Comedy, Errors.

Yesterday I got to work to discover that the ice machine was full of water. Under normal circumstances, this would be problematic, as people tend to like their drinks cold. This particular week, it was a veritable catastrophe, as we were expecting 85,000 extras on our set. That's right folks, football season is upon us again, and I for one could not be more excited.
Actually, i have a love/hate relationship with football season. I love the money, but I find the people for the most part pretty horrifying. Anyway, after multiple phone calls and a bad diagnosis from the ice machine repairman, it was decided that I would drive to Atlanta to pick up the part we needed, so as not to have to wait an extra day for them to overnight it, which they told me would not happen until Thursday, which would mean that the part would arrive on Friday, rendering the machine totally useless until Saturday. (Please keep in mind that Atlanta is about seventy miles away, and the company that was fixing the machine is auite large, and under normal circumstances one would expect that a company like that would be able to get the part here without inconveniencing me to this degree.) Then Carlie, the lovely assistant on the phone at the ice machine fixing company, had the gaul to lay into me about it!

"I just want you to know that we don't DO this, " she said, scolding me. "I mean, I know everybody is freaking out because its the first game day weekend and everything, but we DO NOT DO THIS."
"Really? That's a coincidence, because I DON'T EITHER, you stupid bitch" I wanted to say.
"Well, I understand that, but this is really important and I really appreciate this" I said instead.

So basically, I spent five hours in my car today, driving through torrential, Biblical rain (I saw three wrecks- one in Athens and two within a mile of each other in ATL). Add to this that the guy on the phone in Atlanta gave me the wrong directions, and that when I called back to get redirected, it was raining so hard that I couldn't hear the woman on teh other end of my cell phone.
And when I stopped at a gas station to get a soda on the way home, not only did they not have regular Coke in cans (I can't fit those giant bottles in my cup holder, and besides, who the hell needs that many ounces of liquid at once?), but the cheddar cheese cracker Combos that I bought wound up being stale, due to a hole in the bag, which I did not discover until I had already gotten back on the road and put some in my mouth. They tasted like dust, and as I spit them into a napkin, scraping the remnants from my tongue and gagging uncontrollably, washing it down with a (not) tasty Coca Cola Zero. Seriously.

Nameless Post.

I went out with K on friday might. Started with a cup of coffee at the restaurant where she works, and she read from the journal of her hellacious (and hilarious) trip to Mexico. Next we moved on to the 40 Watt to see Maserati. Outside in line, I overheard some balding, twatty-looking jackass remark that
"If this was Atlanta we could smoke inside." To which I responded
"Yeah, and you could pay twice as much for your drinks, too." Jackass.

I know that the smoking ban is a pain in the ass, but there's just something about fucking Atlanta people and their attitude that kills me. With a few exceptions, I think the whole of Atlanta is mostly shit. It is not a city so much as a sprawling mass of suburbs-- strip mall after strip mall after subdivision, with a million different winding roads going nowhere. I could go on and on about my dislike for Atlanta, but instead I would like to talk about Maserati.
They were fabulous. The drummer is possessed. He's like a machine. It's bizarre and awesome and I didn't want the show to end. I only wish their records were as interesting to me. Somehow, it just doesn't translate. Anyway, we moved on to the Manhattan when they were done, and had a few beers (which are not officially permitted in my diet at this point but which were also light*, so I didn't feel quite as bad as I probably should have.
Saturday was okay. Went writing with my friend A in the afternoon. Survived the Loudest Barrista In History again for over an hour before retreating back to the house to eat. Work was fine. The Dictatortots played a great show opening for some band that has apparently backed Outkast before. They were good for what they do, I suppose, but what they do is not really my thing. We were prepared for the shit to hit the fan, because apparently some people were iunder the impression that Outkast was actually playing (as if--I know, but people are not smart). Well, it never hit. Everything was fine, and my week ended fairly quietly. Perfect.




*Thanks to the fine folks at Amstel, for making light beer that tastes like something. Now, if I only could get Sierra Nevada to do the same...

Robbed.

Smelly P was there first thing again today. That's the second time in a week. Fuuuuuuuck. I had taken some heavy-duty cold medicine last night in an attempt to sleep despite the inability to breathe through my nose. The funny thing about this particular medicine ("The nighttime sneezing, sniffling, coughing, aching, stuffy head fever so you can rest medicine") is that it usually knocks me out cold, and I sleep almost too well, with all kinds of trippy, lucid dreams and whatnot. Every once in a while, though, it just makes me wired. It was that kind of night. I might as well have drunk an entire pot of coffee at 5am as taken that crap. So I tossed and turned, sweated and flailed, and "woke up" (though I hesistate to use that phrase as it implies actual sleep) feeling even more foul. And I drove to work in a haze. And a delivery that we desperately needed never came.
On top of that, we got a tip jar ripped off tonight. I knew exactly who did it, but without my Nancy Drew Fingerprinting Kit there was no way to prove it, and I trust the local police to be about as helpful in such matters as they are about everything else (which is to say, fuck it up completely and find a way to both make it my fault and write me a ticket). So yeah, I'm not very perky right now.

Scene

INTERIOR A nightclub, on a busy Saturday night.POV is the bartender's. There is a DJ on a stage in the background. Dance music pumps loudly. Colored lights spin, many people are drinking and dancing and sweating and generally having a good time.

CUSTOMER

A thirtyish man, reaches across the bar, grasps a Bud Light, using his other hand to pay the BARTENDER three US dollars.

BARTENDER

"Thanks."

The camera pans up, and over the shoulder of the CUSTOMER.

On the dance floor, a space has cleared around one particular couple. The WOMAN, who is young and very attractive in a not un-Salma Hayek way, is bent at the waist, grinding her ass in what she surely percieves as a seductive and possibly romantic way, against a YOUNG MAN who in return grinds his hips into her with much gusto. Unbeknownst to the woman, he also happens to be having a very animated conversation on a cell phone.

Cross.

P emits an odor that seems to have not only shape, but possibly personality, or maybe even free will. His voice is loud and nasal(that observation coming from a bona fide loud Yankee, mind you), and it carries. Despite the air conditioning, and the ice machine, and various fans, as well as the television and the hundred plus feet that separate us, it carries, and it touches a nerve somewhere deep within my spine.
P helps out at work, doing odd jobs that I can't or won't or don't have time to do. I'm actually glad to have him around--I just don't want to talk to him before I've had a cup of coffee. Sometimes I have to.
I woke up late for work. The b.h. was awake but apparently not paying attention to the time. I jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes, and put enough water on my hair to flatten it out a bit (prior to this I appear much like the "Mr. Heatmiser" from Rudolph's Shiny New Year). I don't think my eyes were even open all the way when I pulled out of the driveway. The upside of going to work in this condition is that I am not conscious enough to feel the weather, get pissed at other drivers, or think about how much shit I have to do when I get there.
The downside is that rather than having some time to mentally prepare for all of these inevitabilities, when this happens I usually find myself getting hit with all of them at once, starting when I have to find somewhere to park. After circling the block about seven times, which takes forever because it is the lunch hour and there are many, many pedestrians, (Note: No speeches about how much gas I wasted or riding my bike or taking the bus--if it were possible for me to do this differently, I would. It isn't. Save your breath.) I finally managed to find a parallel spot to squeeze into. It is on an incline and my boss's car is behind it. Fortunately, my boss is even less observant than I am about his car and will probably never notice the mark I left on the bumper.
So I got to the front door and it was already unlocked. And when I opened it, I saw the bike leaning against the pool table a split second before the smell hit me.
"Hey, P." I grumbled, and headed straight for the coffee maker.
"A fucking cop slashed my tent last night, man."
"Wow. That sucks." I have no idea what the hell he is talking about, but this is nothing new.
"Yeah, I helped out down at (another bar) last night, and it was just starting to rain when I left. By the time I got back to my tent by the tracks, it was a fucking deluge, and my fucking tent was fucking slashed. It had to be a cop, because if it was a homeless guy they just woulda took it, ya know? I hate fucking cops. I had to sleep down by (yet another bar)."
I used to feel bad about this type of thing, until I realized that P can afford to have a home (or at least he could if he chose a roof over say, drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes), he just chooses not to. He moves with the weather, and unfortunately, we get him in the smeller (er, summer).
It strikes me that this is my cross to bear, as others bear the "water cooler small talk" one. Ah well, at least I don't have to wear panty hose.

Plumbing.

I got to work early. The band was a favorite, it's members good friends of ours. There were a number of people already there, drinking and smoking and eagerly awaiting a good rock show. I knew everyone. Waiters, bartenders, bar managers, bar and liquor store owners. Service industry veterans. So you can imagine my surprise when, upon entering the stall in the ladies room , I discovered that somebody had dropped a small pair of scissors and a large nail clipper into the toilet. And left them there. Surely they just hadn't noticed? The plumbing being questionable at my place of employment on a good day, I knew that these items would mean certain doom within the hour. I had no gloves. I had no tool or device with which I could fish the items, McGuyver-like, out of the toilet. I had to pee.
I took a deep breath and plunged my bare hand into the toilet, grasped the items and threw them into the trashcan.
I boiled and scrubbed my hand with a lot of soap.
I hadn't even clocked in yet.
I definitely picked the wrong week to go on the wagon.

Recap.

I drank my Sunday beer on Friday night again. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Sunday Beer is what a person who lives in the Bible Belt has to consider on Saturday, due to what are known as Blue Laws. Blue being from the Latin root Blu, which loosely translates to "We're not separating church from state and if you don't like it fuck you." Here in Georgia, beer and liquor may not be sold on Sunday. Not in bars or liquor stores or grocery stores, anyway. We are welcome to get as drunk as we like in restaurants, or in bowling alleys that sell crap second-hand sandwiches and nachos. (But not in the Jesus Bowl--we can't even cuss in there).
Anyway, it was just as well this week, because I had plenty to drink on Friday and Saturday.
Friday night was a benefit for AIDS Athens featuring drag queens, drag kings, and belly dancers. Pretty much business as usual, with a side of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and Cold Stoli Orange. Good times, until I had to wake up on Saturday. Actually, I think it was probably the million cigarettes I smoked that did me in, but I can't be sure.


Whatever the cause, my hangover did not stop me from going out on Saturday with Jamie and our friend R. We had lunch at Siri Thai (Thai iced tea is one of my most recent and best beverage discoveries), then headed over to the Manhattan for a couple of drinks. (Truth be told, I had three, and they each had one. So I guess that evens out, right?) Good food, good conversation. Good times.
Sunday we had a work meeting. Pretty straightforward. Lots of coffee. Yaddah Yaddah.
Today I have done almost nothing. Have been reading everyone else's blogs and several books and magazines. Day one of the diet and I have not broken down or killed anyone yet. 13 to go.

Progress.

As in, "Things are getting progressively worse."
The b.h. and I went and voted in the Republican runoff on Tuesday, and despite the fact that Lyin' Brian Kemp, developer extraordinaire, lost the bid for Agriculture Commissioner, I don't forsee the over-development situation getting better any time soon. Just a couple weeks ago, the b.h. and I were pulling out of the driveway when we noticed that the hilarious sign* advertising "Luxury Condominiums--from $455,000" was now sitting in the middle of a field surrounded by suspicious-looking orange tape.
"Oh well, not to worry," we thought very wrong-headedly.
So just three days ago, we pulled to the end of the driveway and saw this:



Yes, it has begun. And now not only will our relative quiet be shattered, but the rows and rows of trees and vegetation will be replaced with rows of cars and stacks of expensive bricks. Oh yeah, and the people. Boy do I love more goddamn rich people.
Speaking of which, can anybody tell me what's wrong with this Volvo? I can't quite put my finger on it...





*The sign is hilarious because, we thought, no one in their right mind would ever consider paying that much for a glorified apartment in this part of the country, especially not in this fucking county. There are many cheaper places, for example, in posh neighborhoods in Chicago.

Home Again

The drive back was fairly easy.I managed to nick over to Allerton Park while we were going through central Illinois on the way home. I hadn't been there in at least eight years, and I always threaten to show it to the b.h. but somehow never get to it. I seem to be having trouble uploading photos right now, so I'll have to try again later. Damn you, Blogger!* Anyway, I spent a lot of time out there during my college years, often alone and writing and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Never did figure it out, mind you, but it was a beautiful place to try.





The one thing that tends to be diffficult on these long hauls is finding anything to eat. Being a vegetarian, there is almost no fast food that I can eat, unless I want french fries (which would probably be cooked with some animal product anyway) and soda to sustain me for twelve hours. In light of that problem, the b.h. and I usually pack plenty of snacks and whatnot in a cooler. Not so this time.
This time, we stopped in Southern Illinois on a Sunday night at almost 9pm. Remarkably, there were a number of places still open. Unremarkably, all of them were fast food chains. We sucked it up and went to a Subway. Normally, I would rather eat french fries and a coke for dinner than what passes for a vegetarian sandwich at Subway (Two very small slices of cheese, split in half, stuck to a piece of bread that, when all the air is squashed from it, would fit into a thimble, covered in rusty shredded lettuce with a couple very pale and very thinly sliced tomatoes and slathered with mayonaise). Having just stepped on a scale before leaving my parent's house, however, I decided that some vegetables, regarless of quality or lack thereof, were in order. So we waltz in, and the girl behind the counter is very obviously cleaning and closing, and being service industry people, we ask politely "Are you closed?" And being a remarkably responsible and awesome person, she replied in the negative. We not only got sandwiches without nasty looks or complaints or shitty attituide of any sort, we got good sandwiches. It was stunning. She must have just finished prepping for the next day, because all of the vegetables were fresh and crispy and tasted like- wait for it- vegetables. It was amazing. So if you're listening, guys in suits at Subway central, the night shift girls at your store in Benton, Illinois just won you back a potential customer. Seriously. I'm not gonna start getting lunch there everyday or anything (that would be insane considering the number of independently owned and very tasty restaurants we have to choose from here in town), but hey- now we know where to stop when we drive up at Christmas.

So now we're home. Nothing's changed, really. Except of course, that I officially weigh more than I have ever weighed before in my entire life. I usually pride myself on not paying attention (or at least giving a shit) about that sort of thing, but after a total lack of any physical activity over the last six months (I used to take martial arts, and I fully intend to do so again SOON, as soon as my ass is small enough to get back into my uniform) and having had pizza at least four times in the eight days I was home, I was silly enough to step on the scale ("devil box") at my parent's house. So now that I am back at home, I am scarfing up every beer and sweet thing in the fridge and cupboards, and officially getting on the wagon just as soon as it is all gone. (At the current rate, I imagine that should be about twelve or thirteen hours from now.)
You see, if I don't get rid of all that stuff first, it will only sit there and mock me. I know myself well enough to know that my self control only goes so far, and that the power of Lindt dark chocolate is not to be underestimated. So here I sit, Tupper's Hop Pocket Ale in one hand, genuine Italian bakery cannoli in the other, watching Bridget Jones (cliche', anyone?)and being alone for the first time in TEN DAYS.
That's the thing about vacation. You always run the risk of being twice as exhausted and insane when you get back.

*Obviously I was able to remedy the problem. Below is a picture of me attempting to cartwheel across the Fu Dog Garden. This is not nearly enough to express my joy at finally returning to Alelerton. Above is an actual Fu Dog.

Rock Saves Lives.

After the Art Institute we walked over to Millenium Park (pics to follow when located). Interesting. Touristy, but interesting. It seems that the city has finally figured out that providing evening entertainment to tourists will keep them spending money.
Went for a drink with T and R after. R was leaving on a 6am flight to attend a shotgun wedding for an old friend in Virginia. Given the temperature in Chicago at the time, I can only image what kind of pain he was in for. Plus, it's VIRGINIA.
Friday we headed out to the P's house in the burbs again. Ate pizza (our third of the week, which I will discuss later) again, which was incredibly enjoyable, and hung out with my family, which was also awfully fun.
Saturday we went to dinner at a fabulous tapas restaurant in the city, then popped over to T's house for beers before going to see The Drams at Subterrrenean. Though family time is good, it can also be quite stressful, as I am sure anyone can relate to. We're a bunch of loud, boisterous storytellers, and though I wouldn't have it any other way, it can be pretty exhausting sometimes. It was good to get to T's for a pre-show break. Smoked, drank, hung out with T (male- one of my closest friends at home) and T (female, other close friend at home) and her husband D (also a very close friend). I have known all of these people for twenty or more years. T (female) and I are friends since first grade. It is always incredibly comfortable and fun to be around them, and the b.h. fits right in. We never run out of things to say and I always wish after being with them that they would all (along with R and my friend A in California) just break down and move to fucking Athens.
In short (too late!), it was fantastic. And that was only the beginning. T and D headed home at around midnight, dropping us off in front of the club on the way. We were just in time, and only had to wait a few minutes for the rock to start.
The Drams, in case any of you are so unfortunate as to be unaware, are three former members of Slobberbone plus two guys who, coincidentally, also fucking rock. Brent Best is a fucking genius (I am a lyrics girl, so I am completely biased). Got the new album, took a bunch of pictures (see above), left feeling completely satisfied and very much looking forward to their shows in Athens and Atlanta next week.

Artsy-fartsy.

Well, not so much fartsy, really. But we saw a whole lot of art today. The Art Institute has free admission on Thursday and Friday evenings from 5 to 9pm. Since we rarely go anywhere before two in the afternoon anyway, this seemed like a reasonable time for the b.h. and I to check it out.
We have been there before, and though neither of us is all that terribly into art, we always enjoy it. Being in the presence of original works is quite overwhelming, really. Since I have seen so many photos and posters of so many Monets, Renoirs, and Van Goghs, it is both very surreal and very humbling to stand inches away from them and to be able to see every brush stroke.
Strange thoughts come to mind. Why, for example, did Van Gogh decide to use green in his beard when he painted that self portrait? And did he know The Drinkers?

Favorite discovery of this visit: The Picture of Dorian Gray. Will be posting more photos when I locate disc that they are downloaded to.

Burning.

Just for the record, anybody who thinks it is always hotter in the South is dead wrong. Same for those who thought it couldn't snow in San Diego. No, all sorts of weather is possible (dare I say probable?) just as long as the b.h. and I are on FUCKING VACATION. The heat index in Chicago today was like a hundred and seven. Right now it is almost midnight and weather.com informs me that though it is currenty a mere eighty-four degrees outside, it feels like ninety-one. Athens, Georgia? Seventy-seven. And it feels like seventy-seven. Fuckers.