Monday, September 11, 2006

Insanity


Listen, and I ain't making it up, either. It's 5am and I can't find my sanity. Pounding away on a treadmill for 45 minutes just seems to fall a bit outside the province of sane. Yet, there I was running and running and running in place. Staring at a digital read out that says I'm at mile 3.26, with 27'20" elapsed, and I've burned 550 calories. My iPod pumping out music that I tuned out long ago. I am one with my pain. I am one with my insanity. I can't seem to remember where I was the last time I saw my mind. If you find it, I want it back.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Food For The Game


The game of submission and dominance is ambient. I ain't making it up. Look around. The amount of time someone takes before answering a question. Asking someone to clarify a remark. Expansive gestures with the arms and hands when speaking. Eye contact when speaking to someone. And we oscillate between the two roles, depending on the social context.

Sometimes, the role we play depends on our job.You know like waiters, waitresses,and cooks are in submissive roles to the patron. They cook food according to your oft ill-conceived preference and bring it to you. And the waiter, or waitress, will ask you if there is anything else you need. And with a smugness that's out of place at an IHOP, you'll say "No, I think I have everything I need for now. Thanks." At the grocery store, the cashier checks out your groceries, bags your groceries, gives you a receipt and then asks if you need help out to your car.

And you need a vicious ass kicking if you're rude to these people. They don't owe you shit. They're doing their job. Just because your husband gave you a dose of the clap, doesn't mean you're entitled to get all cunty with your waiter. Just because your wife snorts a gram before lunch and washes it down with a liter of vodka as a warmup to giving the pool boy the reverse cowgirl, doesn't mean you can be an asshole to someone who only wants to know if you want paper or plastic. But some just don't get it.

She smelled like Wal-mart. You know that smell. She looked to be somewhere around 20. She was in the neighborhood of 5'4" with fat rolls spilling over the top of her too tight pants. You know the ones that have ties at the bottom of the pant leg. She had a pair of black flip flops that looked two summers old. A white t-shirt designed to show off a moderately impressive chest,but I wonder if she intended to let the world know she was wearing a yellow bra. Her face is hard to describe, but if you can picture a Cabbage Patch doll aged 20 years, then you got her. Oh, and she had that skunk hairdo thing you see people wearing now. You know, black and blonde. She topped this hot, steaming mess off with a diva attitude.

"Did you find everything you need," the cashier asked.

"Not really, but that's just the deal here."

"Is there something that I can help with?"

"Doubtful. Just hurry, please." She looked at me and rolled her eyes. My disgust was stirring.

When the cashier finished ringing up her groceries, she began bagging them.

"Be sure to double bags those. You guys don't do it if I don't tell you." The cashier, her name tag read "Maggie," didn't respond, but double bagged the groceries. When she finished, she printed the receipt and handed it to Helmsley.

"Would you like some help out," the cashier managed to smile, even.

"Yes, actually," Helmsley said. She had two bags. One had some feminine items in it, you know what I'm talking about. And the other had about four packages of Ramen Noodles.. The cashier motioned to someone bagging in another line and tells him that, "This lady needs some help out." The guy paused, looked Helmsley up and down, smiled in a way that seemed to say, "You can't be serious," shrugged, and hefted her bags out to her car. I ain't making it up.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Treos

The desire to cave his fucking skull in was almost overwhelming. I pictured myself getting up from the table and walking to the front of the restaurant. Passing the hostess I cast her the thin-lipped smile and offer a barely audible, "How're you doing?" Like I give a shit. Opening the door, bending down to pick up one of the loose cobblestones I noticed as we entered the restaurant. Turning around, going through the same vacuous exchange with the same hostess. Continuing on to the soon-to-be-in-ICU-bastard's table, offering him the same "How're you doing" right before I drive the brick into the fucker's face.


As part of our anniversary celebration, Sam and I decided to eat at the Boulder Chophouse.It's a nice steakhouse with great service, fantastic atmosphere and amazing steaks. Seriously, the steaks melt in your mouth like butter.

But anyway, our server comes to the table to takes our drink order and gives us some time to peruse the menu. We decided to order an appetizer to enjoy while we sipped our drinks. Both arrived a short time later. Our server returned and took our dinner order. By the way, I'm making this part of the story intentionally vague. Sam and I discussed things that only lovers do, and it's not really anyone's business what we talked about. Thanks.

So anyway, towards the end of our amazing dinner, I hear a noise that seemed as out of place as a polar bear in Barbados. The noise rudely interrupted the elegant atmosphere. I couldn't place the noise at first. Then, it hit me.

It's a fucking cellphone. A cellphone--here. The fact that the phone rang was maddening enough. But this Dick and Mild smoking bastard answers the phone at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah!"

Sam and I exchange glances. The distance to him was about 6 feet.

"Okay, tell me what's going on,"he bellowed in a stentorian voice that caught me off guard. His wife excuses herself and goes to the restroom. I'm annoyed. Despite Sam's protests, I begin to stare. He looks to be in his mid 40's. He has a tonsure that only nature can grant. His clean shaven skin is over tan. He's dressed in a faded pink polo. A holdover from the 80's. Pink just came back into fashion favor. Not long enough to fade a shirt to this degree. His shorts were blue, and a bit too short. His shoes were hideous walking shoes. But I found his skin as repugnant as his behavior. It looked like it belonged on someone much larger. When he spoke, the skin on his neck shook. The skin on his face seemed to hang off. His arms shook as he gestured about like some ancient Roman senator.

The desire to cave his fucking skull in was almost overwhelming. Then, I noticed the phone. Really noticed. A Treo 600, 650, 700, whatever--I couldn't tell. But you've seen these phones. Usually, they're attached to a belt. The belt is typically worn by someone with an exaggerated sense of self-importance.

"I have to stay connected. I have to stay informed about what is going on in my company because I'm so important." You can almost hear the incessant repeating if you listen. You can almost see the rehearsing, if you look. It's funny, though, who you never see with these phones. The people that are actually integral to their company. The owners. The CEO's. Presidents. If you're truly important, you don't have one of these phones. You're the person other people worry about. People worry about staying connected to you. People worry about missing your call. People worry about having answers to the questions you ask. More importantly, people don't call you, you call them on their Treo...whatever. You hand out the Treos to the minions. You hand out the electronic bitch leash to the minions.

I snapped out of my homicidal fantasy and realized that this guy was someone's bitch. I smiled, chuckled and drained my drink. Cellphones as status symbols. And his phone symbolized his status as someone's bitch. Look around and see for yourself. I ain't making it up.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Vanity


The only reason that comes to mind is vanity. I'm unabashedly vain. Sure, maybe I'm staying healthy for my kids. Except I don't have kids, and none on the horizon. Or perhaps I just want to stay healthy and live a long life. That can't be it; I'm still young enough to think I'm invincible. I guess that leaves vanity.I can't think of any other reason to be driving to the gym before God is awake. Not only am I driving to the gym, I'm also looking forward to an hour of the self-inflicted flagellation we call working out.

Don't look at me like that. Vanity isn't a character flaw if I tell you I'm vain. It's similar to Kurt Vonnegut telling you "All the truths I'm about to tell you are shameless lies." Or, if I tell you it's a rip-off, it's not a rip-off. I'm admitting it. Unlike people who say they don't watch TV, or didn't vote for Bush, I'm not lying to you. Not that I lie awake at night worrying about what you think of me.

Of course, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have something of an ego. Not only do I have a blog, which is one of the more narcissistic venues available, but I also told you as much in my profile. Oooppps, didn't mean to ruin your fun.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Poor Goth Wookie

Because the urge didn't strike. That's all. I didn't post yesterday because I didn't feel like it. Seriously, sometimes I read other blogs. Occasionally you come across one where the author hasn't posted for a bit, or they missed the previous day. The opening paragraph is invariably an apology for missing an entry or two. I always get a laugh out of the misplaced contrition. The way I see things, volition is a perquisite of adulthood. Generally, you don't have to do things when you don't feel like it. Really, you're not going to get grounded, or sent to bed without dinner, if you don't write in your blog each day.

That's what I was chuckling to myself about when I heard Sam say, " You have to turn the card around." We were walking to the grocery store when she decided that she wanted to buy a tanning package. So, naturally, I had to accompany her. I think she planned it. I think the look on people's faces when an African-American man walks into a tanning place amuses her. I let her have her fun.

Anyway, I snapped out of my reverie in time to see Sam hand over a credit card to a Goth wookie. The wookie swiped the card and said, "Your card's been declined." Given that Sam is obsessive about paying off credit cards each month, I knew there was some sort of mistake. Seriously, she's obsessive.

A look of amusement passed over Sam's face before she said, "You have to turn the card the other way."

"No, I said the card's declined," said the wookie. I took a couple steps back. This was not going to work out well for the wookie, and she didn't see it yet. I find amusement in other people's stupidity.

"Oh, I heard you. Did you hear me?" Sam said in a tone that belied the impending verbal ass kicking.

"Look, ma'am," wookie started. Sam snatched the card from the wookie, turned it the correct way and ran it through the scanner. And lo and behold, it worked.

"Oh, I guess it's working now," wookie stammered sheepishly. I shook my head in wonderment. It's hard to convincingly pretend to be that stupid. Yet, here was the wookie. Maybe she wasn't pretending. I wondered if her parents had any children that lived.

"Is the owner here," Sam asked. Don't look now, wookie. But here comes your long overdue ass kicking.

"Oh, she doesn't work until tomorrow, but we're all good here now," said the wookie.

"Oh, we're a long way from all good. Cancel the transaction," Sam ordered.

"Wh, what?" The wookie stammered.

"You heard me."

"I can give you a discount. It's okay."

"I'm going to decide what's okay. Cancel it."

"What's wrong with the discount?"

"I'm coming back tomorrow, and I bet your boss gives me a much larger discount. I'm also willing to bet she's going to lighten the payroll just a bit, too." And the wookie is down and out for the count!

The wookie cancelled the transaction. I thought for a second the wookie was going to cry. I silently begged her not to cry. If she cried, I didn't think I could contain my laughter. I wasn't sure I wanted to contain it.

Sam returned the card to her purse, turned to me, rolled her eyes and said, "Did this just happen?" I burst into laughter as we walked out.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Pleasantly Hungover

Practicing zazen is a difficult task, with the remnants of the night before roaming through your body. So after about 20 minutes, I gave up and headed to the shower. Slightly amused, I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Red rivers running capriciously through the whites of my eyes? Check. Dehydrated lips? Check. A tongue resembling mohair? Check. "I'm the withered victim of my appetites," I chuckled to myself. Sam entered the bathroom. Looked at me quizzically and asked, "What're you smirking about?" I shrugged, laughed and said, "I just crack myself up sometimes." After shaking her toussled hair and sitting down to relieve herself, "They have drugs for that, you know." As I began running a shower I said, "May cause anal leakage and erectile dysfunction." I moved my stale, dirty body underneath the warm shower stream. "Take this, smartass," Sam laughed as she flushed the toilet. I'm pretty sure I need a skin graft.

Friday, September 01, 2006

I Shouldn't But....

Time for a refill or 14. What's a wedding without a hangover. I'm just trying to do my part.

Made It

Seven bladder filling hours later.

My Eyeballs Are Floating

Six beers later. Golly gee,I wonder how I ended up here?

You Are Nowhere

I was so thirsty I could've spit dust, and the tank was half full. So we stopped for beer and gas.

Enthusiasm Curbed

Today I have the profound pleasure of driving 540 miles. And to what do I owe this pleasure? Another of Sam's cousins is promising to love another for all eternity. It should be a gala occasion.