mind, include Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Louis CK, Bill Cosby, and the late Katt Williams.

When I was about 12, I saw Bill Cosby : Himself for the first time.  I laughed so much that I watched it again immediately.  I probably watched it 25 times.  And the first time I saw the Katt Williams performance linked above, I had the same level of experience.  You know the scene in "The Blues Brothers," in the church, with people writhing around with the power of the holy spirit?  It was like that.  Sort of.  I mean, I stayed in my chair, but you know.  I was moved to... to motion by how funny it was.

And then he completely imploded. I mean, this was a hard-core, I-am-not-fucking-around-here implosion, a personal dumpster fire the likes of which I had never seen.  The toxicology reports aren't in yet, but authorities aren't even sure if drugs were involved, or if the blunt trauma to the head was sufficient to kill him.  Drugs are assumed, of course.

I Guess it's Time to Wake Up...

I'm relatively happy with the neighborhood in which I live.  The rent is expensive to the point of ridiculousness, but it's a fine area.  Golden Gate Park is a block away, but it's a very quiet part of the park.  Most of the residents appear to be families with kids and old, old Chinese and Russian ladies streaming in and out of the beauty shop below my apartment.  This is my view right now, a typical 6 AM.  It's San Francisco-y, but not a place where there's a ton of commotion, as a rule. But this morning was different.

I woke up to pee a couple of hours ago, at about 4.  As I was trying to go back to sleep, I heard a skateboard go by down on the street.  If you've never heard a skateboard on pavement in the dead quiet of night, be aware that it is LOUD, much louder than it is among the daytime activity sound-level.  Then it went by again.  And again.  And again.  And then someone yelled, "CAN I BORROW A CELL PHONE CHARGER?" at the absolute top of their lungs, with no warning or leadup, very close to my window.  Imagine a gunshot when you least expect it.  That's the degree of shit-myself that I felt at that second.  I poked my head over the windowsill, and literally in the middle of the intersection shown in the pic above, was a guy with a skateboard, walking in circles.  No, I didn't get pictures, because I am a moron, and I was groggy.

"I JUST NEED TO CHARGE MY FUCKING PHONE, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?"

Lights started to go on in the windows around me.  He got on his skateboard and skated away, maybe a block, turned around, and skated back.  "HELLOOOOO!"  Skate-Skate-Skate in circles. About 3 or 4 minutes of skating in circles, followed by "HELLOOOOO!" again.  Silence for a minute or so, then,

"YOU GUYS ARE ALL FUCKING ASSHOLES!"

Then he skated away, hopefully for good, leaving naught but a cranky Cheech in his wake.

You Axed For It!

Up The Dose / You Axed For It! - The Mentors (1989)

All you really need to know is in the track listing here (Click to enlarge) :

I bought this in about 1992 or 1993, in a tiny little CD shop in New Hope, PA.  I had heard of The Mentors thanks to testimony during the PMRC hearings, but had never heard a note of their music. I just knew that they were one of the most hated, disgusting bands in the world, and I'd be dipped in dogshit if I wasn't going to listen!  I wasn't looking for it, but I think I audibly gasped when I saw it in the rack.  For some reason, I expected them to be a punk band, it's really just standard heavy metal, as far as the music goes - not awful, but not good.

The lyrics, though, really are the true exemplar of shock rock, the flip side of the Marilyn Manson crap I reviewed yesterday.  While Manson is very produced, very polished, very deliberate, this is a very raw-sounding disc in both production and musicianship.  And while Manson's lyrics are menacing and dark, El Duce brought a very mundane sort of presence to The Mentors' songs of very casual violence.  I don't exactly like listening to this music, but it's got a lot more power than the weak, calculated schlock Manson has produced.

• Four F Club
• Suck Fuck Cook Clean
• White Trash Woman
• Heterosexuals Have The Right To Rock

It'd be easy to disregard this as garbage, and I'd certainly glance twice at someone who listened and took this stuff seriously, but it's got just as much artistic merit as anything else, even the aforementioned Marilyn Manson abortion.  It's hateful, but clearly it hasn't riled me up as much as one might expect.  I'll give it a D- because of a few good riffs.