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.

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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.