broke down

I'm stupid busy these days, but that's not why I haven't been posting. My little archaic machine, Mercury (and yes, I'm one of those nerds who names their computer and their car), may be on it's last legs. Not requiring it for anymore than music, porn, and internet; I've kinda rode the old PII 450mhz shame pony about as long as I could. So my brother is going to have to wipe my C: drive the day after tomorrow and then I'll begin a few week long period where we'll ride off into the sunset. It's sad, probably more sad how foolishly we become attached to inanimate but sad none-the-less, and I hope it'll be happy in the far lowest reaches of my back closet, but it's time we let the old girl rest. Six years is a long time to hold on to computer hardware.

In other news, it may be time already for me to boogie from the new resturant job, as I was heinously sold down the river after missing a four hour shift Friday by damn near everyone there. We'll see how things pan out. For now, I've got a week's suspension (I know, right?! suspension?! I thought that was only for loose cannon detectives and high school students??!!) to think about what I did wrong =P while the managers talk it out. Here's hoping they remember all those many times in the last five weeks when I came in for someone else who called out and how I helped paint the stairwells and sanded/varnished all the tables in the joint for FREE... 

:doug @ 7:36 PM

re : a finely honed blade

"can i get you ladies anything else?"

"well... what are you offering?"

"nothing i'd charge you for." (wink, smile) 

:doug @ 2:17 PM

cortez, or something

We were at Bonnaroo, that much I'm sure of, and my friend and I were all in some kind of big merch tent at the top of a hill when Jack and Meg White walked in. An older, and I had thought wiser, friend of mine got Meg's autograph, everyone else in the room tried very hard to play it cool and not geek out in a fanboy way. I was a little repulsed by everyone's excitement and decided to leave the tent.

I walked down the hill littered with tent and vendors until I reached the bottom. In the corner of two small wooden partitions, I started scratching out a thought in the damp dirt with a stick : "Who cares about celebrities? It's not like they're Cortez or something?"

"Whatcha writin' there?"

I looked through the 1ft. wide gap in the partitions to see Michael Keaton in mostly black clothing, including a leather jacket. I didn't flinch much but I know I thought, "Wow. It's Batman."

"Oh, just about how celebrities suck, it's not like they're explorers or... or.... or Michael Keaton."

He smirked at my obvious lie, he could see what I had written, "Yeah, good point."

"I know, right? Imagine you're a Viking or Christopher Columbus and a good day for you is discovering a fucking continent."

"That would be pretty awesome..."

And I got sad, "But this Mike, it's-", looking back up the hill towards the tent full of friends, "... this is not a continent. It isn't even the West Indies."

"Yeah, it sure isn't" and Mr. Keaton has been Bruce Wayne calm and cool this whole damn time. There's a beat or two of introspective silence, then I ask him to wait while I run to borrow a pen and get some paper.

When I come back, he's gone, and a bunch of misguided children with painted faces, tattoos and piercings have set up more booths to sell SLiPkNot merch or something. They try to sell some to me, but I'm puzzled and blank-faced, and they get a little bit angry when I don't respond to their commands.

We're not supposed to be celebrities, we're supposed to be explorers. 

:doug @ 2:36 PM

a finely honed blade

Over the past few weeks of waiting tables again, I find I'm definitely more funny and more quick-witted. And maybe I'm deluding myself, who knows, but I really feel at the top of my game when it comes to entertaining people. Where once dry and boring over the past few months, I've got more to talk about, and conversely a job to complain about.

There's also something to be said for how working in the service industry can make you a more engaging and dynamic conversationalist. I think when you have to deal with everything from the highest to lowest common denominators of society, you pick up all these neat little tricks to morph and ben your persona in pursuit of a better tip. Getting a total stranger to lighten up, crack a smile, or blab their thoughts out on whatever issue is some kind of weird artform. I find myself returning to tables more frequently if I'm not getting through to them, not working any magic. Most of the time, I usually succeed.

You stand there at the end of the bar pouring them a fresh iced tea thinking, "All right now; I've given glib a go, I tried playfully brutal honesty, hmmm... maybe they'll respond to thinly veiled flirting, or perhaps a completely benign compliment. I got it! I'll ask who's wearing that fragrance nice I smelled on that last pass."

And maybe I'm the only one out there serving who treats human beings as rubik's cubes, but I get the feeling I'm really not. 

:doug @ 12:23 AM

the pull

i am not the guy that women should ever have to perform The Pull for. in fact, if there are infinite parallel universes where other versions of Me exist, then there isn't even a parellel universe where that Me exists. never-the-less, some girl felt the need to perform The Pull on me last night.

the manuver in question is when you're talking to a lady at a bar/pub/club and her friend comes over and, not even looking at you, says "we need to go" then grabs her friend, turns to you and says "sorry" in the most unapologetic voice ever.

more often than not, this friend is never a girl that you would even give a second glance at. maybe she's pretty, but the fact that she's doing The Pull makes her instantly the least-attractive, most petty female on the planet.

all Heather and I were talking about are the friends we have in common, since i saw her talking to Karen, and the fact that we go to the same bar for Quiz Night every Tuesday. also, how stupid her team name is.

down with The Pull. 

:doug @ 3:49 AM

leaving the scene of the crime

you know, it's really got nothing at all to do with the lady, i just really like the feeling of being chased home by the dawn. in my car or on foot, it's all the same, it's either some kind of strut or it's a downright rocket straight to my own bed.

many women misinterpret this, and in the days of my own apartments, i never asked (or even wished) that a girl would leave after the evening's "festivities". one of the most clear-thinking moments in a fella's life is the hour post-coitus and i certainly don't want to waste that opportunity jockeying for position in a foreign bed. i want to chain smoke my way through eerie pre-dawn while dodging the tractor trailors and earling morning delivery trucks with music blasting under an indigo/iodine sky, my thoughts racing and exclusively mine. i want to cry out some aboriginal war-whoop of satisfaction, and maybe, just maybe, i don't want you to see/hear me do that.

because on some animalistic level, i've fulfilled my duties as a man. in an age where what makes a "man" is so uncertain and where those boundries are constantly being redefined, it's an immensely valuable sensation.

no offense, my sweet sweet ladies. 

:doug @ 6:04 AM