Cars of a Bygone Era

As I was driving home and mindlessly fiddling with MP3 player, texting on my cell phone, eating a foot long sandwich and making an obscene gesture at a lovely elderly woman who apparently had forgotten that her car was equipped with a blinker and was evidently unaware that in the not to distant past America instituted something called the lane system, wherein each driver has a designated horizontal space in which to maneuver their vehicle, I observed in front of me a great classic vehicle from my childhood. The driver in front of me had somehow got his hands on an automobile believed by most, including yours truly, to be extinct:

The Pea Green Station Wagon With Wood Panel Sides

The greatest thing that came to my memory about this specific car was that on some of the models the third row of seats (which was actually the back side of the second row if my memory serves me correctly) actually faced out the back of the car, affording the passengers an unparalleled view through the large picture window. Even with the view being an excellent attribute to this seating position, the back seat was the least coveted position imaginable. When I was a child, this was the punishment seat for unruly, disgruntled children to which my sibling and I were banished to by our heartless parents. Our car actually had lap belts in those seats, and we were ordered to stay in them, lest we would discover the torture that would befall us if our father “had to pull this car over”. When my sibling and I would argue, or incessantly ask if we were there yet, my parents had the option of placing us in the back seat, thereby creating the greatest possible physical distance between us and them. By making us remain in our lap belts, it was difficult to turn around, which afforded them the pleasure of not having to see our tortured, little faces that were distorted from several minutes of crying, and rather they could pretend everything was fine by only having to see the mundane backs of our heads in the review mirror. Given that we had to face away from the front seat dignitaries, coupled with loud music and the fact that we were seated as far as possible from our parental units, we were subjected to an acoustical nightmare which rendered our constant pleas for food, water and bathroom breaks mute (let’s at least go along with the pretense that they could not hear us, and that they weren’t secretly just ignoring us). The more I thought about that heinous back seat, the more I cringed inside, and desperately wanted to reminisce about a more pleasant car from my childhood. The funny thing is that the only cars that would come to the forefront of my mind were cars that, in today’s world, would be considered gross safety hazards on wheels.

The Datsun 240Z

This little death trap belonged to my mother around the time I was probably six or seven years old. These were the grand times of lax safety laws which entitled an adult to not only endanger their own safety by not wearing safety belts, but also the liberty to play vehicular Russian Roulette with their children as well. I have no other explanation for my mother’s lack of regard for the safety of her two sons other than somewhere she must have read an ad, or possibly the owner’s manual, that recommended that the small hatchback portion of the car could be used for a small suitcase, a bag of golf clubs, or possibly two juvenile males. Day after day on the way to school I sat in that match-box sized space closer in proximity than one brother should be to another, in all actuality never probably realizing the possibility that all it would take would be for some other driver, in a car only slightly bigger than ours, to lose focus and come careening into our fragile cocoon, causing my brother and I to be the first documented case of accident-induced Siamese Twinism. But yet, here I am unscathed after all those dangerous rides. I guess mother’s do know best.

 

Big Ol’ Pickup Truck

During the spring and summertime I played baseball in the few years approaching my tenth birthday. After getting our free watered down soda from the marginally sanitary snack shack after the game, I remember jumping, without a care in the world, into the bed of my dad’s unshelled truck. Like the 240Z, there were no seat belts in the back of the truck, and no pesky laws at the time requiring them. Seat belts were reserved for the first-class passengers in the cab of the truck. I recall engaging in a little maneuver I liked to call the Actuary’s Nightmare (OK, so maybe it was not called that then. I did not even know what an actuary was until I was like 25). As if riding in the bed of the truck was not dangerous enough in itself, I exponentially increased the risk factor by sitting on the wheel well placing my center of gravity precariously higher than the side of the truck while sticking my head over the side and looking down at the menacing road which loomed only a few feet away as we motored down the road at 40-50 miles per hour. Not only did sitting on the wheel well place me higher, therefore becoming more susceptible to being plastered in the face by 100 mile an hour mosquito missiles and flying pebble projectiles launched by the wheels of cars in front of us, I was also stupidly subjecting myself to the possibility of being thrown out of the truck due to a sudden swerve or unforeseen pothole, which would have scraped off my joy-filled, youthful face, and left in its place a countenance most closely resembling uncooked hamburger with little rocks and pebbles imbedded in it.
I am simply thankful that despite the repeated ill-advised flaunting of my bravado in the face of certain danger in the bed of the truck, and the hazard-laden rides in the cramped back seat of the 240Z, nary an injury did I suffer during my adventures in the cars of my childhood.

Light Me Up!

A couple of weeks ago I decided to engage in a little winter time grilling. I had not had BBQ chicken for quite sometime, and decided that my taste bud’s urge for this particular fowl would be satiated on this evening. I happily hummed to myself as I retrieved the charcoal from my closet, and poured it into the grill’s awaiting pit. I stacked the briquettes as instructed into a small pyramid (although I have tried many a time, unsuccessfully, to recreate a 1:132 scale replica of the Taj Mahal out of charcoal lumps. I would be eternally indebted to anyone who has had success with such a venture and is able to send me a complete set of schematic drawings). I then attempted to light the charcoal, but they refused to ignite. I even attempted to place some paper underneath the charcoal to get it going, but to no avail. I eventually had to admit defeat, and resorted to cooking the chicken in the oven.

After eating my dried-out oven-baked yard bird, and feeling quite disgruntled about not being able to use my grill, I pondered the idea of authoring a scathing correspondence to the maker of this disappointing product. I then thought better of this, and decided that the optimum results would be obtained by using the transparent management technique they teach at every single supervisor/manager training: Start with a positive, follow up with a concern. “Gee Bob, thanks for coming in today. So, I really like how you sharpen your pencils in such an efficient manner, however you are not allowed to randomly punch transients while wearing your work uniform. Your being demoted. Have a good weekend.” I adapted this technique to my letter by raving about the all the positive aspects of the product and my past successful experiences with their brand of charcoal. I then followed up my compliments by deftly deflecting all the excuses they would potentially give as to why the product may no longer be working as intended. The product was only approximately six months all old, I had kept the product out of inclement weather (specifically rain) and had kept the package tightly closed as instructed (by the way, all of this was true. I was not attempting in any way to defraud this company, and believed I truly had a defective product). I then explained the problems I was experiencing, and thanked the company for considering my letter. I did not ask for reimbursement for the product, although I would be lying if I was not secretly hoping for some type of monetary compensation, along with a personal letter of apology from the president of the company and the firing of all line staff involved in the production of my specific bag of inferior charcoal nuggets.

Today, I went to the mailbox, and was ecstatic to find therein an envelope from the charcoal maker. I eagerly opened the envelope and out fell a coupon for a gratis bag of charcoal. I thought to myself how awesome it was that there were still companies out there that put customers first and cared about making a quality product. My joyful revelation quickly turned first to confusion over the absurdity of a portion of their response letter, followed soon after by the emotionally devastating pain most commonly endured by a jilted lover. An excerpt of the letter reads as follows: “We’re sorry to hear about your recent issue with the charcoal not lighting. Please be assured that this is very unusual and we would not expect this to occur. We are happy to enclose a coupon for reimbursement.” OK, I have two comments. 1) Do you really have to say you would not expect your product to be defective? Are other companies actually sending out responses to complaint letters that say things like “Your letter means a lot to our company. We purposefully do not securely attach the heads to our hammers in the hopes that they will break loose mid-swing and fly into the unprotected foreheads of unsuspecting handymen like you described in your letter. Mission accomplished!” or “Thank you for using our condoms. They failed as we had planned. Congratulations on your impending bundle of joy.” 2) The second comment that “this is very unusual” implies that I must be lying, but they aren’t going to come right out and say that. The translation of the second and third sentences is quite clear: “We don’t believe a damn word you are saying, and full well know that you are just claiming to have had a problem with your perfectly adequate charcoal in the hopes you will get a coupon for a free bag of charcoal. Well, here is your free coupon. We hope you choke on your next grilled meal, and will be maniacally laughing at your funeral.” I can just see it now. This company has probably made a folder with my name on it, along with my alleged fraudulent complaint inside, and a descriptor stamped in large red lettering on the outside “Suspect Complainer”. Now I know how Hester Prynne felt.

Questionable (At Best) Signage

I realized last evening that despite my intent to continue to procrastinate, and believe I had all the time in the world to complete my yuletide tasks, Christmas was beginning to bare down on me like a gluttonous buffeteer salivating over a new hot pan of fried chicken at Sizzler, and there was no stopping it. So I headed out with the masses last night to try and finish up the majority of my Christmas shopping. During my travels around town, I witnessed some very interesting signage here and there.

The first occurred while I was shopping in an unnamed large discount store. I came across a sign in front of some batteries. The price displayed was not exceptionally low and was of no significant consequence, except the way in which the price was displayed for multiple items: Battery 4-packs: $3.99, 2 for $7.98, 3 for $11.97, 4 for $15.96. Many stores will offer you a discount for buying multiple items, which is pretty kindly of them, and I figured this merchandiser was doing so as well. My nerd math brain then kicked in and thought wait a gall darn minute. That is no discount at all. These sneaky grinches had perverted the time honored tradition of buy more, save more, and simply listed the prices for buying up to four packages, all at $3.99 per piece. I tried to make sense of the sign, and came to the conclusion that either the company was just trying to bamboozle the public, or the producer of this joyfully holiday embroidered piece of paper had taken a class in asinine sign making. Maybe there was a limit of four per person, and they simply wanted to let you know how much they were if you bought four. I scanned the sign, and nope, no such limit. I then began to become disappointed in my heart of hearts as I needed six packages, and they had totally neglected my needs by stopping at four. How ever would I figure out how much my purchase total would be? If only there was some type of machine located near the exit where you would take all your purchases, they would add the total for you, and a disgruntled, underpaid cashier would tell you how much you owed in an incomprehensible mumble. Dare to dream I guess. Here’s a holiday tip for the management: Unless you are offering some type of multiple purchase deal, quit wasting ink on this type of sign, and then upping your prices to the consumer due to all your excessive ink usage.

After leaving this establishment I headed down a major street and passed by an unbelievable banner outside of a local Mexican food restaurant, whose business sign read “authentic Mexican food“. I really expected to see the typical signage saying “Try Our Great Fajitas” or “$1.99 Margaritas from 5-7”, but instead my eyes focused on a huge red and white banner that said, “Special: Cheeseburger, Fries and Soda, $5.99”. Does anything signify complete loss of confidence in your “specialty” product more than advertising a completely unrelated product? The only way this restaurant could have outdone this not-so-subtle implication that its food is nothing more than culinary fecal matter on a Goodwill plate, is to put on its sign “We Have Clean Restrooms!”

A few minutes later I arrived at my final destination: a poorly lit, customer barren mall on the other side of town fraught with no-name shops and vacant store fronts. As I walked in the front door, I noticed yet another new business that is so common in this revolving door of failed business ventures thinly disguised as a mall. The general idea actually was quite clever. The establishment was called Evening Dental, and advertised providing dental services to customers in the evening/night-time hours that are unable to make it to the dentist during traditional daytime hours. As I began to mentally applaud the genius that came up with this idea, my applause turned to a gargantuan two thumbs down as I noted the business’ logo, written in dramatic Old English Lettering, “ED”. Sure, I get it. Evening Dental. ED. But when an acronym is so famous for something, particularly of a less desirable nature, it is probably not a good idea to use it, lest you be the subject of ridicule in someone’s personal blog. You don’t see Personal Messenger Service or the Frankfurt University of Culinary Knowledge using their acronyms, do you? The only thing that would have made this any more classic would have been for the window to have had an Oedipal-level dramatically ironic motto such as “Evening Dental: We’re Up All Night Long.” In this time of stressful shopping, at least sign makers are keeping me entertained and providing me a little holiday cheer.

Cast of Characters: A Christmas Program Story

Tonight was the night for my 6-year old son’s Christmas Program at his after school program. The attendance at the child’s Christmas Program is something that our grandparent’s did, our parent’s did, we continue to do, and generations of the future will do as well. Going hand in hand with the Christmas Program is every parent’s obligation to capture this moment for posterity via video camera (and the child’s unavoidable eventual embarrassment when the video is shown to the first girlfriend/boyfriend to visit the family home). As the show started, I firmly pressed the record button and panned the entire cast of the show. As I moved back and forth over these tiny performers with my camera, I observed through the viewfinder a cast of familiar characters that I can only assume has been present at every single Christmas Program since the dawn of time.

I first observed the Nose Picker. This kid was too busy searching the recesses of his nasal cavity to participate in any meaningful way in the performance. And this particular child was no amateur digital spelunker. This little guy was engaged in some serious and aggressive two-knuckle deep coagulated mucus mining.

My lens meandered to the outside edge of the ensemble and came into contact with the Space Cadet. This kid had absolutely no clue what was going on around him, and was staring at the side wall of the auditorium with a hydroponically cultivated marijuana two-joint gaze. He made none of the expertly choreographed hand motions that accompanied the songs, nor did he appear to know the words to any of the numerous songs. There were times during the program he moved his mouth, but I was unable to distinguish if he was making a futile effort to actually sing some of the songs, or if he was just mumbling incoherently to himself. I could just imagine that this would be the child that would suffer, in the coming spring, a minor concussion caused by a plummeting white stitched missile that beaned him in his half-empty melon while he was watching two ladybugs chew on a leaf rather than playing an attentive right-field on his t-ball team like he was supposed to. I began to experience true sorrow in my heart for this young child as I flashed forward in my mind to his future high school photo that would most certainly have the caption directly below his empty expression “Most Likely to be Livin’ in Oblivion” (please see my previous post by clicking here to see the characteristics of these tortured souls).

I could no longer allow that child’s ill-fated existence to dampen my holiday spirits, and quickly moved the camera only to find an even sadder sight than the Space Cadet: the Drama King/Queen. We all know this child. The poor child has been groomed since before birth to fulfill the failed dreams of a parent that continues to feverishly search for a way to capture at least a sliver of glory by living vicariously through their child in a desperate attempt to escape their current existence that is mired in mediocrity. It started with intrauterine cameras being inserted to capture the perfect fetal photograph to submit for Most Beautiful Zygote, then onto Best Looking Baby in the local newspaper, and several tiring months traveling to toddler talent and beauty pageants around the state. Years of beatings with a spiked stick have resulted in a child that never misses a dance step, maintains perfect posture even while sleeping and has perfected that façade of happiness the parent calls a smile. I easily spotted this child tonight as she maneuvered herself to the middle of the stage even though the show directors had placed her towards the edge of the stage. The child also sang the loudest and had the most demonstrative hand motions of the group, sometimes going so far as to improvise her own hand motions when the other children were following the stage directions as rehearsed. This blatant attempt at one-upping everyone on the stage made me want to punch the little snot in the throat, but I quickly realized that my anger was misguided and my flying-fist-o-fury should be directed at the idiot parent in the back of the room putting her fingers at the edge of her mouth encouraging the child to smile so wide the corners of her mouth touched her ears. As I completed a final pan of the singers with my camera, I smiled to myself as I realized that the remainder of the children appeared to be like my son: putting forth at least a decent effort, knowing some of the words, doing some of the hand motions, and constantly eyeing the back of the room where tables were holding cookies that had been promised to them by their parents if they would just “try their best”. Tis the season!

Does This Tattoo Accentuate My Nerdiness?

A year or so ago, I gave quasi-serious thought to getting a tattoo. At the time I was 33, and as nerdy as ever. A few of the females that I supervised at work at the time consistently, and without the slightest hint of faltering in their advice, consistently discouraged me from adorning myself with “The Devil’s Ink”. OK, so they didn’t use those exact words, and actually were not opposed to tattoos to my knowledge, however dissuaded me from getting one by gently and lovingly stating “you’re not a tattoo guy”. I acknowledge that tattoos on males typically express some level of Barney Badassness, and I would be described by most as a Gary Good Guy. I realized that they were right, and never did get a tattoo, but did not know until today how thankful I should be to those wonderful women who gave me such sage-like advice.

I was in the checkout line at a local convenience store, and when it came my turn to pay, I came face-to-face with a 45 year-old gentleman that bore a striking resemblance to Ward Cleaver,. This cashier could not have been more straight-laced, and even had the argyle cardigan sweater, neatly pressed slacks and penny loafers to prove it. As he was ringing up my purchase and I was dwelling on why an individual who was working at a convenience store would be so immaculately dressed, I noticed a miniscule shimmer coming from the left side of his head. Hello? What was that? A closer look, and with what would immediately evolve into a much too obvious disbelieving stare with my mouth agape, revealed a small diamond stud earring in Joe Cool’s dangling lobe. OK, sir, this is totally not you, and it is not 1985. Even if this guy fancied himself a modern day John Bender of Breakfast Club, there was no Claire Standish in sight, and this was just plain wrong, if not downright creepy.

During my drive home, while trying to shake the all-consuming image in my head of Mr. Rogers meets George Michaels (pre-moment of indiscretion in a public bathroom), I had another experience of “Square Peg Round Hole” when I witnessed a female, who had to be pushing sixty-five, wearing her saucy little sweat pants with the can’t-be-missed “JUICY” lettering across her ample derriere. The size of this lady’s backside was not the issue, but it just didn’t seem write for someone to be wearing their granddaughter’s clothes. When I see someone of an age that might be wearing depends, it is ironic, and more disturbing than anything I can presently conjure in my head, that they would chose to wear clothing with the word “juicy” on it. It was at that moment that I had an epiphany about the brilliance of the female council at work, and just how right they had been about certain things just not “fitting” some people. Thank you so much to those ladies, you know who you are.

Livin’ in Oblivion or Common Discourtesy? You Make the Call

On my way home this evening, I had several experiences that made me realize the increasing number of people who are either living in something akin to a heroin fueled trip in which they are oblivious to everything and everyone around them and are unable to focus on anything but themselves and their actions, or, in the alternative, these individuals are completely aware of others, and are so egotistical that the well being of others is squashed underfoot like an annoying bug that they have not even a pittance of feeling for. I left work and traveled through the adjacent hospital parking lot which I do night after night. As I entered the thoroughfare of the hospital parking lot, I found myself traveling behind someone who would be going backwards if they were traveling any slower. As I felt my anger build over having to drive behind this person at this abnormally slow pace, and being unable to pass, I became exponentially infuriated when they came to a complete stop, and just sat in the middle of the road. The people had what appeared to be a fully functional review mirror and side view mirrors, so I know darn well they were able to see me. But did they move for five, then ten, then twenty agonizing seconds? Absolutely not. Is it really that hard to realize that hey, you are not the only driver on the road? This is not that bizarre Twilight Zone episode where everyone has disappeared from the face of the earth. Just admit that you don’t know where the hell you are going, move over to the side or find a parking place and discuss with your equally oblivious traveling companion the complexities of the hospital parking lot, and let the rest of us get home before it is time to turn around and come back to work. The car’s driver finally came to a conclusion as to how to most effectively get to their desired destination and let me pass.

I then had to stop for some groceries, and was again perturbed by the irreverent behavior of a fellow shopper. I was having a very successful and pleasant shopping trip, had selected whatever it was I needed on the aisle and made my way to the end of the aisle to continue with my positive shopping mojo. I ran into a veritable shopping roadblock when another purchaser of consumer products stopped their shopping cart right in the middle of the end of the aisle, preventing my passage on either side. They then began to pick up their selection from the opposite side of the aisle. Instead of bringing to their attention that they were blocking me in, I chose to pretend I was in deep contemplation about whether to purchase creamed or whole kernel corn that was stacked on the other side of the aisle, figuring they would quickly make their selection and then move along allowing me to continue on my way. The guy then looked right at me thereby providing irrefutable evidence that he was aware of my existence, and then without experiencing the smallest morsel of remorse, he had the audacity to leave his cart in its inconvenient placement and walked down the aisle some 20 yards away from his cart and picked up other items. I immediately began to wish upon a star that my shopping cart had destructive blades sticking out of its side like an ancient Roman chariot, with which I could run down the side of my enemies cart, thereby eviscerating his inconveniently-placed buggy and spilling its precious cargo to the floor. But instead, I waited for the butthead to come back to his cart, move it out of the way, and then nod gratefully to him all the while casting a hex upon him that the avocado in his cart was overripe and was as dark inside as his heart.

After picking up the rest of my purchases, and successfully making it through the checkout line without experiencing any further major annoyances, I headed to my car. As soon as I approached my car, two young individuals in their early twenties sauntered over to me and the older one of the two, in full view of his loyal sidekick, asked for some spare change to buy something to smoke/snort/inject…err, I mean eat. I reached into my pocket and handed him all the change I had on my person, which was a grand total of approximately seventy-five cents. They then moved onto a gentlemen parked diagonally from me, and began solicitation him for donations. As soon as I had finished putting my purchases in my trunk, the young man who had not asked me for money came over to me and asked if I had any spare change. Hello? Were you not standing right here a second ago when your friend asked me for money, and I gave him what I had? Oh yeah, sure, I have change left young man. I purposefully gave your friend everything I had but held one nickel in reserve in case you were to come back and ask me for change. You know, if you paid as much attention in school as you have demonstrated this evening, I can totally understand why you are out here begging for money. I then told him I had just given his friend all the money I had in a tone of voice that implied compassion for his obviously diminished mental capacity and yet at the same time expressed my inward feelings of “pay attention to what is going on stupid!” I then got in my car and for a split second exacted my mental revenge by fantasizing about driving on a one lane road going five miles an hour in a 55 mile an hour zone in front of the individuals I had encountered this evening, reveling in the cacophony of honking horns and the flying expletives of the drivers behind me whose lips were covered with the spittle of their fury. Maybe someday.

Oh Mickey, You’re So Fine!

I must preface this blog by stating that it concerns the exploits of my six-year old son, “T”, and I at Disneyland Resort in Southern California. If you have not visited this amusement park, many of the references will most likely be lost on you. If you have visited California’s Magical Kingdom, then by all means read on my friend, read on.

“T” and I traveled to Disneyland from our hometown after he got out of school on a Friday afternoon. I truly fancy myself a modern day Clark Griswold of the Vacation movies franchise, and definitely believe in conducting my vacations/trips with the goal of experiencing maximum fun time. We left on a Friday afternoon so that we could stay the night, and get to the park as soon as they opened, which did occur as planned. When one arrives at Disneyland when they first open, the optimum strategy is to make your way to attractions that traditionally have the longest lines, and therefore you are able to get on these rides with minimum wait time before the parks population inevitably balloons to what I can only describe as a mass of stampeding humanity. Given that this trip focused on wanting “T” to have fun, I defered to him and allowed him to select the first ride. “Maximum fun time” approach was immediately scattered to the wind when he answered unequivocally “The monorail”. My well thought out arguments as to why the monorail is an illogical first ride choice coupled with pleas of desperation not to subject me to such an act of pure cruelty fell on the deaf ears of a six year-old child, and so the monorail it was to be. In all the years I have been visiting Disneyland, I never knew that you could ride in the very front of the monorail where the engineer/drivers sits. Heck, I never even knew there was a driver/engineer, and just figured the whole thing was run by the guy on the platform or maybe even at master control in the secret deep, dark recesses of the park, where unnatural acts take place including, but not limited to, the maintenance of the cryogenically frozen body of Walt Disney, the planning of how to sell even more products at exorbitant prices and perhaps the most depraved thing of all, the repeated torturing of unruly patrons who decide to rip off the plush masked heads of the beloved Disney characters walking throughout the park, those who won’t keep their damn heads and arms inside the rides or the worst offenders of all: those who use flash photography inside the Pirates of the Caribbean. Thanks to Disneyland employee of the year, Bill Mindyourowndangbusiness (I swear that was his last name), we were informed of our option to ride up front, which would end up being a pain in the butt for me as the trip went on. You see, there would be 4 ½ more trips on the monorail (no, I did not jump out of the car mid-trip because I could not take the ride anymore…we just went only half way around one time), during which one there would be tears in “T’s” eyes because he could not sit up front, and yet another ride during which we would wait for two different monorails so that we could ride up front. When we weren’t wasting our $70 park tickets riding a glorified train on stilts, we spent the majority of our day traversing the park in the most inefficient manner possible. The smart person would ride all the attractions in one land, and then move onto a new land. But not us. The “maximum amount of fun time” approach had been displaced with complete attraction visiting bedlam as we sporadically walked from one side of the park to the other, over to California Adventure and back again, in a pattern that made as much sense as flying from Los Angeles to Las Vegas with a layover in New York.

After a long day in the park, we decided to eat dinner outside of Disneyland, and I discovered that inside the park was not the only place to get financially raped for a meal. “T” had decided he wanted breakfast for dinner, so we decided to visit a familiar casual dining restuarant. I perused the menu, and thought some artery-clogging fried delicacies would hit the spot. Mozzarella sticks. Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Let’s see, five cheese sticks, $11.99. I literally had to do a quadruple take to make sure I had read this right. Now I understand that there is a cost of living difference between my hometown and Los Angeles, but this was a good five dollars more than our town charges for the exact same crappy mozzarella sticks (notice how those once deliciously-perceived golden fried sticks of heaven had become barely tolerable nuggets of grease due to a simple change in price). The thing that irks me is I know they must buy from the same distributor for all their restaurants (or at least the same one in a given region, and I live only 120 miles away from Los Angeles), so I am fairly confident the cost of the item to the restuarant is the same in both towns. I am sure they probably pay the poor overworked servers minimum wage in both towns, so you really only have the cooks, janitorial staff and the managers who may make more in LA, so I really doubt they need to practically charge double for their mediocre food to make up the difference. I contemplated asking the server why the steep price differential, but decided to forego that line of questioning after I played out the following potential conversation in my mind, “So, I notice the cheese sticks are 12 bucks?” “Yes sir, they are, but keep in mind you get nearly half a dozen cheese sticks for that price, plus they come with your choice of dipping sauce.” “Thanks for the math lesson and letting me know that five is almost six. And I actually get my choice of dipping sauce? Oh, be still my beating heart! Uh yeah, that’s great, but why do they cost so much? Do you use some type of fancy French cheese or something?” “No, sir, regular American cheese.” “Well, for the love of goodness sake, at least tell me you use Wisconsin cheese, and the high cost of this culinary delight is due to having to pay for the cost of the cheese to make the trek half way across the United States.” “Uh no, sir. We use the finest local government cheese that belongs to our grossly underpaid janitorial staff, and we simply extort it from them by threatening to fire them. Your cheese stick is then lovingly dipped in the discarded grease that we steal from the ten gallon drums outside the neighboring restaurant’s back door.” “Okie dokie then. I will just have the overpriced ham and egg melt instead.” The only thing that made the bill semi-tolerable was the fact that the my son’s meal was free, therefore deleting eight dollars from the tab for his giant pancake that had three miniscule cherries, four bruised banana slices and some yogurt.

After spending a pleasant evening in our hotel room away from the hubbub of the park , we arose early the next morning to once again be at the park at the time of it’s opening. The majority of the morning was spent actually visiting other attractions other than the monorail, and the day passed relatively uneventful until right before we left. We had decided to go for one last jaunt around the circumference of the park on the Disneyland Railroad train. At that time, we encountered the most hated of all the Disneyland patrons: the Disneyland Know-it-All. This is the 50-something year-old guy who has visited the Magic Kingdom every six months for the last 30 years, and who has dubbed himself the Unofficial Guru of Disneyland Trivia. This guy talked to his wife loud enough for “T” and I to hear even though we were a good fifteen feet away from him, and appeared to be putting on a private show for us as we were the only other travelers in the same train car. First, he went into pointing out the most innocuous differences in the Disneyland landscape since his last visit, “Look honey, they used to park the double decker bus by the bank, and now they park it by City Hall”, and “Well, would you look at that. They have Chip signing autographs during the ten o’clock hour instead of Dale”. How the flip this guy can tell the difference between those two rabid woodland creatures is a mystery to me. As we moved along on what had quickly become an annoying journey, Mr. Entertainer started making obviously scripted jokes based on the train’s automated overhead messages that were so bad he should have been driving a boat on the Jungle Cruise. The sad thing is that after every joke, he looked at me for desperate approval that apparently he had not gotten from his parents growing up. The final pleasant experience of the day came as we were walking out of the park, and I witnessed a defenseless toddler, tears streaming down his painfully distorted face, repeatedly having his mother target his unappreciative buttocks with a loving open hand. Nothing says Happiest Place on Earth like a good ol’ fashioned public ass whooping!

Rest Area Blues

Once every three months I am required to attend a meeting for work in the Anaheim area, about three hours away from my hometown. On my way back today, I was making great time, and had somehow magically avoided the typical nightmarish afternoon Los Angeles traffic. About an hour or so outside of home, I felt the first sensations of needing to use the facilities, however I figured I could just make it the rest of the way home. Unfortunately, a large, unexpected traffic jam stopped me dead in my tracks in a part of the freeway where road congestion is extremely rare. Due to this almost twenty minute delay, I succumbed to what now had become the unique excruciating pain that only a full bladder can cause, and decided to stop at the last rest area before my hometown.

As I entered the men’s bathroom, I witnessed the evidence of past visitors disregard for others as they had chosen not to flush the urinals. The middle urinal had nice, clean water and was my receptacle of choice. I then realized that the urinal I was at was amazingly clean because the last individual had evidently decided to forego the use of the urinal all together and instead had chosen to relieve himself right on the floor resulting in the small puddle of fluid that my feet were firmly planted in (I know, my fault for not paying attention). After finishing using the restroom, I quickly washed my hands in front of the most brilliant of restroom inventions: the shiny piece of metal adorning the wall that is the substitute for a real mirror. I understand that they don’t use glass because several thousand glass mirrors were probably destroyed by unrepentant hooligans, however they might as well not use anything given the worthlessness of the metal plate. Even if these same little dirt bags had not scratched graffiti and gang signs into the “mirror” that was now before me, the clarity and reflective properties of this surface is so poor that the only thing it could be used for would be to verify if you had suffered some type of disfiguring facial injury. Attempting to get any more specific information than this regarding your personal appearance would be an exercise in futility. As I exited the restroom, I immediately went to the grass covered area, and began feverishly wiping my feet on the ground in an attempt to rid myself of the mixture of dirty bathroom floor and urine that had resulted in an odoriferous emanation coming from my person that could only aptly be described as the tell-tale scent of an incontinent derelict.

On the way home I had been almost falling asleep, and despite my disturbing experience in the bathroom that would turn any normal human beings’ stomach away from food or beverage, I found myself wanting something to eat or drink to help keep me awake on the rest of my journey. As I walked up to the vending machines, which were actually on all four sides of the building, I noticed a couple of signs directing me to a bill changer. I figured OK, the machines must not take dollar bills, so you have to get coin change. That was fine with me as I had several one dollar bills. I put a dollar bill in. Rejected. I turned it around. Denied. I flipped it over. Yet again I was turned away. I tried several different dollar bills, and much to my chagrin the machine kept a miserly hold on its sacred coinage. At this point, I began to reminisce about my younger days, and the hours I had spent watching WWF wraslin’. I had decided that the only way to teach this little nuisance a lesson was to emulate my childhood heroes and deliver a devastating flying knee. However, before I had the audacity to commit simple assault on an inanimate object, which would most certainly have caused the multiple bystanders to question my mental stability, out of the corner of my eye, I noted that the vending machines had slots which said “accepts dollar bills”. I then did the “I am too cool for school” nonchalant strut over to the vending machines as if I had not just been contemplating waylaying an unsuspecting change machine.

I walked around to the firs three sides of the building and saw the basic vending machine fare: sodas, candy,chips, ect. I then checked out the last side, and there before me, in all it’s glory, with an ethereal back glow typically reserved for angels, was the almighty Super Duper Deluxe Coffee Maker 3000. This thing had more gadgets and doodads than Batman’s utility belt. You could pick a number of different types of coffee drinks, the strength of your coffee, the amount of milk and the amount of sugar (all with selection levels from 1-3). I chose a café mocha and made my selections on the other optional attributes. However, all it took was one small taste of my brewed beverage of mediocrity to be snapped back to reality. This drink was nothing special at all, and tasted more like regular black coffee than anything else. As I realized that my drink was a complete let down , I looked again at the machine and realized that it’s celestial aura had faded away, and I noticed that the machine had graffiti on the side and cracked plexiglas on the front. I guess when you have high expectations of things you completely overlook blemishes that should be easily noticed. I trudged back to my car disappointed with my coffee and upset about my pee shoes. Next time, I shall just stop and go behind a bush.

Bank Fees: May I Have Another Please?

I came home from work today, and decided to stroll on over to the mailbox to see if there was anything good in there. To my disappointment, which occurs on a daily basis, week after week, there was no million dollar check from a mysterious benefactor that would dramatically change my hum drum existence. What I got instead was an envelope from my banking institution (which shall stay nameless) that said I had important changes to my checking account. For one brief moment, a world of delightful possibilities entered my head as to what these changes might be: a 100% match on all deposits; unlimited checking overdrafts with no fees; a lifetime supply of free checks with cute little puppy dogs, gumdrops and rainbows; access to accounts of other bank customers to “borrow” funds with no expectation of repayment. But alas, my hopes were dashed as I opened the letter and saw no mention of my dream benefits, and instead saw the dreaded words “new monthly service fee”.

I then had a startling epiphany (and definitely won’t be much of an epiphany to anyone else) that I have never received a notice of change to my credit card, banking, savings, investment, ect. account that was of a positive nature. What the heck is a service fee anyway? What does it cost for them to keep my account information in the database? Is there a workforce of IT guys who hand input every transaction I, and every other customer, make and we are paying their salaries. I understand they have to pay other employees, but I am sure my money that they chose to loan out at exorbitant rates more than covers the paychecks for the tellers. They already have so many other ridiculous fees that just a couple of them on my account per year far outweigh the paltry interest they pay on my savings account. Prior to this notice, my account had been a gratis checking account with no monthly service fee, however the bank’s Income Inventor, Fee Finagler, Bolsterer of the Bottom Line, or whatever his title was, had come up with yet another way to separate me from my already meager financial resources. The letter however did mention a number of ways to prevent the service fee and help me attain financial salvation. One was to maintain a daily balance of $1,500 or more in my checking account. How about nope. I have actual bills to pay out of my checking account so it usually does not have that much, especially on an average daily basis, however if they mean by average daily basis once every two weeks on payday then I am set. The next option was to keep $5,000 on average in all your accounts total. This one still doesn’t help me, however if I was a little more frugal maybe I would attain this, but heck, who wants to do that? Don’t we all live up to our means, spending every possible penny and not saving anything? At this point in the letter I was becoming quite anxiety-ridden because I could see I had only one more criteria I could meet to avoid this outlandish fee, and I full well knew that they save the most ludicrous criteria for last. This letter did not disappoint in that respect. The last “criteria” you could meet to avoid the $10 fee was to pay $25 in qualifying account fees (e.g. overdraft fees, excessive withdraw fees). Are you kidding me? So if I pay $25 in fees, I don’t have to pay the $10. How freakin’ kind of you. They actually have the nerve to present this as some type of option that people would chose month after month rather than pay the $10. To soften the blow of this new fee, the creative writers at the bank decided to add to the letter a number of significant things about my account that will not change. Let’s see, 1) free access to their ATM’s and branch offices. As opposed to what? Installing some sort of toll booth system where you pay just to walk in the door or use the ATM. 2) Free 24/7 telephone banking. Super duper awesome. I get access to some automated system that hasn’t been upgraded for 10 years, and costs you nothing to maintain. 3) Your account continues to be FDIC insured. OK, that is something that has been in effect for like the last century, and as far as I know no other banks have discontinued their accounts being FDIC insured, so let’s not try and make this out to be some type of novel feature that you can get at no other institution. After reading my letter, and coming to the disheartening realization I will be paying the $10 monthly fee, I began to imagine many new fees coming in the near future: 1) $5 charge for seeing a teller in person. Teller will smile and pretend like they actually care about you for an additional $3; 2) $6 monthly rope line divider maintenance fee because those things suffer some pretty serious wear and tear day in and day out; 3) account opener fee where they take 25% of your first deposit just to open your account, which is a minimum of $1000 to open (just in case you smarty smarts out there think you will just open your account with $25 to avoid a big fee); 4) and finally, the dreaded annual $25 “bend over and take it like a man” fee. Basically just an additional, extra fee because they can.

Customer Service: Back With An Apathetic Vengeance

Although the recession is allegedly over, there seems to be a new wave of customer service strategies to bolster companies profits and keep customers coming back to their establishments. My recent personal favorite is the drive-thru customer-centered greeting. Starbucks use of this procedure pre-dates the recession (and are therefore not the target of my scathing comments), but many of the major fast food juggernauts, which had never done this before to my recollection, are now asking the all important question, “How are you doing today?” prior to taking your order in the drive-thru. Well, ginormous fast food company, I will tell you how I am doing. I am quite perturbed that you are using this blatantly transparent sham and are attempting to dupe the unsuspecting public into believing that you really care about their well-being, when you have never given enough of a @#*&! about us in the past 60 years to ask how we are doing. The only thing more obvious than your most recent ploy to improve your bottom line during an economic recession is the fact that your employees, who are being forced to ask this innocuous question, care even less than you do about whether or not our cups runneth over with jubilation due to having the greatest day of our lives or if we are one crappy life event away from disemboweling ourselves. This disconcerting level of apathy was on full display tonight when I went through the drive-thru at my favorite Mexican food fast food restaurant, Paco Smell*. (*name of restaurant changed to avoid any potential claims of libel.) I pulled up to the menu and heard from the magical speaker “How are you doing today?” I responded with “I am doing…”, and before I could get a fourth word out (and mind you that fourth word was going to be the descriptor of how the all-important state of my personage was at that very moment), the inconsiderate voice on the other end of the speaker cut me off with, “Order when you are ready.” If you didn’t ask me how I was doing, that would suit me just fine, but to make the query, and then not even allow ample time for a complete response, was like a complete slap in the face. As I pulled up to the window, I wanted to ask if the blatant disregard for my personal well-being came with a free side order of some type of bodily fluid or waste product maliciously added to my food as well. The least the corporate office could do for these obviously socially inept people is to write on the cue card they read from for all customer interactions some simple stage direction: (pause for customer’s answer prior to reading line #2). The only topper to the emotionally disconnected employee is the use of the recorded voice to ask how you are doing. First, the use of the recorded voice makes it quite evident corporate America’s fat wallet CEO’s care so little about the American public that they don’t even give you a real person to talk to. Secondly, and mind you I am not mad about this…I am just getting mad on behalf of a friend, it is totally deceptive for the company to put on some girl with a sultry voice asking some lonely, unsuspecting guy how they are doing, and then after the customer, who is genuinely thrilled that someone in the world may actually care about them even a smidgen, answers and asks the celestial being on the other end of the speaker how their night is progressing, onto the speaker comes Steve, a 40 year old chain smoker to say “Order when you’re ready.” Sometimes I feel like I would be happier if the fast food restaurants, along with their stellar employees, would just be honest about how they really felt about the customers :

OK, maybe not.  How about we just skip the small talk and you give me my bean burrito like old times.

Vegas Revisited

It’s was end of the workday, and a friend and I were engaged in some chit chat killing time the day before the most gluttonous of celebrations, Thanksgiving . Somehow the conversation turned to Las Vegas (and anyone who knows me can tell you many of my conversations turn to Las Vegas as it is my favorite getaway), and I began to recount to my friend one of my most memorable trips to Sin City. It occurred several months before my impending nuptials, and represented a quasi-bachelor party, even though it was never so-named by the three other guys that accompanied me on the trip. The three guys, who I worked with at the time were “G”, “A” and “H”. The first two of the three were married, and the third had a girlfriend. In reflecting back now on this trip I suspect this Las Vegas trip was as much as an escape for them as it was supposed to be a celebration of my time-limited freedom. My coworkers had probably intended for the trip to be a weekend filled with excessive booze, raucous behavior, loose slot machines and even looser women. What I remember of the trip instead of the planned weekend of utter debauchery was the worst gambling experience of all my Vegas trips (I lost $1000, which was no paltry sum for an individual making only $8 an hour, and included several unplanned stops at the ATM for gambling budget refills. My luck was so miserable on that particular trip that if I had played Russian Roulette with a gun with only one bullet in 100 chambers, I would have assuredly had my head turned into a canoe with the first pull of the trigger.), and several comedic experiences.

I. Hittin’ Da Club

On our first night in Vegas we decided to visit a den of pulse pounding music, free-flowing, albeit high priced, alcoholic beverages and sweaty swaying bodies that is the Las Vegas Nightclub. For some inexplicable reason we had decided to go to a club that was on the opposite end of the Strip. Anyone who has gone to Las Vegas on a weekend can attest to the deplorable conditions of transportation in the city when one attempts to travel down Las Vegas Boulevard on a Friday night. After nearly an hour of stress-inducing stop and go traffic to travel approximately 2 miles, we had arrived at our destination. We sauntered up to the club and took our place in a moderate length line behind the sacred velvet rope that separates the haves from the have nots. We stood in line for approximately 30 minutes and steadily made our ascent towards “club entrant” status. When we were only a few people from the entrance, we noted a sign describing the required dress code for this establishment. We noticed we had no serious violations until we reached the line that read in ominous fashion “No Tennis Shoes”. Now wait a minute, you are telling me the nightclub, which some would argue is the epitome of questionable moral behavior, and whose unspoken motto is "drink like a fish ‘til you puke, grope random strangers and use the bathroom stalls for other than their intended purposes", has standards regarding my podiatric coverings and because I am wearing a pair of tennis shoes I am relegated to the status of degenerate social pariah? This was the most outlandish thing I had ever heard of. It should be noted that my friends and I have never performed together in any formal musical ensemble, but the chorus of harmonized expletives that flowed from our lips in utter protest to this absurd rule would have made even the most seasoned choral director proud. As two of the four of us were in violation of this rule, we had no choice but to exit the line. That evening we chose to seek other entertainment (covered in detail in the following “chapter”), but vowed to return to the nightclub the following night with appropriate footwear. We found ourselves at the same nightclub the following evening, after making the same hour long drive that we had made the night before. As we moved forward towards the entrance, we made a grisly discovery that we had not noticed the evening before. There, on the dress code sign, approximately two lines below the tennis shoe prohibition, was anothe rule we obviously had not read because we had stopped reading after realizing our tennis shoes would bar our entrance to the club, was the line: Collared Shirts Required for Men. Was this an F’in nightclub or a yacht club? We were perhaps even angrier than the night before, however my fury began to diminish as a I realized I was a non-violator as I had on a collared shirt, as did “A”. The decision was made at this point that as we had made such a diligent effort two nights in a row to go to this nightclub, we would not admit defeat, and instead “A” and I would stay at the club, while “G” and “H” went back to the hotel (yes, an hour away) to obtain appropriate shirts. So “A” and I eventually made it into the club approximately five minutes later, and eagerly awaited the return of our inappropriately attired compatriots. A little background is needed at this point regarding “H” and the conditions under which he was allowed to come on this particular adventure. “H” had a girlfriend at the time who in no way would have approved of a sin-filled trip to Las Vegas, particularly without her presence there to survey his every move. At the time, “H” was a member of the local community college’s band where he so expertly played the trumpet. “H” made his way to Vegas with us under the guise of performing with the college band out of town. To make his ruse as believable as possible to his significant other, “H” brought the tuxedo he wore during band performances, as well as his trumpet. After nearly two hours of waiting, “H” and “G” returned. It took more restraint than I thought was humanly possible to muster not to bust out laughing. “H” had brought along a collared shirt on the trip, but “G” had not, and instead of forking over a few dollars to buy one in a casino gift shop, strutting in comes “G” in “H’s” tuxedo shirt, pants and jacket as if it is the most normal thing in the world. Not only was the wearing of the tuxedo outrageous in its own right, but it became even more comical given that “G” outweighed “H’ by a good 50 pounds resulting a tuxedo whose poor infrastructure of threads, stitches, buttons and zippers were being stretched to their breaking point. “G‘s” tuxedo was so ill-fitted that he had the look of the loneliest guy in high school who, on the day of the prom, had finally convinced his second cousin to be his date to the dance and had to rent the only tuxedo left at the rental shop sans alterations. The majority of the evening was relatively uneventful, outside of yours truly watching “A” (who I remind you was married) dance dangerously close to a female at least ten years his junior, and then engaging in a passionate kiss with said young vixen. My observation of this unsavory act forced me into a moral quandary of whether or not to rat out this cad to his unknowing wife, and as our trip took place before the “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas” campaign I had no sage-like wisdom on which to rely to resolve my ethical dilemma. In the end, I never did tell Mrs. “A” about her husband’s 20-minute moment of indiscretion (you may now boo me).

II.  The Obligatory Strip Club Visit

After the first nightclub attempt was a total debacle, not to mention a complete waste of time, of course we went to a strip club. Don’t roll your eyes at me in that holier than thou way. In fact, it actually was not a strip club…it was a gentlemen’s club. It said so write on the front of the building. And I ask you what is more gentlemanly than objectifying a woman that is gyrating around a pole while you stick dirty dollar bills in small patches of material that cover her nether regions? Many of you will not believe this, but the idea for the strip club was being pushed exclusively by the other three guys. I definitely enjoy the curvaceous outline of the female form, but when given the choice, the casino wins hands down in the competition for my bankroll. Sure, those horrendous displays of gaudiness they call mega resorts were not built on winners, and more often than not you leave Las Vegas with a dejected look on your face like someone just kicked your dog, but at least there is a chance of winning. With those twisted temptresses of the gentlemen’s club , no matter how much money you put in you know there is not going to be any type of “payoff”. We ended up going to a well-known venue for our male bonding excursion. The upside was that we got in free, but of course upon entering we sat down and purchased our required over-priced, watered-down drinks made with shoddy liquor. At least the establishment could maintain some level of integrity and honesty (as much as is possible for a house of lap grinding) and put straight forward signage on the marquee that reads: “ Free admission with the purchase of two $15 dollar drinks made with one part Alberston’s brand vodka and four parts dirty tap water.” After watching a couple of dancers, I began to wander around the place wondering if all they had was half-naked women, or if they had something else fun like, you know it, video poker machines. I found some machines at the bar, and slid in a $20 bill. I then began the left, middle, right gazing that one is accustomed to seeing at a professional tennis match , but instead of watching two competitive gladiators on Center Court at Wimbledon, my watchful eye shifted from my group of friends (who I just knew at some point were going to pull the old take off and leave me there prank otherwise known as the “we thought you were right behind us”), to my video poker game that was greedily wrestling away my $20 from me fifty cents at a time with absolutely no mercy, and finally on to the crowd of money hungry “performing artists” that were willing to nuzzle up with even the slimiest, perviest, most unfortunate looking guys if the price was right who I wanted absolutely no part of. As the last of my $20 was eaten by the video poker machine, and I began to think I would have been better off buying another $15 dirty water vodka tonic, I noticed “G” going towards a back room with one of the dancers for a private showing. Time passed slowly at this point as I was quite ready to leave, and I figured after our friend got his private dance we could move along with our evening. However, ten minutes passed, then another, and another. I was now beginning to worry that “G” has crossed the sacred stripper line, had touched the girl in some inappropriate way the bouncer did not take kindly to, and was lying in the back alley pummeled to the ground in a heap with a large gash in the side of his head. After what I estimated to be approximately 40-45, our friend proudly strutted from the back room, and we made our way out. As we made our way back to our hotel, past the saddened face of an obvious underage young man who was pouring out a case of beer, one beer at a time, as a police officer watched on, “G” regaled “A” and “H” with his tawdry tale of titillating temptation. I ignored the story for the most part, however did overhear “G” telling how the exclusive “VIP room” as he called it, did not have a chair for his purchased pleasure performance, but rather had a bed on which he lay while Vixen, Sierra, Diamond, Bubbles or whatever her name was, writhed all over his body. My only thought was of the numerous microscopic creatures on the unwashed bed linens that were probably dancing along with the beat of the DJ’s chosen music. “G” at least had some restraint, and did not make up some exaggerated manly chest-pounding story about how the poor dancer was at the mercy of his powerful testosterone laden body and absolutely ravaged him, breaking the most sacred of taboos in stripper world, “thou shalt not bang the customer.” “G” informed us that all clothing stayed in place, and that it was basically a recumbent lap dance. What came next almost made me speechless. “G” revealed that his 45 minutes of heaven (not sure if he was referring to his state of bliss during the performance or if maybe that was her name) had cost him $250 dollars in dance fees. I am not saying that I support prostitution, but holy heck’n fire, we could have driven to the neighboring county and visited a house of ill repute for only a little more money. “G’s” willingness to drop this kind of money for the kind of service he received was tantamount to buying a $10 Snicker’s bar, tearing off the wrapper, rubbing it on your face a little and then throwing it in the trash without taking a bite. Of course, in my mind, I just saw 25, $10 bets on the blackjack table that had just been thrown away . A true tragedy. To each his own I guess.


III.  Nighttime Injuries and Sunrise Revelations

You know that surreal feeling you have after an excessive amount of alcohol consumption, and despite having been asleep for several hours, you wake up and are still drunk, resulting in immediately devolving into extreme panic mode believing you have done serious brain damage and caused a permanent state of inebriation ? Well, I had that exact feeling as I awoke at approximately 4 a.m. after our evening at the nightclub. Needing to utilize the facilities, I stumbled from the bed towards the bathroom in a drunken stupor , and only took a few steps before kicking the edge of the bed resulting in me losing my balance and slamming my knee into the ground causing a relatively minor, although very painful, abrasion to my knee. (It was not until several years later that I had the revolutionary idea that would have saved me from an unnecessary injury. What is this amazing invention you ask? I present to you Bed Floor: the ultimate in hotel patron safety. I am sure there are many of you out there who have been traveling out of town, consumed one too many Mai Tai’s/ Cosmopolitans/Martinis/Alabama Slammers/Heinekens/shots of rubbing alcohol for those in a desperate position, and having returned to your hotel room in a deteriorated state, lost your balance taking a full force face plant into the carpet resulting in a giant rug burn on your forehead leading to your traveling companions referring to you as Mikhail Gorbachev for the duration of your trip. Bed Floor is a complete renovation of traditional hotel room decoration, and involves the removal of all existing furniture of the hotel room that could possibly lead to injury and the placement of a giant mattress in the room that covers the entire pre-existing floor reducing the likelihood of injury from a fall by nearly 100%. I understand that this idea has barriers, mainly the issue that walking on a mattress can be very difficult requiring serious balance and concentration for even a sober individual, thereby making it almost impossible to stand for an intoxicated person. Rest assured that members of our research and development team are engineering a mattress that is firm enough to balance and walk normally upon, and using a combination of back-up car crash sensor and Sleep Number bed technology, can sense an individual losing their balance and their body moving at a high rate of speed towards impact resulting in the mattress instantaneously becoming as soft as a mother’s bosom to cushion and cradle an individual’s falling body. Investment opportunities for Bed Floor are still available. Interested venture capitalists can submit their investment amounts and bank account information at www.bed floor.com) After a relatively satisfying night of sleep, minus the knee injury, I awoke and began to discover some of the crazy behavior that alcohol can cause. On the table in the room sat a potted plant that I now remembered “G” stealing from the decorative table which sat outside the bank of elevators. As I further began to regain my faculties I noticed that the television was on at a somewhat high volume, and had apparently been left on throughout the night as the other members of the traveling party were fast asleep. I feverishly searched for the remote control to silence the television, and after nearly a minute of searching, I found the remote submerged in a pool of melted ice in a half full ice bucket. Needless to say, the remote had lost its functioning capability, and I was required to turn off the televising manually, which I had not been forced to do since approximately 1986 when I was ten years old and had one of the classic old school televisions with the dial that was used to change the channel and a knob to control the power. Just great, a charge to my credit card for a broken television remote (which actually never ended up happening thank goodness). Throughout the next hour, the sleeping beauties that shared the room with me began to wake up, one by one, and we packed up our belongings for the long ride home. At that point, I noticed in the entryway on the floor that our bill had been slipped under the door. My eyes immediately zeroed in on the fact that one of the deviant members of the group had ordered themselves some adult entertainment on the television the previous evening after our return from the nightclub. I was not going to be paying for this and demanded to know who had ordered it so that I could be reimbursed. “H” immediately acknowledged he had ordered it and said he would take care of it. He then picked up the phone, called the front desk, and brazenly informed the female desk clerk that his children had accidentally ordered an adult movie, and without so much as a crackle in his voice that would give away his obvious fabrication, asked that it be taken off the bill. Despite the fact this clerk had probably heard this story countless times before from every guy whose irate wife/girlfriend had noticed the ordering of “Goodwill Humping” on the invoice, this more than kind clerk agreed to remove the charge from the bill. I never returned to Las Vegas with this group of friends, but despite my many other trips to Sin City, this was by far the most memorable of them all.  OK, maybe second most memorable right behind the Vegas trip where I was cited and released for lewd acts with a Madame Tussaud's wax museum figure at the Venitian Hotel, but that's another post altogether.

What Is Going On With A&E?

So I was watching the show Intervention on A&E, a network which really does have some pretty solid programming, but does have its share of questionable products as well. During one commercial session, when A&E often shows commercials about its own shows, there appeared on the screen yet another TV show has-been they are trying to throw back into the limelight. There on the screen, burning my retinas, was the face of one TV personality I never had any desire to see again: Bob Saget. Apparently, the show, which is hosted by Mr. Saget, is called Strange Days with Bob Saget (because these yahoos always have to put their name in the title) and was touted as a reality show where good ol’ Bob “immerses himself in strange cultures, practices and occupations”. You can stick him in a show like this with an edgy name like Strange Days, but to me he will always be Danny Tanner or even worse, the host of America’s Funniest Videos, where he stood out there and regurgitated the lamest ass jokes I have ever heard in my whole life. For those of you out there that want to argue he is really funny, and he did not write his own jokes on the show, then that means he had absolutely no respect for himself to get out there and spew out bad joke after bad joke just to be on television. As I was watching the commercial, they ran through several of Bob’s adventures into the underbelly of America’s most interesting subcultures. The first was the hardcore biker. Ok, I could buy this until I saw on the website for the show a picture for this episode. I will tell you, nothing says hardcore biker like Bob Saget, with 1940’s goggles plastered across his goofy melon, sitting in a sidecar. The sad thing is that I don’t think this was supposed to be a joke, and some producer (it’s always the guys with the money) thought this would be a good picture to use. The only way this would have been any more ridiculous (and as a result much less hardcore biker) would have been for Mr. Saget to have been sitting on the motorcycle behind the same surly biker with his arms wrapped tightly around his waist laughing like a 12-year old girl.

In all fairness I have heard from many a Saget lover that his stand up comedy is not anything like Full House and AFV, and is quite edgy. Well then, let’s take a look at mister wild and crazy’s upcoming episodes form the commercial. The other topics presented on the commercial were Bob experiencing the fraternity life: may be interesting; Big Foot Hunting: getting dangerously close to nerd alert, I’m 35 and live with my parents in the basement status; and the cu de gras, Summer Campers: OK, this has just reached WTF status. Summer campers? Seriously? Oh yeah, watch in awe and gasp in amazement as Bob Saget is immersed in the CRAZY world of arts and crafts time, campfire sing alongs, canoeing and the ultimate in wild living: nature hikes. Hey, you dirty hippies that are getting all hyped up (probably the same people from my last blog who abhor grocery stores), I enjoy nature and the outdoors as much as the next guy, but let’s not make more out of it than it is. If summer campers was what they picked to make the season, what did they turn down? Bob goes to barber school? How about Bob at the library? I know they have to have enough shows to make a whole season, but if they have already scraped the bottom of the barrel with summer campers on the first season, Bob better call up Mary Kate and Ashley for a reunion show if he wants to have a gig next year. This has not been A&E’s first foray into the “let’s make something old new again” reality arena. They had the Two Corey’s (about Corey Feldman and Corey Haim), Lawman with Steven Segall (OK, some would say you have to have been someone in the first place to be a has-been, but let’s not be too cruel), and of course Tony Danza as a high school teacher (because he hasn‘t had his 15 minutes of fame 4 times over). It seems that A&E has become a veritable has-been’s haven. In light of this network’s inability to match Strange Days with a more fitting host, I present my top four mismatched shows and has-been hosts:

#4 Paul Rubens (Pee Wee Herman if that helps) guest stars on Intervention to help a chronic exhibitionist.

#3 Natural Non-Surgical Beauty Tricks with Joan Rivers

#2 House Hunters with new host Randy Quaid and insignificant other

#1 Romper Room 2010 with Gary Glitter* (* all segments with Mr. Glitter were shot at least 200 yards away from the children per condition of his parole)

Grocery Store Experience II

A few things: I acknowledge that 2 out of my 3 first blogs have revolved around grocery stores. No, I don’t spend every waking moment in grocery stores, nor do I work in one. This blog is not dedicated to the world of grocery stores. If you are going to quit reading this blog because you abhor grocery stores, and grow all of your food in a little garden in the backyard, consuming nothing from the outside world, please rest assured that I will move onto other topics. Lastly, as a warning for those that are offended easily, this particular installment has a bit of salty language, however to get the full flavor of what took place between the individuals in this little supermarket smack down, it is necessary to use some direct quotes.

Most trips to the grocery store are relatively boring. Get in, get your stuff and get out. Sure, there is the excitement at home of having more to chose from for dinner, but the trip itself is pretty ho-hum most every time. However, every once in a while you get to experience a standoff between a customer and store staff that makes you want to belt out a few bars of Handle’s Messiah. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah!”.

So I woke up this morning kind of early, and thought what better time to pick up a few quick groceries than at 7:00 a.m. so as to avoid the crowded aisles and long lines. The filling up of the cart was uneventful enough, and after finishing picking up all the necessities (yes, gummy bears are a necessity), I proceeded to the check out lines. Now, this particular store has nearly twenty checkout lanes, but given my early arrival at the store, only a limited number of lanes were open. All but one lane had someone with a large cart of groceries, so I chose to get behind the guy with just one item: the 12 pack of Bud Light. I am thinking I will just scoot right over here beyond this fine gentlemen, quickly check out, and make my way home. As I started unloading my cart, I heard the cashier tell the customer his total was ten dollars and some odd cents. The guy stood for a moment in silence, making no move for his wallet to pay for his purchase, but continued to stare at the total screen. “How much?” he asked. His speech was slightly slurred, but I am not completely certain he is inebriated. I do, however, begin to wonder if he is just getting an early start on the day with the beer, or if this was a capper to a long night of binge drinking. The cashier kindly repeated the total. “Well the sign over there said it is 99 cents” the guy said in a voice that quickly took on a somewhat perturbed tone. As a former worker at a retail establishment, the customer with a complete lack of common sense was the bane of my existence. Honestly sir, did you really think your 12 pack of beer was only 99 cents? It would be obvious to most people that either they looked at the price wrong, or someone moved a price tag to be funny, ect. But oh no, not this guy. He was not about to let this go. The cashier tried to explain the possible misunderstanding, but was met with the undignified response, “Well, the damn sign said 99 cents.” He had chosen to take it up a notch by using the expletive in an effort to pressure the cashier. Typical butthead customer move. Unmoved by the beginning of his tirade, the cashier apologized for the mistake (which was obviously his), and told him his total, before tax and CRV, was nine something.

I was starting to sense the tension build, and in a completely unforeseen move, the customer blurted out angrily, “This is complete bullshit. My mother just died, and you guys are trying to screw me over .” To reference the greatest holiday movie of all time, Christmas Story, this guy had pulled out a veritable triple dog dare of retail interactions. Regardless of the fact that the mother’s alleged demise was not even remotely relevant to the price of the beer, the cashier was now placed in the unenviable position of deciding if this guy was full of BS and trying to make the ultimate power play, or if maybe this poor tormented soul really had lost the only person that cared one iota about him and deserved a little compassion. There must have been something that gave him away. Maybe it was a bead of sweat on his forehead, an involuntary multitude of blinks, maybe the twitching of the corner of his mouth, but whatever it was, the cashier decided to call his bluff. Now, she didn’t out and out call him a dirty liar, but she also didn’t offer any type of condolence which would have tipped the scales in his favor in this legendary power struggle for supermarket supremacy. She simply said, “Sir, your mother has nothing to do with the price of the beer.” Well played, m’lady…well played.

At any moment, I could totally see the guy going cartoon style with smoke blowing out of his ears as a verbal explosion of livid expletives rain down on our heroine. The guy practically yelled at her (at least loud enough to be heard two check stands over), “I want to see the fuckin’ manager!” Oh no, he had brought down the lightning and the thunder. The call for manager is the last bastion for the customer, or so they often erroneously believe, as the research shows that in this type of complaint the manager takes the side of the customer only 3.94% of the time. In this particular situation, I really thought the guy knew he had lost, and was asking for the manager as a last ditch attempt scare tactic he thought would bring the cashier to her knees begging, “Oh, please sir. Don’t call the manager. Here, take your 99 cent beer. And have a free Slim Jim.” The cashier, of course, did not acquiesce in his desired manner, and called for the manager. At this point, I started worrying about my chocolate brownie ice cream and its movement towards a liquid state. I seriously contemplated moving to another line, but who the heck watches a 12 round boxing match and then turns off the television before they go to the judges score card, so I decided to stay and see how this played out. The manager came out, and the guy pulled out another classic customer move (I must admit, this guy had quite the repertoire). He played super nice, and talked super calm to the manager when explaining his position so as to show him what a wonderful customer he is, and that it must be the crazy freak cashier that was the problem here. The manager and customer then headed off to the back of the store to check out the “scene of the crime”. While they were gone, which seemed to be forever (not unlike when Jimmy the bag boy is asked by the cashier to grab Ms. Johnson another carton of eggs, but it must be in the store’s annex building because it takes so long now my picture is on the milk carton. Sorry about that tangent) the cashier and I exchanged several glances which silently communicated: 1) what a jerk and 2) you better hope you are right, because if you are not, I am going to complain about the inaccuracy of every one of my purchase prices and it is going to be grocery store anarchy. After a few minutes, the manager came around the corner with a smug countenance of victory and his chest swelled with pride. The customer came a few paces behind, head down in shame, shoulders slumped, and, although invisible to everyone but the cashier and I, a huge scarlet “J” for jackass on his shirt. The manager did not go so far as to hold it above his head in a boastful manner, and make an example of this guy, but I could see clutched in his hand a price tag; irrefutable evidence of his victory that he would certainly take home, laminate and put in his scrapbook that documents his dismantling of unruly customers. Beer-guzzling Billy came up, paid his total, and left in humbled silence. The retail universe was restored to balance as another dirt bag customer was put in his place.