Three Strange Days.

They were only strange for me, because I spent the better part of each in a fever dream state, sleeping and sweating and snortling on the couch (Yes it's a fucking word. Because I said so). The show on Thursday night was fabulous as usual. One of the guys was a bit under the weather, so I took him back to the house to dope him up with Ther@-flu while the b.h. finished closing the bar and the rest of the band loaded out. We stayed up late, ate pizza and snack food and talked a bunch of crap. It was fun. I didn't even feel that bad when I woke up after only five and a half hours of sleep and had to go to work at the Big Stupid Box Store. I figured it wouldn't be so bad because I had put in extra hours on Thursday and only had to work four and a half on Friday. No sweat.

Except that isn't how it went at all. I got there and we already had a truck waiting. We had no sooner unloaded it than another truck pulled up, this one with a giant order of indoor plants, which all come wrapped in paper or in boxes and are much more difficult and time-consuming to deal with. Elizabeth and I were the only ones working. Luckily the weather was so crappy that the outside cash registers weren't open, so we were able to pile up the stuff that was waiting in the aisle while we rushed to get the shrubs out before the next order came. While we were doing that, another truck pulled up. I finished putting out the shrubs while she signed that order in, and just as I was finishing, a Slightly Senior Manager (there are many, many managers in a Big Stupid Box Store. They like it that way because it makes it easier to find somebody to point a finger at.) came bumbling through the garden center, barking orders at everyone in sight.

"This needs to be moved right now," he said, mustering as much authority as a man with barely any authority can when there are other people with nearly as much authority present.

"Yeah. We'll get right on it." That was the approximate answer that Barb gave him. Barb is more senior in management than Middle Manager Jim, but less so than the Slightly Senior Manager who doesn't even warrant a name here, since I never see him. Barb is a very hard worker, and though she isn't always on top of everything, she is at least aware of her limitations and leaves decisions to the people who are most qualified to make them whenever the BSBS rules allow. I like Barb. We all do. Unfortunately, Barb doesn't have the power to fire MMJ or he would already be gone. Barb has a sense of humor, too. More on that later.

Anyway, into the middle of all this mayhem walks a Big(ish) Cheese from my Parent Plant Company. I am absolutely calm because I knew he would possibly be coming by, and therefore I had stayed late on Thursday taking care of the minutiae that the Corporate Guys like to focus on: The pots were all facing the same way, tags out, colors striped, dead plants culled, etc. etc etc. I won't bore you with details, but you can imagine how mind-numbing the memos are. Guys in suits in air-conditioned offices making decisions about things they have little or no experience with is How Corporate America Works! (I should make a documentary with that title). We spoke to him for a few minutes, telling him how all the orders (from his company, mind you) had run late and how there were just two of us unloading four trucks, and how it was going to freeze this weekend so we couldn't even put much of the product out or it would die, etc. He seemed to understand. He did look alarmed at a half-full rack of cacti, complete with three dead plants on it, until we told him that we had moved the rest inside because of the weather. He took some pictures, walked around a bit, and left. We were still up to our asses (literally) in paper and house plants.
I was unloading some orchids and a customer came by. She was an older woman who had just moved into a new house, and she was looking to brighten the place up a bit. We talked for a few minutes, marveling at the beauty of the orchids. She chose one that I had had my eye on for a week. I told her so and congratulated her on her good choice.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "I don't want to take the one you want."

Very kind of you, I explained, but I am here to make money not spend it, etc etc., and I can't afford to take home everything I like or I would never get paid. I told her I was just happy that some one was taking it home to enjoy so it wouldn't sit in the store and wilt. She thanked me profusely and left to go find moss. A minute or two later I discovered another box of orchids. These were different than the others, with much more color, so I went after her to let her know. She was very surprised and pleased that I would bother to come and find her, and she did wind up choosing an additional plant from the new box.

To make an excruciatingly long story as short as possible, she bought the damned white one for me. I was totally floored, and I tried to refuse it, but she wouldn't hear of it. I thanked her several times and then sort of ran away in embarrassment. Remember when I said I was socially awkward? Yeah.

When I told Elizabeth about it she smiled and said "Well hold onto that feeling, because in like two weeks you're going to lose all faith in humanity."
I laughed, but I know she's right. And it didn't even take two weeks for the wind to abruptly leave my sails.

The rest of the day was more of the same. We were busting our asses. Then we heard a rumor that it might snow. Elizabeth and I were both halfway out the door when the call came in, and we looked around, crestfallen, at all of the plants that would certainly have to come in if it snowed. Calls were made. Managers were summoned. Plants were racked. Then the SSM (Bob- I'll go ahead and name him now that he's been here twice) told Elizabeth that she had to go. No overtime allowed, no matter what. Somebody else would have to do it. Sweet. I was actually over on my alloted hours too, so I started wrapping up to go.
"Who's going to bring this stuff in?" I asked, disbelieving. You can't imagine the number of trees, shrubs, hanging baskets, and, worst of all, rose bushes we had out there.
"(Middle Management) Jim," replied Barb, smiling as she punched out. "Somebody'll have to tell him when he gets back from lunch."

I went home and crashed on the couch. My sinuses started acting up around nine that night, and by twelve-thirty I had what felt like a full blown cold. Slept all day Saturday, worked Saturday night (oh- remind me to tell you about the dumb-ass hippy what went to jail Saturday night), slept almost all day Sunday, and again all day Monday.
Monday evening I got an e-mail from Peggy Plants, my boss who I really like. There were several photos attached. The photos were taken in our store. On Friday. You know, Friday, the day the Big(ish) Cheese from the Parent Plant Company came in? He actually had the balls to point out that there were a few pots that were not facing the direction they should have been facing. He took photo documentation. And mailed them out to EVERYONE IN THE COMPANY. Another guy did the same thing on Wednesday when I wasn't there. Apparently he had waited until L and Elizabeth had removed some of the plants from outside so that they wouldn't freeze, then took pictures of the holes in the shelves where those plants had been, then spread out the rest of the plants for an "after" shot. What a fucking prick.
So yeah- there goes that whole "faith in humanity" thing.

Eeew.

Middle Management Jim texted a message to several of my co-workers at the Big Stupid Box Store recently, telling them that he was in bed with one of the cashiers. The integrity of my sleep is forever compromised.
On a better note, I am fairly certain that this is illegal, and I know for sure it's at least Bloody Fucking Stupid, so maybe he'll get fired.

In other news, Stupid Redneck Sarah is buying herself some new tits. Wow. Now if only they could surgically implant a brain while she was under...

24 Hours To J. Roddy.

Man, I can't wait. And this time I believe I have convinced a few friends to come along. (Yes Shayne, that means you. You won't regret it, I promise. Matt likes 'em, for fuck's sake! And Matt is like the Life cereal Mikey of Rock and Roll!)
So I went and bought an area rug today. It's seven by ten feet, and getting into my car was hilarious. I stopped to get the b.h. at work on the way back from the store and he had to sit in the back seat. Which was cool, because he got to do the whole "Home, Jeeves" bit and I love that bit.Anyway, it really ties the room together, if you know what I mean.
Jamie made me a Bloody Stupid Johnson hat. I love it and I have been wearing it for three days. This is convenient, because my hair looks like shit right now. Normally, I don't much care because I am not nearly as vain as I am lazy, and mostly I can't be bothered to keep it in any sort of... order, but right now it is completely out of control.
Here's hoping they come up with a BSJ sun hat so I can ride this right through the summer.

Woo Hoo!! I just got a call from the b.h. saying that he has got himself a ride home from work tonight, which means I have to run to the fridge for (gasp) a second beer. Sweet. I got this Harpoon I.P.A. the other day from Five Points Bottle Shop. It Rules. I also tried out a British ale- thrice hopped and quite tasty- called Wytches Brew or something. I can't remember the exact name right now and of course this is the one time when I've already taken out the recycling, so I don't have the bottle handy, and - oh fuck it, I need to go get that second beer.
Okay, I'm back. And I brought a muffin. And now I've dropped crumbs into the keyboard. Shit.
So did I mention how much I liked de novo dahl? Well I do. I honestly couldn't remember what they sounded like, because it had been so long since I had last seen them, but about one minute into their first song on Saturday night it all came rushing back, I knew I had bought a t-shirt from them for a reason. Yep, they rocked.
Okay, I'm gonna go read the blogs of people who have more to say now.
Later.

More (Giant) Beaver Shots.

The b.h. shot this at dusk today. These guys are starting to get used to us, I guess.

The More Things Change...

K got in from New York on Thursday night. She brought her friend J, whom I had never met. They came straight to the bar from the airport, just in time to hear a really crap band play a really crap cover of Eric Cl@pton's "Cocaine"- a really crap song to begin with, in my opinion. So I took a break and got them and myself a drink and went outside where we could hear each other talk.
I haven't seen K since Halloween, and it was remarkable how little had changed, how I felt like she hadn't been gone at all. It made me think that I probably really need to get the hell out of this town. I swear we were having the same conversation that we had had the night before she left, and the night before that, and the week before that, and so on back to the time when I first met her.
Last night I met them downtown at eleven. They had already been drinking for hours, since some friends of K's got married that afternoon. We had a beer at one bar, then moved on to the 40 watt and then to the Caledonia. K wanted to give J the whole tour. There were good bands playing at both clubs, but we didn't hear much music because we kept running into people we knew (most of whom had not spoken to K since she left).
At some point, somebody brought up R0n Jeremy. I have no idea why, but it lead to me telling J the briefest possible version of the Night That I met R0n Jeremy story. It was amusing. I hadn't thought about it in ages.
Approximately thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was T, drunk as fuck, calling from Chicago. He was at a work party (which explained the level of drunkenness). The first thing out of his mouth?

"Hey Bartender, can you e-mail me that picture of you and Ron Jeremy?"

Bizarre. I still haven't found it, but now that I've remembered I'm going to go hunt for it again.

A.J.'s movie is out now. I still haven't gone to see it, because it isn't playing locally, but I am trying to get to Atlanta. You should go. Like, all four of you. It's called The Signal, and I haven't seen it since they put the music in, but I'm sure it kicks even more ass. The Boston Globe thought he was particularly good. That made me really happy. Many reviewers don't seem to understand it. That makes me sad. For the record, I think the middle of the movie (it is in three parts) is hilarious. Hi. Lar. Ious.

In other news, I found several gray hairs on my head the other day. It's the stupid lighting at the Big Stupid Box Store. Don't they know that bar lighting is better for everybody? I called Shayne in a panic, but she was in NYC. Crap! I need a dye job. Badly. And a haircut.

In conclusion, the weekend was a whirlwind. I saw K several times, much drinking was done, and much talking, and I found myself not having much to say. I think it's time for a change of scenery. But the big question: Not where will I go, or what will I do when I get there, but What will I call my blog?

Itchy.

I planted a bunch of seeds the other day. Two kinds of tomatoes (reisentrube and another I can't remember right now), broccoli, lemon basil, fennel, dill, peppers (habaneros, jalapenos, cayennes, and poblanos so far) and cucumbers. I know that cukes are meant to be sown directly into the soil, but it worked last year and the earliest ones were the only ones that the blasted pickle worms didn't get to. On the flower front, I have zinnias, moonflowers, nicotiana, and hollyhocks (the ones I got last year should flower this year, so I figured I would start another batch- that way they'll bloom next year, when this year's are on break, and so on). I have yet to order new seeds this year, but I have my eye on a lemon pepper and a variety of cherry tomato called black pearl, which purports to have a "concord grape-like flavor when served chilled". Count me in.

I also put some onion bulbs in yesterday, and spent an hour ripping out some particularly feisty wild blackberry vines (we never get to them before the birds do anyway, and the thorns really suck) and cleaning up a boxwood shrub on the side of the house. My hands are pretty ripped up, despite the fact that I wore gloves, because again, the thorns really suck. But the area looks a thousand times better already, and now I get to plant something there that I actually want. Maybe lavender.

I have been itchy to get the garden going again. Working with plants is great, but it isn't the same when it's not in my yard. The great news is that I have managed to get a few real bargains because I was in the right place at the right time. The daffodils I salvaged from work won't bloom again until next year, but the price was right so I don't mind. I have yet to see which of my perennials survived the drought. Most of them are planted over the septic tank, though, so I have high hopes.

My New Co-Workers.

Sarah is stupid. And I don't know if I would feel comfortable saying that if she weren't also bitchy, negative, and openly racist. But she is all of those things, so I am. The other day at work a customer needed something loaded into her car. This is Sarah's job, although she really, really doesn't want it to be- so when she was paged to the loading area she did not respond. The cashier asked me to please go find somebody, because the cashier cannot leave her station. I finally found Sarah in the very back of the outdoor area, with her back turned to me, hiding behind a stack of cardboard. She was texting somebody on her cell phone. And when I walked up and told her she was needed, she didn't bother to stop, or even to look up at me. Man am I glad I am not an employee of the Big Stupid Box Store. If I were, I would be bitter about having to do her job because she doesn't seem to do much of anything. But I'm not, so I just walked away.

Elizabeth is fantastic. She knows everything there is to know about plants. I am doing my best to soak up as much of her knowledge as possible. She is also very pretty. She has hair that is a natural red shade that those of us with dishwater blonde hair would kill for. She also has a lot of stalkers. Weird old men come in looking for her all the time. They ask her a thousand questions and never buy a thing. Needless to say she doesn't like it. I came up with a stalker-avoidance plan for her yesterday: When I spot one, I will wait for them to ask for her, then page her over the store's system. When she responds, I will pretend it is somebody else.
"Hey Dana. Do you know where Emily is?" I will say to her, ever so slyly. She will then know that there is a scary old man seeking her attention out in the garden section, and hide in the break room.

"What? Oh- do you know when she works again?" I will then say to no one, because Elizabeth will have hung up and made a run for it. "Okay, thanks."

I will then turn to the stalker and apologize for my lack of information, and then follow him until he leaves. Wish us luck.

Disconnected.

You know how sometimes you take a few pictures, then put away your camera, then take it out a couple weeks later for a few more shots, rinse, repeat, and soon you have a whole bunch of unrelated photos jamming up your memory card?
Yeah, well, here they are. I often take pics with the intention of blogging them later. Here is a collection of those:


This is a shot of the elusive Giant Beaver of AGOI Pond. If only I had taken a moving picture, I believe this would bear an even greater resemblance to the now famous "Guy in a Furry Suit" Bigfoot film.





Above, and action shot, and below, the finished product. These are the kolackys that the b.h. and I made- what was that, like a month ago? Yeah. So I am a bit behind.




I took this while I was waiting at the car repair shop. Yes, that is Carl WIlson's fabulous book I am reading. Thanks to Jamie and the s.o. for letting me borrow it. For those of you keeping track (come on, you know you love memorizing what I'm reading) that's about seven books I've got going right now. This one just happens to be the most convenient for travel. I recommend it highly.

As it turns out, the rest of the pics I just uploaded are not that great. maybe I will go take some more.

I'm Not Organized.

Okay, third post of the day. I know, whatever. But I just took this picture of Wyatt, who is at least part feline, because he jumped up on the couch while I was folding laundry and promptly snuggled right in:



Needless to say, I abandoned my folding duties and tucked in next to him for a nap.

The Call of the WIld.

I bought a new bird feeder a couple weeks ago. It is much larger than the last one, and it holds a lot more seed. Also, because of the way it is constructed, more birds can feed at the same time. The result is that the daily bird party has gotten much larger outside our window. There are at least two (and possibly three- I think they have a baby) woodpeckers. These are in addition to the red-headed, Woody Woodpecker guy that I often see on the other side of the house. No bluebirds yet, but I suppose they might be out of town for the season. We have the usual cardinals and mourning doves, and a whole lot of others I can't yet identify. I love watching them. I often find myself stopping whatever I'm doing *cough* internet porn *cough* to look at a bird identification web page. I think I will have to get a book.

Damn. Now I have another hobby.

Crash

Apparently this is the week where I get all that irony that's been lacking in my diet. Last night, some asshole who had done laps in patchouli before coming downtown was wearing a "No Bio-Terror Lab" sticker.
One of the bands that played brought a big box of individually wrapped candies and left it on their merch table, so I ate around eight or ten Bit-O-Honeys in addition to my usual couple of beers. At the end of the night I felt like my teeth were wearing individual sweaters. I have a weird thing about sweets. I am totally picky about chocolate. I never eat any generic,foil-wrapped, holiday-shaped anything. I don't really like Nestle chocolate at all, though Butterfinger remains one of the best things ever created, in my opinion. I like Hershey's just fine, although any more I don't care for milk chocolate at all. And I can take or leave (though I almost always leave) Dove and Cadbury. I am a huge fan of both Lindt and Green and Black's, even though they tend to be a bit pricey. I would rather have a very small amount of very good chocolate than a whole mountain of the cheap stuff.
It's the same with cakes, cookies and pastries. I am rarely tempted by grocery store sheet cake, boxed brownies or packaged and chemical laden cookies.
But man, when it comes to Willy Wonka and his ilk, I can't seem to get enough. Smarties, Sweet Tarts, candy necklaces, Wacky Wafers, Laffy Taffy- you name it, I'll eat it. And last night I ate every Bit-O-Honey in that box. The other bartender, my good friend J, had also raided the box. At the end of the night, while we were breaking down the bar, he was walking toward me when he stumbled a little and stopped, looking like he might fall over.

"Are you okay?" I asked him. I knew he couldn't possible be drunk.

"I think I'm crashing from all that sugar."

Man, how do we survive this rock and roll lifestyle?

Speechless.

Last night a woman with a mullet asked me if I "let them cut (my) hair that way on purpose."

A.J., three guesses where I was, and the first two don't count.

Weird Shit that Customers Do: Retail.

1. A young woman approaches me, asking where to find bird houses. Though I do not work for the Big Stupid Box Store, and I am not required to help customers, it is not (yet) in my nature to be unhelpful. I show her where the birdhouses are and go back to what I was doing. Minutes later, she approaches me and asks,

"Will you walk me to the parking lot so I can show her and see which one she wants?"

Seriously?!
Um, no. I can't, and I wouldn't even if I could.

I decline and smile apologetically, and she leaves.

2. A customer approached one of the cashiers today with a question about fencing. She told the man that she didn't know the answer to his question (it was a very broad question) and that she would be happy to get somebody from that department to help him. He started shouting at her that "They just told me to come out and ask you!! And now you're going to shove me off on somebody else!!"

She was remarkably calm, and kept repeating that she simply didn't know the answer but that if he waited right here for just a minute some one would be out to.

"Blah blah blah!! Get off my lawn!! I'm old and scary!!" he shouted. At least that's what it sounded like. And he stormed out.

I am so new to this that i still find it mildly amusing. I'm sure that won't last.

SON OF A !!!!!!

So I got to my Incredibly Corporate Plant Nursery Job today at around 10:15. It was forty-five degrees and very, very windy.
My buddy L was already there. She was watering outside, and she did not look happy.

A quick explanation: My job is inside a Big Stupid Box Store, but I do not work for the Big Stupid Box Store. I work for the Incredibly Corporate Nursery that supplies the Big Stupid Box Store. So I don't answer to the folks at the Big Stupid Box Store, per se. But I do try to be helpful. Especially since my buddy L is working for them, and I took over her job, and she is very, very helpful to me (and I am very, very grateful to her. Plus she's super cool.)

Okay, so the deal is, Middle Management Jim, the very lazy guy who works above L at the Big Stupid Box Store, is in a bit of a panic, because apparently there is an impending visit from a Big Corporate Cheese, and he wants everything in his department to look perfect. In his mind, this meant watering. Even though we are in the middle of a drought, and it rained cats and fucking dogs the night before last, and even though I had already watered the plants that don't get rain just yesterday, and even though L had gone to the trouble to check all of the trees and shrubs in the area that had gotten so much rain thirty six hours prior, and found that they were, in fact, quite damp (well no shit), Middle Management Jim wanted the area to look "just watered." I suspect that Middle Management Jim is the kind of guy who got to middle management by timing his cigarette breaks just so, thereby avoiding any heavy lifting but getting back in time to be seen "finishing up" when the Big Guys get there. Ah, Corporate America.

Something that I have yet to mention previously (So little time! So little blogging!) is that despite having every possible tool available to us, not to mention at least one person on staff at the Big Stupid Box Store who can fix virtually anything, virtually every single hose and connector that we use in the nursery leaks. Horribly. Even the big watering can on wheels (affectionately known as "the egg") that we use indoors. The result is that whatever or wherever you are watering, water leaks down your arm, all over your pants, and most definitely onto and into your shoes.

The first day I met Middle Management Jim, I mentioned that I thought it was sending a bad message when we asked customers not to flush their toilets because of the drought and they could plainly see me leaking water all over the floor in the middle of the store. He kind of laughed and moved on to whatever he was doing, which I would assume (having worked there a full six days now) was either taking a smoke break or telling somebody else to do something that he should be doing himself.

So today, as I headed to the back of the outdoor nursery and plugged in the hose nearest the trees and shrubs, I was completely unsurprised to find that the fitting was leaking like mad when I turned it on. I stood there cursing loudly, the water spraying both my face and my shoes, and tightened everything I could find to tighten around the fitting, to no avail. Finally, I stacked several plastic containers of fertilizer on the table in front of the hose, blocking the spray so as to avoid soaking any customers, and went on about watering. After about twenty minutes, another employee of Big Stupid Box Store walked out several paces in front of Middle Management Jim, and remarked

"Wow. look at all that water being wasted!"

I smirked at him and answered, "Welcome to the home improvement store!"

MMJ arrived just then, made an exasperated sound, and immediately shut off the water. He began unscrewing the hose and examining the inside of the fitting. The other guy asked me where it was leaking.
"Is it the brass fitting or the plastic thing?"

"The fitting is fine. The leak is coming from under the plastic thing. And I already tried to tighten all of it, so don't bother." I was saying this for the benefit of MMJ, who ignored me and continued to do exactly what I had already done. He turned the water back on, this time with his face very near the hose. The result was exactly what you would expect, and MMJ cussed under his breath as he shut the water off, removed his glasses, and tried to dry them.

"Do you need this thing now? Or can you do something else while I fix it?" asked MMJ, acknowledging me for the first time.

"Well, I already watered all the back tables. You're the one on the schedule, so you tell me. How quickly do you need all of this done?"

I went off to do my actual job, which is not pointless and which I actually mostly enjoy. MMJ walked past me about fifteen minutes later.
"Incidentally," I said, as casually as I could, "I need to water inside today, and The Egg leaks very badly. I don't know how much you care, or when the Big Cheese is supposed to land, but if they walk through and I'm standing there in a huge puddle of water it probably won't look good."

"That's leaking too?" MMJ said, as if hearing this news for the first time.
"Well, I'll have to see if I can get this other one fixed first. It might not be today."

I never did get the go ahead to finish the unnecessary watering, but I did manage to water inside (water wasted: about five gallons) and do the rest of my job.

I also went to the accountant today. Doing my taxes used to be right in line behind going to the dentist on my Things I like To Do In My Spare Time list, but my accountant is hilarious. Just hearing him talk is worth the price of admission, but since he also leads me through the seven circles of IRS hell with nary a scratch (mental, anyway- the financial scars never quite heal) I consider it quite a bargain. The short of it is that we owe the State of Georgia several hundred dollars. Fuuuuuck. Luckily we have until April fifteenth to find that money somewhere.

I left the accountant and went back to work for an hour and a half. No sign of MMJ or any Big Cheeses. Sweet. I passed the rest of my day peacefully, then clocked out and went to pick up the b.h. from his New Day Job (not an actual "day job", but rather a service industry job that takes place in the a.m.).

We went downtown. He was going to band practice, and when he tried to call one of his band mates on the cell phone, he realized that the memory had been erased. All. Of our. Collective. Phone numbers. Gone. Fuuuuuck.

We stopped at the cell phone store. They were not terribly helpful. I dropped the b.h. off at a bar to meet his band mates. I rushed home to see if I had a paycheck. I did. Sweet. I ran down the road to the liquor store (never let it be said that my priorities are not in order), got a six pack of Dale's Pale Ale (my new favorite- it's in a can!! Holy good beer in a recyclable container Batman!!) at the Five Points Bottle Shop, ducked over to my bank to deposit said check, and stopped for gas (the second time in two days. Fuuuuuck.)

At the gas station, I got out of the car, donning my very warm hat and bracing myself against the wind. A guy got out of his car and said very loudly and very cheerily
"Hey girl!! I like that hat!! You're rockin! You look like a bunny rabbit!!"

He was large and bemulleted, wearing Rustler Jeans and very puffy, very white gym shoes. His mustache was nothing short of remarkable.
I thanked him and smiled and pulled my hat lower while I jammed my bank card into the gas pump. It wouldn't work. see cashier for assistance.

I looked up at the store. It was busy. The weird guy was in line, talking animatedly with everyone around him. I did not have enough gas to get to the next gas station. I pondered whether I cared.

Eventually I went in. The weird guy leapt over two other customers in order to open the door for me. He greeted me again. He remarked on my hat again, though exactly what he said now escapes me. He went outside while I was paying. As I left the store, he was engaged in yet another very animated conversation with yet another defenseless stranger. I opened the door for myself, and he commenced to cussing the other guy out for getting in the way while he was trying to open it for me. I went to my car. I pumped my gas. The weird guy came up to me and said that we could be twins, on account of our cars were both the same color, even though his had a spoiler. I nodded and smiled weakly at him. The gas continued to pump into my car at a glacial pace. I was silently thankful that I could not afford a full tank today.

"Are you married?"

"Yes sir!" I answered, thanking the gods yet again for the b.h.

"Aw okay, I don't mean any harm Here's my card, in case you know anybody needs a website or anything. I build computer systems, websites, do repair- basically anything you can do with a computer."

"Cool. Thanks!" I reached out and took from him a small, poorly copied, unevenly cut square of copy paper, with an unidentifiable logo in the corner and a list of services that the company provides. And then handwritten (obviously he forgot this part before he set the font, and why ever would that matter?) on the top was the name of the company.
I got in the car and carefully put it in the notebook I keep in my back pocket for just such an occasion. Sometimes weird people really make my day.

Sixty-Seven.

Degrees, Outside. Right now.
The weather has been unbelievably mild, which means we are sure to get smacked by an ice storm any time now. But for today, I will revel in my good fortune. After I put another load of laundry in, I'm heading back out to the garden. I promise I will catch up soon.

Scooter, Day Two.

Tuesday morning I got to "sleep in" until nine. I had to report to the store on the other side of town, so the drive was about fifteen or twenty minutes. I knew my friend L was going to be there - it is her that I am replacing at this job.
When I got there, L was nowhere to be found, but Scooter was already hard at work, and the faces of the other people in my department told me that he was in the same mode that he had been on Monday.
I will skip the gory details, but know that Tuesday was more of the same from Monday- with less cinder blocks and more stupid metal effing displays. Thing is, my job is "roots only"- if it doesn't grow, i don't touch it. But we did what needed to be done. In fact, because Scooter is so disorganized and scattered, I did and re-did the same very annoying tasks several times.
But a the end of the day, the clouds parted and L emerged for a room where she was training, looking almost as shell-shocked as me, and assured me that all would be well.
"I've never seen that guy before" she said of Scooter, "but if I had I doubt very seriously I'd be standing here right now."
My other new co-worker E chimed in "We're pretty laid back here. We'll be doing a lot of work, but not like that." She looked over my shoulder at the whirling dervish that is Scooter, and shuddered. "Don't worry. You'll be okay."
And after that, I was. I suffered through my last hour of work, being as polite as possible to Scooter while almost completely ignoring him. And when I got to work on Friday, I felt total relief. It's hard work, and I am certain to have some problems, but so far so good. Holy crap I think I like my job.

On Clean Underwear.

My father's older brother Ted had a massive stroke in 1980. I remember very little about that time except that many people at the hospital did not expect him to survive and our (very large) family rallied around and, when all was said and done he was in a wheel chair, half-paralyzed but as big a smart-ass as ever.

My family has a somewhat odd sense of humor. I never knew my dad's father, but my grandmother lived until I was twelve, and my strongest memories of her involve cigarettes and cuss words, and the kind of threats that would bring DFACS running if you were to make them publicly now. It's not that we're a particularly violent people, mind you. We simply enjoy a colorful vernacular.

Uncle Ted has had a very rough several months, and after being in and out of the hospital several times, he entered hospice care a short time ago. Last week my dad told me things were pretty dire, and it seemed that his death was imminent. His wife and children were with him round the clock, and when people would come to visit my aunt would tell my uncle (who had lost consciousness days ago) who had come, and encouraged everyone to address him directly, since he seemed responsive to voices even though he didn't wake up.

Two days ago, my aunt was going to run home for a bit. She told my cousins that she would be back very soon, and then leaned over my uncle's bed.

"Ted, I have been wearing the same underwear for three days. I have got to go home and take a shower."

She said (and is very happy to have had my two cousins there to confirm this, or she would have thought she'd gone crazy) that my uncle's eyes fluttered, and his mouth moved just a little.

He mouthed the words "Me too" and breathed his final breath.

I only hope that I go out with a wise crack. Nothing else would seem appropriate.

Scooter, Day One.

When I got hired at the new Plant Nursery Job, I was asked if I had any problem answering to somebody who was quite a bit younger than I am. I said I wasn't.
Peggy Plants said that was great, because the guy who would be training me was very young, but very good at his job.
"I just love him," she said enthusiastically. "He's one of my best employees."
"Great- no problem," I said.
"Now keep in mind that I don't expect you to actually keep up with Scooter. He's like a rocket. He's always like go go go- a mile a minute. I'm just having him train you because he knows his way around both stores. I don't expect you to be able to maintain that pace."

I got up at 8:30 in the morning on Monday, which was quite a feat since I usually go to bed between five and six and I hadn't seen eight in longer than I can remember. The coffee maker had failed to go off even though the b.h. had set it so that in theory there would be coffee waiting for me when I dragged myself downstairs, and since I had hit the snooze button I didn't have time to wait for a whole pot to brew. Instead I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and ran out the door.
It was about forty five degrees outside. I had a five minute drive to work (no, I can't walk. There are no sidewalks between here and there, and not enough shoulder to protect me from the trucks and SUVs on the highway). I got there early and walked in to the department where Scooter should have been. He wasn't there. The girl who was there had her makeup done in a style that suggested her trailer must have been very dark when she woke up. She did not know where Scooter was. I walked around to several different departments, and though everyone had seen Scooter already, nobody seemed to know where he was. I could not clock in to the computer (yes, I actually clock in now) because I didn't know how. I finally sat down near the computer and waited. Scooter came back at 9:07. I know this because that is the exact moment when I clocked in (See how that works? Minute by minute. Ah yes, corporate life again).

Scooter was, in fact, as spastic as I expected. He talked a mile a minute in a loud and yet mumbly way, mostly with his back to me, so that I caught only half of what he said. Immediately after I clocked in, he took me over to the indoor green house.
"the first thing you need to do is just come through here and see what's out of place. See this right here?" he asked, pulling a six pack of spinach from a shelf full of cacti. "Obviously this doesn't belong here. These go outside." He placed the spinach on the floor in the aisle and continued. He wound up pulling several small plants as well as a couple of decorated pots, a hanging basket, and a pair of garden shears. Each of these things was placed on the floor in the aisle in front of the shelf he had pulled them from.
"Is there a specific place where we put stuff that is out of place, or do we just go put it back where it belongs?"
"We'll get to that," he said, and walked away, leaving all of the items on the floor in the aisle.

Next was outside. He told me without much of an explanation that we were going to move "these roses onto that table" and then started moving them. I followed suit, and then a cashier asked him to go get something for her from the break room. When he got back, I was mostly finished, but then had to move a lot of them around because he hadn't really explained that there was a particular method. This was the theme for much of the day.

The heavy lifting started with metal signs and display racks, many of which were rusty and rather forlorn looking. When we tried to fit the top piece onto the bottom piece by way of a particularly dodgy pole, I mentioned that it looked rusty and that perhaps a bit of WD-4o would help.

"Nah, that'd take too long."

He walked off and came back several minutes later with a sledge hammer, with which he proceeded to pound the ever living hell out of the metal. A lovely sound, I assure you. I only wish I could be there at the end of the season when he has to take that thing apart.
I was not told anything about breaks until he decided he needed a cigarette. Then he told me to take "twenty minutes or so" and disappeared. I called the b.h. and tried to laugh off my general frustration.
When Scooter returned ten minutes later, he decided we were going to build another display rack for the plants. This involved me following him around while he measured and remeasured the distance between two other display tables, then placing cinder blocks on the ground at regular intervals. Or rather, he measured and I placed the cinder blocks. Then after I had stacked one row of them several high he mentioned that they should be uniform, pointing to the different patterns on one side of the row I had made.
" 'Should be' doesn't mean the same as 'have to be', right?" I said. I wasn't asking.

"Well, no. It's not really that big a deal. That's just how they like it."

When I ran out of cinder blocks, he asked a guy in another department to bring us more. We went onto another task.

"Should we move these pallets out of the way?", I asked as we went back into the greenhouse, gesturing at the empty pallets that were laying in the middle of the aisle, where an unwary customer might-

"Nah, we'll get to those later. We're just gonna be using more."

We wasted a few more minutes setting a cactus display. Then we went back outside to find two full pallets of cinder blocks, about five feet tall, waiting. Again I did most of the lifting while Scooter did most of the measuring. And again I had to stack and re-stack the blocks when Scooter had fouled up the measurement. At this point I was checking the time every seven or eight minutes.
Finally, we finished the table.

"Now that's how a display table should look," Scooter said proudly, surveying the fruits of my labor.

"Okay, what's next? Are we going to use that other pallet of cinder blocks?"

"Nah, we'll get to those later. Technically, this isn't even our job."

Long Pause.

New (2nd) Job
+ no sleep=
Many stories and no energy to share.
Must. Get. Beer... and nap.

Gun Shy.

Today I was at work and I realized that we were almost completely out of earplugs. Normally I order them online with my credit card and my boss reimburses me, but we've been quite broke lately (thanks to an overweight dog and a wonky axle) so I haven't been able to get to it. Then I realized that we have two very loud shows coming up in the next week, and the four remaining pairs of earplugs won't even outfit the staff, much less any customers who might choose to preserve their hearing.
So we went to the gun shop. The people there were very nice, tremendously helpful, and, of course, armed. I do not have a problem with this. Of course you want people to be armed when they work in a gun shop. I mean, we wouldn't want them getting robbed, right? Of course not.
The b.h. was kind enough to come with me. The transaction was fairly quick and easy. We were in and out of there in five minutes flat. But the thing is, the ear plugs were all the way in the back, in a room behind a counter. While I waited for the extremely helpful gun guy to find me the right case of earplugs, I was staring at a wall- a very long, very tall, wall- full of ammunition. And the glass counter in front of me was home to around fifty or sixty hand guns. It was weird.
Again, I don't really have a problem with guns. I have been to a shooting range. I have fired a few. And shit if it isn't a lot of fun. But being in the gun shop was to me lot like being in a butcher shop: Nothing there for me. And all of it in one place is, for some reason, very disconcerting.
Neither of us said much the whole time we were in there. I'm sure the guys that work there had to realize how hilariously out of place we both were. As soon as we got in the car, we both kind of exploded with sighs of relief and remarks about how weird it was. Next time, I'm sending somebody else for the ear plugs.

Reading.

I just finished the first of P.G Wodehouse's Jeeves & Wooster series. My friend M loaned it to me and I loved it. As soon as I read the first ten pages I jumped on Netflix and added it to our queue. Love that, too. I also got a book from M called Doubt. Religion and skepticism and whatnot. throughout history. Just barely scratched the surface of it, and it's a big one, but so far it is interesting. Also started This is your Brain on Music(?-not positive of that title and not near the book, but that's the gist). I got it for Christmas from my friend T. It promises to explore how and why our brains respond the way they do to music. So far it is very easy to read and understand, even to my feeble and very unscientifically inclined mind. I love the idea of approaching something that is so left brained from a right brain perspective.
I also recommend the Best American Non-Required Reading 2007. Not only do they mention two of my friends' band names, but they have poetry about Ed Asner. Fantastic.

The Fly's the Limit.

So it seems that 0kkervil River is touring with Neko C@se as well as the New P0rnogr@phers. And they're coming to The fucking theater. Awesome. I've been meaning to check out Neko Case forever and ever. I am embarrassed to say that I am only now doing so. And I love it. Ah well, better late than never. We have forty gigs worth of stuff on the iP0d, so it's not like I'm totally sheltered. Now, off to see what TNP is all about.

And now for some random silly shit that probably only bartenders will find funny. You know how people (kids, mostly) have a habit of totally fucking up drink names because they don't really know what they're ordering? My old favorites were the "Amarillo Sour" (rather than the Amaretto Sour, which is as it sounds: Amaretto and sour mix) and the "Mattress" (which should be Madras, made with vodka, cranberry, and orange juice). My new faves are "Umbrella Sour" and "Stellar" (Which is supposed to be "Stella"- as in Stella Artois, which is WRITTEN ON THE BOTTLE. That guy only had to repeat himself three or four times before I figured out what the hell he was saying.
Yep, the fun never ends.

So there was this band what played the other night. They were young, they were dumb, and they were not good. This is not unusual, honestly, so I didn't think much of it until they started being kind of shitty to the sound guy. Not knowing what the fuck you are talking about is excusable until you start getting shitty with the guy who does know, who is only trying to help your shitty band sound better. So they were on stage soundchecking, and one of them would ask a question, and as the sound guy was trying to answer, the Douchebag Guitar Player would start noodling around on his guitar, thereby making it impossible for anyone to hear the answer to the question. He did this repeatedly. The SG was patient. The DGP was adamant that he have what he wanted, and at the same time making it more difficult for the SG to help him get it right.
When the band finally started, the GP was acting like a sullen little brat. He was wearing a white polo shirt and boat shoes, and I swear if he had just popped his collar up he could have been the James Spader character in any teenage 80's movie. (This begs the question: Do frat boys even realize that That Guy in those movies is the character that nobody likes? And if so, why would you want to look like That Guy?) Anyway, he started posing and preening while his girlfriend was taking pictures. Then he was really acting like he was bored because, you know, he is such a good guitar player that the shit was so easy. And then he did something so hilarious that I almost fell out behind the bar. He pulled it up and started playing it behind his head. I felt so sorry for the other guys in his band...
And then I realized that his fly was wide open.


Fuck, The New P0rn0graphers sound great, too. I'll have to make sure I get tickets to that show.

Upstairs, Downstairs; or Cultural Differences.

Last night I learned something about myself. After having viewed four complete seasons (I saw the first two seasons twice) of The Wire, it's official: I speak jive.
This is not a judgment about the validity or artistic merits of the American Urban Black vernacular, it is simply an observation. The shit is hard to understand. But thanks to the incredibly compelling nature of the aforementioned TV show, as well as the miracle of modern technology that is the DVD Subtitle, I am able to communicate successfully with people with whom I do not share a common language or life experience.
Sweet.
I am still unconvinced that rap and hip hop are going anywhere (by which I mean artistically, not in popularity, as it is obvious that they are more popular than ever). And I still think that an expensive "grill" is possibly one of the dumbest things I have ever seen up close. It was nice, though, to hear some of the performers getting onstage and encouraging their audience members to register and vote. I guess after the flogging that B@r@ck Ob@m@ gave She Who I Refuse To Name Out Of Principle (and a lack of desire to have unwanted traffic here on my tiny little blog) in South Carolina last night, there was more likelihood of the message getting through.

Hilariously, there was a frat party upstairs last night. N said that there were more fake IDs up there than there were gold teeth on the first floor. I wish I could have been outside at two am, watching the two worlds collide.

The other night I got to see Lake City and Five-Eight at the Mental Health benefit at the Forty Watt. I can't remember the last time I have seen either band, and I enjoyed them both immensely. My friend R came in midway through the Lake City set, as drunk as I have seen him in ages. He invited me to a Super Bowl party at a guy's house that I don't particularly get along with.
"Why would I be invited to his party?"
"Because- you're you," he said, glossing over the obvious in favor of the excitement he was feeling. "And you guys have to come," he shouted over the music, "because I'm making cookies (he made the international symbol for cookies, a "c" shape lying flat) "with p0t in them" he gestured as if he was taking a joint out of his mouth and crushing it out in his imaginary cookie. This he shouted very slowly, as if speaking to a particularly thick-headed deaf person. R is one of the few people that I find not only tolerable but downright entertaining when he's shit-faced.
Also, I got to see Jamie for a bit. We were out and about, drinking adult beverages and living like normal people, which is not something I am accustomed to on a Friday night. We had a very long discussion about gardening and seed catalogs while backstage, until I glanced over and realized that our friend M was almost asleep on the couch. (Sorry, M.)
Can't help myself, though. I have spent days poring over these catalogs. Can't even begin to decide how I will narrow my choices. I could plow under our entire yard and still not have enough room to try everything that interests me. And of course, with the drought situation being what it is, it would be both selfish and impractical. *Sigh*
Anyway, I am spending the day today doing laundry, catching up on some housework (and reading and blogging). Am currently listening to Centro-Matic's Fort Recovery on vinyl. Did I mention that the b.h. got me a record player for my birthday? Yep- I love it. There is something nostalgically satisfying about the sound of a record. I know there are various arguments about convenience (about which I care little) and sound quality (about which I know little), but I love the very slight hiss and the act of setting the needle on the edge of the record, of flipping over to the other side. I'm not giving up the iP0d anytime soon, but this is a lovely way to spend a Sunday.
Later the b.h. and I are going to make Kolachkys and light a fire and watch movies. That is of course, after we walk the boys and go find some movies. Which means I need to be going. Happy Sunday, everybody.

Why?

Why, in a bar, directly in front of the bartender who just gave you the drink you ordered, would you possibly reach into the fruit tray and get your own goddamned lime? Why, after your friend just did the same thing a minute ago, and the bartender ran all the way down the bar, gesticulating wildly, and telling you that it was extremely bad form, and that in the future you should simply ask for the lime, and she would be happy to get it for you? Why would a person do that?!

For fuck's sake, it's like putting your mouth around the whole bowl.

Sticker Shock.

Note to Self: The next time we combine two kinds of veterinary appointment, pay attention and ask questions while the doctor is recommending and describing various drugs and treatments for the various doggie illnesses and afflictions with which the dog is afflicted. Specifically, asking how necessary and how much are very important, so as to avoid the choking noises while you write the check in the reception area, as well as the mad scramble to cash in all of the change in the house and run to the bank while praying that said check does not bounce.
Wyatt is doing fine, thanks for asking. He's just expensive is all.

A Constant Struggle.

Now that the beavers are back, the b.h. is once again having to clear out the drainpipe in our pond every day. And then, every night at dusk, often when we are returning from a walk with the dogs, we spot the beavers out there packing it back up again, and he shakes his fist in their general direction and curses loudly.
Right now he is out there with a length of PVC pipe trying to loosen a giant clump of pine straw. I daresay (and I only dare because he is outside) that he enjoys this a little.

Great Moments in Rock Club History.

So awhile back we had a very, very loud metal show. It was excellent. Late that night, when we were trying to close up, we had a lot of lingerers. Usually (at a private party or a pop show) the method employed to disperse these people is to put on an incredibly loud crunchy metal CD at top volume. Clearly with this crowd that would have no effect, except possibly to make them feel like the party was about to really start. So I turned to my boss and requested The Carpenters, at top volume, stat. He dutifully went to the S1rius Satellite box and found exactly that. The room was mostly cleared before the song finished. Now only the bands and the staff were left, and since we were not legally bound to get everyone out just yet, we all started chatting while we cleaned up and broke down the bar. In the meantime, the volume was turned down, but the channel did not change. The next song that came on was Almost Paradise.
I started singing along - loudly, as I am wont to do when it is late and I am tired and feeling a bit punchy. The guys from the first band just sat at the bar and looked puzzled, then mildly amused.

"Don't even try to pretend like you don't know the words," I chided them.

Immediately the three of them burst into song, adding hand gestures and gyrations where appropriate. They not only knew the words but how they were sung.

Yeah - that's what I thought. Beautiful.

Customer(s) O' the Night #472 & 473: The Salesmen

So the other night I got to work at the usual time. The happy hour bartender was finishing up, and there were three guys sitting at the bar. The band was soundchecking. The guys at the bar were louder than the band, they were drunk, and I already knew they sucked.
I tried my best to avoid them, assuming that they were probably done drinking and that when they saw that the bartender was leaving they might pay up and leave. No such luck. When they waved for another round, I reluctantly obliged. Two of them were obviously more drunk than the other guy. They all had drinks in front of them. They tried to order more but were busy arguing and calling each other pussies so I slipped away. One of them went and got food. Fabulous. For the record, I don't mind when people bring food into the bar, but spreading it all over the bar and smelling up the joint is gross. And when drunk people bring food in, they invariably make a giant mess and leave their trash on the bar. It's offensive to me, it's gross for the other customers, and it's fucking rude. If we're not making money on that food, we shouldn't have to deal with it. Anyway, one of the guys was apparently playing in one of the bands that night, so I couldn't very well ask him to leave. I just waited for them to finish eating, cleaned up their shit, and silently thanked the gods when they finally went away. They sat on the other side of the club, so after about ten minutes I completely forgot about them.
It didn't get very busy that night due to the weather (or rather, due to the threat of weather, which is enough to keep people indoors in these parts). The first band was good- not my thing, but good at what they do, and I wished like hell that more people were there to see them. They seemed a little disappointed, but honestly I was surprised that anyone was there at all, and I told them as much later on. Anyway, right at the end of their set, the lead singer says
"This one is for those two guys."
I looked over and realized that the drunk assholes from earlier were both sound asleep, sittng just a few yards away from the stage. Fuck.
I motioned to one of the door guys. My plan was to wait until the band was finished and get rid of the guys. I didn't want to do it while the band was playing because I thought it was an unnecessary distraction on an already fairly dismal night. The door guy informed me that he had already kicked the two guys out earlier, and that they had been obnoxious to both him and the happy hour bartender. Apparently they had told him to go fuck himself because he asked for their IDs. Nice.

"So why are they here?"

"S let them back in."

"Why the fuck would he do that? Did you tell him what they said to you?"

"Yeah. They told him to fuck off, too."

""Great. We'll make S kick them out. Please send him in."

I asked S what the fuck was going on.

"I know they're assholes. My plan was to take their money for the bands and then kick them out."

"Well I can see that went swimmingly."

"."

"Stay here. When the band is done, we're kicking them out."

The band finished, and I took a metal bottle opener and an empty plastic pitcher and headed straight for the drunk guys. They were seated about five feet apart, so I positioned myself between them and started banging on the pitcher with the opener, as hard as I could, right between their heads. The rest of the people in the crowd laughed and clapped.

"Time to go!! Wake Up!!!"

They didn't move. S came over and shined a large flashlight into their eyes. One of them finally stirred. The other guy fell over. The friend (remember him, from earlier? the less drunk one?) rushed over, explaining that he was their ride, imploring me to leave them alone. I explained that they couldn't sleep in the bar. He pleaded with me to leave them alone. He had to sing, he explained, then he would take them home. I relented. in the meantime, the second band was setting up. I watched as the now awake jackass and the singer argued all the way out the front door. The other guy was still asleep. The one asshole left. I walked up to the singer as he came back in. I explained that his friend was acting like an asshole, and that it was really uncool for them to be passed out and why. He apologized. He said the guy was an arrogant asshole. I asked him why he was friends with an arrogant asshole.
"You must know each other from way back," I said, thinking how many people I knew that I put up with only because I had known them for so long.

"Nope. We work together. He's an arrogant jackass."

"Really? And why do you feel obligated to hang out with this arrogant jackass from work?"

"Because I'm an arrogant jackass, too."

"And where do you work?"

"Hyund@i of Athens."

"Ah."

The singer was actually only a singer, and not even the main one. He sang on approximately two songs, then stayed for the rest of the set. Afterward, I got to watch him try to steer the passed out guy out of the bar. The passed out guy was easily eight inches taller and outweighed him by at least seventy pounds. I only wish I had seen them getting in the car.

Still Going.

And jeez if it isn't after 5am. My internal clock is totally screwed. I blame the weather.
Tonight I dropped the b.h. at work, read the new issue of Playboy (Boring! The 20 Questions interview was with some chick from The 0C and none of the political stuff was very intriguing, though I did rather enjoy the Matthew McConaughey interview), then came home and started cutting out squares for my t-shirt quilt. I guess what I am probably looking at is multiple quilts, because I unearthed a big tub of shirts and two fairly sizable bags, and those are only the ones we have stopped wearing. I am thinking of making the b.h. an all ReM blanket because we have so many of those. Once I get them all cut I can arrange them by region, band, or theme, depending on how it all works out. As it is I am going to have a hard time deciding which ones to use first, because my skill level is absolute beginner. I am pretty excited about it, though.
Got an invitation to join some friends of ours for Moosefest this year. Having just watched the second season again just this week, I am seriously contemplating it. It's close to Seattle, so if it isn't fun we can always bolt. But how could it not be totally hilarious? I dunno. But it really sounds like the best way to ease our way into football season next year.
Ah well, I guess I'd best get in the shower and get to bed before the sun comes up and I have no chance of falling asleep.

Sneaky.

Lately Kilgore has taken to hiding things under a rug in the living room. Rawhides, Nylabones, and various stuffed and squeaky friends have been discovered in a lump under the coffee table. Now he's kicked it up a notch: The b.h. found a dinner plate, which had been left on the table the previous night, licked clean and tucked away. Fortunately it didn't break when he stepped on it.
The blueberry pie is absolutely fantastic. I am allowed to say so because I had absolutely nothing to do with it. The b.h. made the whole thing himself, including a vodka crust and whipped sour cream topping.
I hurt my knee the night before last, so after staying in bed way too late yesterday, I spent almost the entire day on the couch with an ice pack. The pecan pie will have to wait until Tuesday. I did shell some pecans to prep for it. Man, is that a pain in the ass. Now I understand why pecan halves cost seven bucks a pound even though they grow on every street in the whole state.

Wow.

I had forgotten how much I loved Music Hates You. It has been at least a year since I last saw them play, and they have only gotten better. I wish Noah would post their lyrics on the MySp@ce page, because if they are anywhere near as interesting or funny as the shit he says between songs then they would be a great read.
Anyway, I don't have much to say except that the whole show was great and I am very happy that there is a metal scene here in Athens. It isn't something that I listen to at home, but that's all the more reason why a good loud live show is perfect every once in awhile. Zoroaster is also kickass. Last time I saw them was with The Dumps a few months ago. Love it.

Business As Usual.

Thursday night I saw the Truckers at the 40 Watt. I was worried that it would be packed and my claustrophobia would kill me, but I managed okay. I got there later than I meant to, so I missed Bo Bedingfield. Got there about three songs into Don Chambers and Goat's set. They were fantastic as usual. The Truckers were great, too. It wasn't sold out, to my knowledge, but it was packed and I'm sure they raised a lot of money for Nuci's Space. I did spend a lot of time chatting with folks I never see anymore, but I caught more than half of the set.
Afterward I stopped down at Trapeeze, which is a lovely new bar that has something like two hundred different beers. A friend of mine works there, so I just popped my head in to say hi and get a look at the place. I didn't drink any at the time, since it was late and I was about to have to drive home, but I am certainly planning on stopping in there again soon. I love discovering new beer.
Friday was a bit chaotic. I slept late and we ran a bunch of errands, stopped to eat at Speakeasy and rushed home to watch the last two episodes of The Wire (season four) on DVD before I had to rush off to work again. Now my language has gone to shit (it didn't have that far to go, quite frankly) and we'll have to wait another year for the final season to come out. I think the second episode is airing tomorrow night. Luckily we have another disc of Benson on deck. I need some lighthearted comedy after all that.
Still plodding through Thunderstruck. Finished Bill Bryson's Shakespeare and am very close to the end of Terry Pratchett's Going Postal, if only I could stay awake long enough.
Tonight we're going to see Music Hates you at Tasty World. I look forward to seeing Noah Ray as both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
In food news, two things: Discovered that if you put a MOrningst@r Farms spicy black bean burger on top of a bowl of Annie's N@tural mac and cheese, it tastes pretty effing good.
Also, tomorrow the b.h. and I are going to make pies. I'm really looking forward to it.

Night of the Record Industry Douchebag (Jim ,this one's for You).

I was at a show the other night featuring one of the better Athens bands to arrive on the scene in the last year or so. I will avoid using their name in this post so that my rant doesn't come up if the douchebag in question does a G00gle search for them before deciding whether or not to sign them to a "deal".
Anyway, the band was playing last on a three band bill. In Athens, shows don't usually start before ten p.m., so that means that it's going to be a late night. Industry douche was made aware of this before attending the show.
The band that played second was having their last show- possibly ever, but at very least there is going to be a very extended hiatus. They knew that the headlining band was playing for a Label Douche, so they did their best to be quick. They were. They tore through their set with minimal talking in between, and they sounded fantastic.
During the set, I was looking around the room playing "Spot the Label Douche" with the b.h.
"Its either Leather Sleeves or Track Suit," I said confidently.

The guy in the Leather Sleeves was older, and he looked like he could have been one of the band member's dad. He had kind of mullet-ey hair, regular jeans, a t-shirt, regular gym shoes... basically looked like a regular guy who liked music and had better things to do than worry about his hair and his clothes. And his jacket was one of those H@rd Rock Cafe-type things, with the denim torso and leather sleeves. He could just as easily have been a truck driver as a Label Douche. He walked through the club without stopping at the bar, went to the back for a minute, then came back out front and sat by himself toward the back of the room.
Tack Suit, on the other hand, was pacing around furiously. He was wearing- you guessed it- an Adidas track suit. Also a white mesh baseball cap, designer horn rimmed glasses, and he had a fucking Blue Tooth sticking out of his head. Seriously. Because apparently when you're important, you never know who might call at twelve-thirty on a Tuesday night while you're standing in a rock club, and you are damned sure not going to miss a call. Oh yeah- he was also wearing a thumb ring. I thought those were reserved for guys with pirate shirts who had been to Burning M@n, but apparently not. As I said, he was pacing around like his ass was on fire, checking his watch, then checking his blackberry, then checking his watch again, and muttering loudly to himself, as if to convey to the rest of us that he was Somebody Who Should Not Be Made To Wait. He did not go to the bar for a drink.
When the middle band was almost finished (they were running very early, and were well within their set time, and could have played a few more songs), the band left the stage so the lead singer could play the last song solo. It is his band, and the songs are his, and this was his last show, at least for a very long time. And there were a number of us there to see him.
Track Suit accosted the guitar player for the second band, a total stranger, and proceeded to scold him for not loading his gear offstage immediately. He said they were being unprofessional. Loudly. Right next to the stage, where a solo acoustic song was closing the final set for a band that a lot of people were there to see.

Ding ding ding!! We have a winner!!

As it turned out, Leather Sleeves was also a record industry guy, but he was not a Label Douche. They stayed for about half of the set that the third band played. They seemed to think the band was good enough, but they (Label Douche in particular) did not at any time appear to be enjoying themselves. And I know that for them it is a job, but wouldn't you hope that a guy in that position actually enjoyed music? Somehow I doubt that he does, and this is what I believe is the problem with the music business. I had a flash of the Simpsons, of a scene where Nelson points at a newspaper guy and goes "Ha Ha! Your Industry is dying!!" I smiled to myself. I wanted to follow them out just so I could hear what Label Douche would say, but I didn't. I'm not sure what the band is looking for in a record "deal" but I hope that if they get one they don't have to rely on Label Douche too heavily.

Calling All Cars...

It never occurred to me before, but I guess linking this wherever possible might help.

Spring Break.

Well, not exactly. It isn't Spring, but it has been that warm for a couple of days now. And there were no co-eds, no exposed breasts, and no keg stands. My break consisted of doing the kind of yard work that I usually don't engage in until at least March.
Today I used my new wheelbarrow to collect pine straw and dead leaves from the further reaches of the yard and spread them over my garden beds and around the stones that line the driveway. I turned over a small patch and planted my new bulbs- crocuses, irises, and grape hyacinths, then covered them up with a very thin layer of mulch and marked the spot with my freshly broken rake (it's okay though - I was done using it for the day) so we remember not to mow over it when the time comes. Now I'm looking forward to yet another happy spot out there come spring.
It appears that I may yet see a gardenia or two out there. The bush that I planted last year, before our very late and very damaging frost, is still hanging on.

Yawn, Stretch.

Spent my birthday doing as little as possible, which was lovely. The b.h. made me pancakes with cranberries and apples and fresh pecans for breakfast. We went to visit his folks and picked up the wheelbarrow they got me for Christmas, along with some flower bulbs they gave me for my B-day.
We came home and watched the DVD of Hogfather, which the b.h. very cleverly acquired (and managed to hide from me) for me. It isn't out here in the States yet, so it really was a surprise. Our friend M. came to watch it with us. It was fantastic. I look forward to seeing the rest of the Discworld series adapted.
Got in bed fairly early last night, but that didn't make me get up any earlier. There's something about waking up late on a sunny morning and rolling back over. Even when it's a seventy degree day in January, sometimes you just have to be indulgent. And I was.
When I did finally get up, I took an entire carload of stuff over to Goodwill. Then I came back and vacuumed up the floor where all of it had been piled up for the last several days. After that, I decided to assemble my new wheelbarrow.
You will note that I said I decided to assemble it, not that I actually assembled it. There were no written directions in the box. The "directions" provided were in the form if three diagrams printed on the inside flaps of the box. Part of said diagram included an "actual size" drawing of various bolts, all of which were remarkably dissimilar to the actual bolts included in the package. I spent a few minutes cussing before I asked for some assistance from the b.h. As it turned out, it wasn't all that difficult, it was just a two man job. So now I have a functional wheelbarrow, and tomorrow I will have a well mulched garden bed.

I got Six Out of Ten.

Snarky? Yes. Hilarious? Absolutely. Go ahead, try it.

Home for the Holidays, Part Two.

Did I mention the drugs? No, I guess I forgot. I got some herbal drops at the dog store before we left. They have chamomile and valerian and a few other anti-anxiety type things. I felt a bit weird about them at first, but then I reassured myself that they were as much for the boys as they were for me. And they worked like a charm. A few drops on my homemade organic peanut butter biscuits and all was well in doggieland.
Once we had had a few hours' sleep, the b.h. and I spent the rest of Sunday mostly lying around in our pj's and watching t.v. with my folks. They got a new hi def set. I think it's pretty cool, but I don't necessarily feel compelled to run out and buy one or anything.
Went out to my aunt and uncle's house for Christmas Eve. My dad's side. It was low-key and pleasant. Karaoke was in full swing when we ducked out. The dogs were left at home, and there were no fires and no bodily fluid accidents when we got back. Christmas was at my sister's house with the other side of the family. Good fun. Again the boys were good. I think my folks really liked having them around, which is great, because I was hoping against hope for mere tolerance of their presence.

(So I ditched that nasty IPA and now I'm drinking a Wolaver's Brown Ale. Certified Organic and Tasty, to boot, it hails from Vermont. I have been taking a close look at Vermont lately, and quite frankly, if it weren't for that whole Fucking Cold Winter thing, I think I'd already be there.)

The next couple days weren't quite as cold, and walking the dogs several times a day was a lot less painful. And my parents' neighborhood has sidewalks and a park just down the street. The boys loved it, though they found the snow rather confusing.



The rest of the trip was more of the same. We ate pizza, we did some (food) shopping, we hung out with family and friends. We got home in just over thirteen hours on Saturday. Wyatt had so much fun that he was back in the car before we had even finished unpacking it.



Sunday was more purging (got rid of a bunch of VHS tapes and various other shit we no longer need) and a quiet night by the fire watching new DVDs.

Dare I?

I mean really, dare I have just a little hope?
Yeah, I do. I know it's probably naive.

In other news, Shayne's Blog is pretty fucking funny. Check it out. I don't know how I kept missing it. (Was I just looking at your profile by accident? I dunno.) Anyway, good stuff. I can't wait to hear the rest of the Santa story.

In still other news, I am almost finished watching season one of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations, which I purchased for the b.h. for Xmas. And the new season of The Wire (the last season) starts next Sunday. And we still haven't gotten through the one that just came out on DVD. Man that is good shit.
Right now I am watching Season Six of The West Wing, which one of us got from one of our sisters. It's like porn in our house. If you haven't seen it or you lean right politically, you wouldn't understand. It's okay. I know we're not normal.
The dogs are both passed out on either end of the couch. I am having a South American I.P.A. that I got from Trader Joe's in Chicago. It isn't that great. As soon as I am able to get off my ass, I am going to the kitchen to dump it and get something else. I got one of those mixed six packs so I could try some beer that I can't get down here.
Still reading Thunderstruck, which I got from K. I like it a lot, but I find myself constantly thinking about the comment that PMcB made a few weeks ago about it being an "NPR novel." He's right, and it's a little distracting. We got the new Shakespeare biography by Bill Bryson on audio book, and are most of the way through it. Same with Terry Pratchett's Going Postal.
More on our trip home in a bit.

Busy, Bigger, and Back.

The beavers, that is. We haven't seen them at all this year, and last year there were only a couple sightings of a very small pair - more like big bunnies than small dogs, they were back then - and who could blame them? Without much water, building a dam was rather beside the point.
Cut to Sunday morning. Five hours after we arrived home, I am awakened by an unfamiliar sound. It is very loud, and it seems to be coming from all around me all at once. I am momentarily confused, and then I realize that there is a very heavy rain falling on our tin roof. Fabulous. Wyatt grumbles as I roll over and burrow a little deeper under the covers. When i wake up again in another five hours, it is still pouring. Fabulous. This is the most rain I can remember having at once. By the end of the day. The pond in front of our house is back to a level that it hasn't seen this year. There is no standing water in our yard, though, because the ground is soaking it right up.
And today, not twenty minutes ago, we pulled into the driveway and saw a familiar ripple on the surface of the pond. At first we assumed it was the dozen or so ducks that have been hanging out lately, but then we saw them: The telltale lumps on the surface of the water, preceded by small branches that seem to be moving on their own.
"Oh no you don't," the b.h. says, giving the beavers the frowning of a lifetime through the car window. His voice is low and menacing.
"There are two of them," I say quietly. "And they look big."
"I will kick your ass" threatens the b.h. in a low voice, craning his neck to keep an eye on them as we round the curve in the driveway.

Roadtrip Recap.

As you may have noticed from that last post, I'm back. The trip was fun. It started out a little rough, very cold and raining sideways when we left on Saturday night. The first stop for gas was about twenty miles down the road, and as soon as the dogs had relieved themselves they sprinted back to the car and didn't so much as ask to be let out again. Our guys have always liked the car, but we have never driven them more than a few hours at a time, so we weren't sure what to expect. They were fine.
It was a bit of a white knuckle flight up to Chattanooga due to very light rain- not a good downpour that might cause people to slow down and drive responsibly, no. Just enough to wet the pavement and bring all the oil and grime to the surface, making it extra slick while allowing stupid people comfort at high speeds. (Also, this makes timing the windshield wipers a real bitch, and I absolutely abhor the sound they make when they scrape across too-dry glass, so I spent a lot of time flicking them on and off manually.)
We wasted at least an extra forty minutes by stopping a couple times to try to find new wiper blades. Imagine where you might have to go at 11pm two days before Christmas to get those. (I'll give you a hint: It rhymes with Tall Fart. Needless to say we sucked it up and stuck with the old ones.)
When we got out to refill the tank in Tennessee, the rain had stopped but it was colder and very windy. Again the dogs did their business and hopped immediately back into the car without complaint.
By the time we hit Illinois, the wind was blowing at 35 miles per hour, with gusts of up to 50. I was exhausted and therefore stopping quite often to caffeinate. I tried to nap at a couple points but couldn't. The boys were often sleeping through whole stops at this point. Just getting out of the car for a minute was a real jolt, though, so I kept from falling asleep at the wheel.
Finally, after a couple hours of this, they woke up and had to go again. It was about eight in the morning on the 23rd. We happened to be at an exit where there was a shopping mall. The wind was blowing with incredible force across giant piles of snow in the parking lot, making it seem like a small blizzard. Kilgore was crying- he really, really had to go. We finally got through the light, and I punched it into the B3st Buy- there were some trees and a bit of grass, so it seemed logical. Traffic was heavy and loud, and it was fairly close by. The dogs jumped out and immediately looked back at me through the windshield.
"WTF?" their furry faces seemed to say. "Where the hell have you brought us?" Kilgore is very shy. He will not poop in front of anybody unless he can't possibly hold it anymore. He will, however, piss directly into a fifty mile an hour gust. And that he did. He missed the tree completely, but luckily he also missed the b.h.
When we got to my parent's house at around ten-thirty, mom was already pre-heating the oven. Chicago's finest pizza had been purchased on the previous evening, and I couldn't think of a better brunch after a long drive.

Interesting Idea.

I just read this story about the Brits banning junk food ads from television shows marketed to young children. I love the idea, of course, but I think one could argue that we should ban ALL advertising to kids. Hell, for that matter we should ban all advertising. On the other hand, is it the role of the government? And if so, then isn't it also the role of the government to demand that giant food corporations actually put some food in our food? And tell M@cdonald's (et. al.) to stop putting additives in their "food" that causes addiction?
I wonder if the British food industry is as bad as ours. Additives? Over-processing? Fillers? If they do, and their government has the balls to try and do something about it, dare I hope that ours may someday follow suit?

Road Trip, Plus Dogs.

So we'll be bringing our boys home with us for the holidays. I'm a bit concerned, but mostly excited. They have only seen snow once in their little doggy lives, and since Wyatt's legs are only about six inches long, it ought to be a hoot. I just hope we don't lose him :)
The thing is, my folks aren't used to having dogs around, and since their only grandchild is rapidly approaching legal drinking age(holy crap I feel old), it has been years since their house was anything like child-proof. Our boys are sweet, but they are big and clumsy, so we're going to have to be careful.
Today the b.h. and I ventured out to get some supplies (new dog bed, car charger for the iPod, doggie treats with breath freshener, and other various trip-related needs). It took about three times as long as it should have, due to last-minute shoppers and a few "extras" that we stumbled across, like a new pair Clarke's shoes for the b.h.; One more reason I love the British), but we made it. Now I am finishing up the last of the laundry. I gave Kilgore a very thorough bath so he'll be extra grandparent friendly. The b.h. will have to wash Wyatt because my back has had it today.

Sigh. Just realized that I have to run back out. Gotta go.
In case I don't get back before then, Happy Holidays, y'all.

Memories.

I just got off the phone with K. She seems to be enjoying New York (if not her job and the weather, then at least the adventure). She talked about getting a job on the subway. I first thought she was talking about getting a job at Subway, the mediocre-at-best sandwich shop chain. I of course assumed that she was saying it sarcastically, expressing frustration at the current restaurant job. Finally, I realized she meant The Subway, not A Subway, and I though that might actually be a kind of cool job.

I suddenly had a memory of a woman who used to drive the Blue Line train I rode when I lived with my sister and brother-in-law in Oak Park. She was young, I thought, for her job. She was exceptionally pretty- model-like, even. She always wore a collared shirt and always, no matter what the weather, wore gloves. I never spoke to her, but since I often rode home late at night I would sit in the front car (safer, as at least you know you won't be alone) and watch what she did, what her job entailed. If you ride in the front, you can see all the traffic signals and speed limit signs. I realized that it was quite similar to driving. I also realized that like most drivers, many of the conductors had their own interpretation of the speed limit.

Anyway, one night I was riding home, and there were no other people on the train aside from this unnaturally beautiful conductor and me. The train stopped and a few young guys got on. They were loud and cocky and I don't know if they knew her or not, but they were sure paying her a hell of a lot of attention. She just kept on doing her job. They stood in the aisle a few feet away from her. A few more people got on at the next couple stops, mostly working people who were either getting on or off a shift, based on the way they were dressed. After a while these guys started to get aggressive toward some of the other passengers. They were looking for a fight, trying to prove that that were men. (They weren't). Several of us were getting nervous, and eventually having a hard time avoiding eye contact. And this girl, this young, quiet, incredibly striking woman, stopped the train at the next stop and basically told them to shut the fuck up or get off the fucking train. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't lose her cool. And they didn't really respond. They just shook their heads and walked out, laughing and not looking back. When the doors closed everybody in the car relaxed. Nobody looked around. A few stops later, I was gathering up my stuff and heading for the door. I walked up to the booth where she stood and thanked her. She didn't turn around (the train was still moving), but she smiled and nodded in my direction. And when she turned her head just a little, I noticed, for the first time, the skin on her neck, just above her collarbone, that was peeking out of the very top of her shirt. It was covered with what could only be burn scars.
Not that this has anything to do with K or her potential new career. It was just something I thought of. I wish K would come back.

Ouch.

I just got back from the ER. A friend of ours had a wreck on his bicycle today, and wound up with both elbows broken and a very mashed up face. Before you get the wrong idea, he brought this on himself. D is one of those guys who rides a tiny bike and does tricks and videotapes himself doing the kind of hideously dangerous shit that makes people cringe (and moms freak out). He's going to be pretty fucked up for awhile, unable to use either arm for at least six weeks. Poor guy.

Customer of the Night #412

This one is pretty common, actually, and would hardly land her in a blog post if I had had any trouble or anything interesting to say about work this week. But I didn't, so I'm using it. This may not make sense to non-bar types, but trust me when I tell you that it drives us all crazy, and it happens all the time.

My first customer of the night. Youngish woman, maybe twenty-five, walks up to the bar. She has obviously already been drinking, but is not wasted. She has a somewhat goofy grin on her face.
Me: Hi- what can I get for you?

Her: I want a Jag- I want a STRONG Jager bomb.

Me: Okay.

I pour the shot. And, because she made a point of telling me she wanted it strong, I actually measured exactly one shot of Jager into the glass. Usually I free pour, and there is a much better chance that you will get more liquor on a free pour, but since she was obviously expecting something "extra" for free, I was making absolutely sure that she was getting exactly one and a half ounces. This sounds passive-aggressive, I know, but this kind of request is totally stupid, and as I said, it happens all the time. (You want me to steal form my boss so you can get drunk on less money? And we've never met? Sure! I'll get right on that!)
So I bring her the drink, set it in front of her, and reach for the money she is handing me. As I grasp her money in my hand, she jerks it back and says

"Wait- is it strong?"

And rather than drinking it myself (eew) and telling her to go fuck herself (which any bartender will tell you that I would have been totally justified in doing), I smiled politely and said
"I guarantee you that there is a whole shot of Jager in there."

Idiot.

Heh.

http://www.avclub.com/content/feature/the_worst_band_names_of_07

The B.H. Puts His Foot In His... Something

So we were at work the other day, and a regular customer came in and handed out some stickers. They said I (Heart) Head.
The b.h. and our boss each had one on their shirts. One guy put his on his daughter. This was only funny because it was only us. Obviously we all knew it was in poor taste, but we were having a laugh. Then we got back to business.
There was a lot of work to be done. Our Christmas party is coming up, so I was cleaning shelves and mirrors and trying to gussy the place up a bit. We also got a lot of liquor in that day for a big party coming up. By the time we left, I was exhausted. Still, we needed to stop at the grocery store for a few things.
When we got in line, we were both talking animatedly about whatever was on our minds, so we didn't notice at first that the girl at the checkout counter seemed slightly weirded out. Finally, our total was totalled and I was counting out my money. The b.h. was bagging our stuff and the girl said
"I love head? Does that mean what I think it means?"

The b.h. turned several shades of red- purple, even. He immediately ripped the sticker off of his chest, crumpled it up, and said
"It means I'm a really classy guy."

My House Just Got Another Enema.

That's why I haven't been writing lately. I'm a pack rat at heart and I can't help it. I have been through boxes and boxes and closets and piles and files. It has taken a long time and a lot of effort.

Oh, and it has been almost eighty degrees for the last four days, so I have been making myself busy outside some of the time. I know that should be awesome- beats the hell outta snow, right?- but it's not. Eighty degrees in December scares the hell out of me. And the geese are confused. I think they've been back and forth a few times. They look tired and angry.

So there are a lot of CDs in a pile that are going away. Those of you who know me and have any requests, speak now or you will have to fight Ort for them at Potter's House. Oh yeah- I have some pretty cool vintage dishes, too. Anyone? Bueller?

I figured out that our lawn mower is broken. We haven't used it in months, because the lack of rain has meant that nothing is growing. But now I'm starting to lose sight of Wyatt when he goes out there so I thought I would cut the grass. No such luck. Anybody got a mower I can borrow? Or buy?

In other news, some of the jelly I made is actually jelly, as opposed to syrup. That makes me happy. I finally found unsweetened coconut in a store and now I can't remember what recipe I needed it for. Martha Stewart is still the devil. (How does she always have EXACTLY WHAT I NEED?) Dog biscuits are on the agenda for this evening. I'm baking those and some chocolate chip cookies. With the doors open. In December.

You're Kidding, Right?

Note to a former Athens resident with an already questionable reputation who visited my bar last night:
When you open a tab with a useless credit card, get drunk, and make a run for the door when we ask you to pay up, coming in the next day with a resume' is probably pointless.


Nope, I'm not kidding.

The Healing Power of Rock and Roll.

If there is a more energetic live band than J. Roddy Walston and the Business, then I'll eat my hat. Of course, I don't really wear a hat, but I do have a nice chocolate bar in the cabinet...
Anyway, J. Roddy and the Business played a show at Tasty World on Saturday night that was unfuckingbelievable. Seriously. I cannot recommend this band enough. I was extra happy because my friend J has never seen them before on account of his having two jobs and always being at work when they play. Saturday night the Rock Gods were smiling on J, and he finally got to see them. I had talked them up so much that he could only have assumed I was exaggerating, but midway through the second song, he came over to me with his arm held flat in front of my face and said
"I literally have chills."

They are just that kind of band.

I remarked to J that the thing I love about JRoddy is that they play like every song is their last. Not the last song of the set, mind you, but the last song they will ever play. Ever.

I am still basking in the afterglow.

Customer of the Night #193

This kid seemed a little dim from the word go. He was young, kind of beefy, and bearded. He had come to see one of the bands. He opened a tab and asked what my cheapest beer was. (This, for those of you who are not in the service industry, is almost always viewed as Not A Good Sign by those of us who are. Unless of course, you are in a place where tipping is not the cultural norm. I don't know what those folks think).
Anyway, COTN 193 proceeded to order six of my cheapest beer, one at a time, over the next two and a half hours. When his friends were almost through playing, he came up and closed his tab, leaving me no tip whatsoever. Whatever. I did not react, but merely continued closing down the bar. About five minutes later, a guy I know came up to the bar and told me that COTN 193 was smashing a beer bottle under the table where he was sitting. He hadn't just accidentally knocked it over (which would have been understandable after six beers), but was in fact smashing the broken pieces even smaller with his boot heel. His friend looked on in what appeared to be mild amusement. I thanked the guy who told me and went on closing the bar. When the band finished their last song, I went back to the supply closet, retrieved a broom and dustpan, and brought it out the COTN 193. Shoving it at him, I explained that he was now "Going to clean up that bottle you just smashed all over my floor."
He took the broom and dustpan without a word and went to clean it up. I followed him, shouting across the bar for D to turn on the lights so that COTN 193 could be sure to get it all. His friends looked puzzled, then embarrassed. They started loading out their gear.
After he finished, he handed the broom and dustpan back to me and said "I left you a good tip." As if this was somehow going to make up for his general stupidity and utter lack of manners.
"Actually, you didn't. But that's beside the point. You're acting like an asshole. Stop it."
I went back to cleaning the bar.

Sometimes I'm Socially Awkward.

On Wednesday night I went to Farm 255 to see a show. It was a benefit for the Robert Osbourne Film Festival, which will be coming to our fair city early next year. The main reason I went was to see Dave Marr, but also featured on the bill were Patterson Hood, Don Chambers, Bo Bedingfield, Dave Barbe, Brad Morgan, John Neff, and, occasionally, Clay Leverett. It was fantastic. Dave sings like the smoothest shot of honey-flavored whiskey you've ever had. He played several of my favorites. Patterson pulled out some old tunes you never get to hear anymore (well, at least I don't), and Donnie did a cover of Gordon Lightfoot's Sundown that was so good it deserves to be in regular rotation at his shows. As for Bo, well, I think he is maybe the best songwriter you haven't heard of (yet) in Athens.
I came in just as they were about to start, and went up to the bar to grab a beer. "Grabbing" wasn't really possible, however. There was a sizable crowd and the bartenders both had their hands quite full. I ran into Dave at the bar and we were still waiting to order when the first couple notes were struck from the stage, so he asked me to order the beer he needed and went off to start the show.
I got my beer, got the beer he needed, and made my way past the stage area, dropping off his beer on my way as surreptitiously as possible, and scooted into a seat at a table nearby. The table was occupied, luckily, by a familiar band of Trucker wives and friends, all of whom I was happy to see. I noticed several songs into the set that He Who Must Not Be Named was at the other end (the head) of the (very long- there were several tables connected, actually) table. I remembered that I had joked years ago that I was going to title my Athens memoir "An Illinois Yankee in King Michael's Court." I smiled to myself a little, savoring that moment and the memory and thinking about how I was going to go home and blog about it- and then I realized that I probably looked like a stalker, gaping at the poor man from the other end of the table. A got up quickly and went to the bar for another beer. When I returned to the table, I made certain not to look like I might even be thinking about turning my head in his direction. I kept my eyes riveted on the stage. I'm sure it all looked very natural.