Dripping and Shivering

When we were still dating, sometimes The Magster Magdus and I would take showers together. When the shower was over, we would throw back the curtain, grab our towels, and wrap them about ourselves. She would step out onto the bathmat and begin to dry her body and hair. I would not, instead choosing to shiver and complain about the cold world outside the shower, mustering up the initiative to step out of the tub. She would chastise me for dripping dry instead of toweling off. Often she was fully dried and dressed before I would begin to mop the remaining moisture from my skin.

But this isn't about Magdus or showering. It's about dripping and shivering.

My shower ended last year. I threw back the curtain and stepped out of the tub onto the Chicago area. Since then I've been watching my friends getting dressed and getting ready for the rest of their lives.

For starters, Magdus is finding peace and reconnecting with her family. As for my other Kansas City friends, P. Tott is finding his niche and advancing in his career. Katie has her Master's now. Rachel has her own place and is enjoying her job. Jaysix is finishing up one of his Semi-Concrete Life Goals™. Here near Chicago, Nico has gotten a place with her boyfriend and is taking classes. Happy Time and Stellar are learning how to not only live with addiction, but also live better in spite of it and because of it.

All the while, I seem to be huddled in my towel, dripping and shivering -- wishing to move on.

December Photo Dump

twins 2

I forgot to mention that I dropped the last of my pictures from 2008 into Flickr. Be prepared for a lot of photos of annoyingly adorable chihuahua puppies.

Yosh

In a Hispanic accent, Josh sounds like "yosh." Apparently, the Mexican stockmen at the Piggly Wiggly know me better than I thought.

Missing Kansas City

Two days ago, I stayed the night in Kansas City on my way to visit my parents in southern Missouri. Despite being in town for less than twelve hours, and only going from Union Station to my sister's house, I realized how much I missed the city.

It wasn't the city -- the location, the buildings, the lights, the smell -- that I missed so much as my ideas and memories of the place. I miss knowing my way around. I miss having pride in my city and community. I miss feeling like I was making progress in my life. I miss feeling like I had some things figured out. I miss feeling freedom. I miss drinking to excess. I miss not having to worry about money. I miss loving a girlfriend. I miss friends I'd had since highschool.

Of course, nostalgia hits you in the heart, not the head: I don't miss frustration with work and discontent with my professional life. I don't miss different groups of friends not getting along and growing distant from my lover. I don't miss wasted time and bad decisions.

I have some good memories of and feelings toward my Chicago experience so far, but nothing like those of KC. I want to feel as fond of my new city as much as I do of my old one. Perhaps time is the only remedy for this.

I Bet Mine Was Better

Fox is going to adapt 9-year-old's book about talking to girls. How come no major studios picked up the book I wrote in 2nd grade about how to make a mustud and cheeze sandwich?

Adventures in Craigslisting, Part 7: Hard Bargains

This post is the long-overdue finale to my Adventures in Craigslisting. I might even call it the piece de resistance of the series. So, please, sit back, relax, and enjoy.

This tale starts not with me trying to sell my car, but with my once-and-previous roommate, Jaysix Usaustin, trying to sell our crap before moving out of our place in Kansas City.

We listed most of the major items in the Garage Sale section and then cross-posted into several other sections (furniture, electronics, etc.) and made it clear (I thought) that these were not all the items we had for sale and that they were not described in full detail because we had so many. At the end of each post we instructed the reader, if interested, to come by the sale and check the items out in person.

Immediately, we began to receive questions about specific items, how they looked and in what condition were they. To most of these questions I replied something like, "We have too many items to describe in detail. Please drop by and check them out for yourself."

Now, I understand the incredible power of communication over the internet, that information can nigh instantaneously be transmitted over vast distances without either sender or sendee ever leaving their chairs. But this is not the point of a rummage sale, now is it? The point of a rummage sale is to get up off your duff and scour through mounds of useless crap that your neighbor is trying to get rid of. The point is not to have him describe every item in detail to you before you think about checking it out. This would pretty much be a waste of everyone's time.

Well, this didn't sit well with one potential customer, but I'm getting ahead of myself. First, here is his initial inquiry:

From: [Collector]

Hello,
I was wondering if you could tell me what games you have with the Sega Genisis? Do they all come with the cases and booklets that came with them? Is everything in good condition? Sorry for the questions I am actually a collector. Please let me know how much you would like for everything and for individual games.
Thank you
[Collector]

Seeing that I might have the opportunity to get rid of a whole bunch of stuff at once, I thought I'd forgo the usual "come check this crap our yourself" and give him enough details to say "Yes, I'll take it all." So, I replied:

From: [Mr McBastard]

The games are Sonic the Hedgehog 2, TMNT Tournament Fighters, Risk, and Herzog Zwei (all with original cases and instructions), and also Vectorman and Comix Zone (no cases).

I've kept the system in its original box. Everything worked the last time I played it, but that was nearly 10 years ago. I have not opened it up since then.

I'm really just trying to get rid of this stuff, so does $25 sound like a deal?

Also, I have a Playstation (complete system with original box) with games (no original cases) and a Nintendo 64 (unfortunately, no box, controllers, or games). Are you interested in either of those?

--[Mr McBastard]

If you give 'em an inch, the saying goes, they'll take your sanity. Collector had a favor to ask of me:

From: [Collector]

I hate to ask this but can you send me some pics of the Sega Genisis box so I can see the condition of it? That would really help me a lot. Could you send a pick of the N64 deck as well
Thank you
[Collector]

After having responding to dozens of pointless Craigslisters' questions over the previous weeks, I could see that this wasn't going anywhere. Also, I doubted that Collector really "hated to ask" me this favor; if he really hated to, I doubt he would have done it. Anyway, I reverted to my standard response:

From: [Mr McBastard]

I'm sorry, but we've got quite a few items, too many to take pictures of each one. If you're interested, please stop by the address listed in the posting and get a glimpse of it first-hand. Sorry again.

--[Mr McBastard]

Note: I really wasn't "sorry." Or "sorry again," for that matter.

He responded:

From: [Collector]

I just want to see the condition of the box and I will take it off your hands.

I concluded that this guy was just another time-waster. No real collector would just want to see a picture to determine the condition of the item they're collecting before they bought it. If he really did collect, he would get up off his ass and come to my house to look at it himself, to see what scratches, dents, and tears were there that a photograph wouldn't show. So, if this guy just needed to see a crappy picture of the box to determine the condition, I figured a crappy description would be just as good:

From: [Mr McBastard]

The box is in pretty good condition: a few minor scuffs on the surface and a little wear along the edges and corners. I'd say it's really good for being 15 years old.

I received his reply:

From: [Collector]

I need to see pics so I'm gonna pass thank you though.

Oh no! He wasn't going to buy my discarded crap unless I did everything he said! Who didn't see this one coming? Well, not to be out-douched, I sent him a reply:

From: [Mr McBastard]

You drive a hard bargain. Attached is a picture of the box.

--[Mr McBastard]

photograph courtesy of Jaysix Usaustin

He was not pleased:

From: [Collector]

Dude you are a waste of flesh and my time. I will be removing your posting.

"A waste of flesh and my time?" Funny, I was thinking the same thing.

Holiday Spirit

Yesterday I was thankful that I actually cursed-out a customer. It has been a dream of mine since high school, and it was finally realized in a nearly justified manner.

I worked as a cashier yesterday, instead of at the Service Desk, because no other cashiers wanted to work on a major US holiday that a grocery store has no business being open on anyway. About half-way through the day, I began scanning one guy's groceries and asked him, as I am required to do of every customer, if he had a Piggly Wiggly Preferred Club Card. He responded, "Not with me."

This is a typical response, to which I usually and did reply, "Would you like me to look it up for you?" (We have a subprogram on our registers that allow us to look up customers' Preferred Card information if they forget to bring it with them.)

He said, "If you want to."

This is an atypical response; "Yes" or "No" (or something similar) is what I usually get. It is never left up to me to decide such things. Why would it be? It's not my food; it's not my money. So, I replied in my usual deadpan snarkiness, "Well, I don't want to, but I will if you want me to." I expected a chuckle or smile and a real answer to my question. I received none of these these.

At the end of his order I asked again, "So, do you want me to look up your card for you?"

"Don't put yourself out," he said with a roll of his eyes.

Okay, I thought, so, we're being pricks about this.

"Look," I said, "I've already asked you twice if you want me to look it up for you. So, do you?" Sometimes it's hard for me to understand why these little things are such a big deal to people.

"And I said, 'If you want to.'"

"And then I said that I didn't want to but I would if you said so," I said with an implied "So what?" at the end.

"Well, that's some great attitude."

"Sorry for being honest." I waited, hoping he would just say "Yes, fine, just look it up already!" and we could finish the transaction. We looked at each other. He wasn't budging. Seconds swam by. I finally called it. "Okay, so that's a 'No.'" I told him his total.

As he swiped his credit card, "You're the worst one here," he said in regards to the renown the store has for hiring cranky help.

By this point I was done. "Okay," I said, knowing this to, in fact, be false, but not wanting to encourage him. He had all the courage he needed.

"I'm going to call your manager tomorrow."

I nodded and raised my eyebrows, as if to say, "Neat, I love threats." If you've got nothing better to do on your holiday weekend than tattle on the mean kid at the checkout counter, then, bud, you've got to find a hobby.

He continued, "That's just fucking laziness is what it is."

My finger hovered over the last button on the register for a second before pressing it. Did he just call me "fucking lazy?" Should I curse him back? The receipt printer hummed under my hand. No, I know you really want to, but just let him have his last word. I tugged the receipt loose from the printer and turned to the angry man. But he said "fuck." Why can't I say "fuck," too? His eyes glared at me, dared me, taunted me. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. "Well..." I said. Part of me sighed and hung it's head at another part that was beaming like an overjoyed child. You've already started; you might as well finish. I handed him his receipt. "... fuck you, too."

He walked away muttering more curses under his breath. Are you happy?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Coming Out

So, some of you have known this for some time now, and the rest of you may have already guessed. But I think it's time I finally came out of the closet. I can't hide the truth anymore: I have a beard.

I know some of you may disapprove of my beard; you may find my "alternative lifestyle choice" to be "unnatural" or "against God's plan." But why would God make hair grow on our faces if he did not want us to have beards? Others of you may think that my beard goes against traditional American values. However, just look to the past for numerous examples of great Americans who wore beards and wore them with pride.

I know some of you may be afraid of me now, but you have nothing to be frightened of. I don't want to "corrupt" your children and convince them to grow beards. I don't want to push some bearded agenda on you. I am not a pervert or a freak. I am a person -- the same person I have always been -- just with facial.

I want the same rights and privileges you enjoy: freedom from harassment, equal opportunity for employment, and the right to marry whomever I choose. I know this last one may be a offensive to some. Some people believe that this would destroy the traditional definition of marriage -- that it is a contract between a clean-shaven man and a clean-shaven woman. To you I say, Perhaps it is time to change this tradition (if it indeed exists at all) and progress into the future, when everyone will be free to love anyone he or she chooses, regardless of facial hair.

Something New Under the Sun

I thought I'd seen every mullet there was to see, but, thanks to the National Geographic Channel, I've now seen a Sumatran Mullet -- a dark, curly, business-in-front-party-in-back hairdo gracing the head of a farmer on the island of Sumatra.

Army Recruitment Video

Why is it that Army recruitment commercials only depict black, urban families or white, rural families? There's never a white, suburban kid trying to convince his parents to let him go into the Army, which you'd think would be the largest untapped market.

I think such a video could go something like this:

Middle-class, white family standing in the driveway.

KID: Thanks, Mom and Dad! This Scion xB is the perfect graduation present. But you know what I really want? To join the Army!

FATHER: I don't know, son. Your mother and I were all ready to pay for your college education in full; we just don't know about you earning money for college for yourself.

MOTHER: Well now, Father, let's just listen to our son for a minute. After all, the Johnsons next door let their son join the Army. Maybe we ought to think about this.

KID: Yeah, Dad. Plus, I've done a lot of research and found that I might get woefully inadequate compensation and horrible health care benefits, and I'll get to be a pawn for large corporate interests ... just like you!

MOTHER: He might even learn such things as Respect and Honor; things us parents or teevee can't possibly teach a child.

KID: Well, that is, if I don't die first.

They all laugh.

FATHER: Well, OK. I'm convinced.

VOICE OVER: If your son or daughter asks about the Army, listen.

Don't Take the Rice So Literally

This story comes straight from the What The Fuck files: A man came into the store yesterday and approached the service counter. He had the shifting eyes and huffiness of a person that cannot believe they must suffer the great indignity of making a formal complaint. I waited with annoyed anticipation to discover what inexcusable tragedy had no doubt befallen this poor soul. "What can I do for you?"

He set a box of instant rice on the counter and flicked a receipt at me. "I want a refund for this."

I grabbed a pen and began to fill the Returned Merchandise form.

Date: 11/2/08
Item: Minute Rice
Reason for Return:

"And what's the reason you want to return this?" I asked with faux interest.

"It doesn't cook in a minute." I stopped writing and hoped, just hoped, that he was joking. I looked up and saw on his face that he was not joking in the slightest. I sighed the deepest sigh and trudged forth through the mire of mind-numbing ignorance.

The story ends with him walking away in a huff, leaving his half-used box of Minute Rice behind because it was "worthless." I can't help but wonder how many cups of rice he could have cooked in the time it took him to drive to the store, make an utter ass out of himself, refuse to file a complaint with the manufacturer, waste my time, and then drive back home.

Dear Kevin Smith

Stop it with the man capris already.

Self Hyphen

Where is the line between self-indulgence and self-loathing? Or is it all just selfishness?

A Question for the Class

Does a lack of compassion have any practical applications?

iFail

I had lost my iPod Shuffle a few weeks ago, but I found it last week ... in the bottom of the washing machine. I let it dry and plugged it into the USB port (It's a 1st generation.), and was surprised that it synced to iTunes. However, when I plugged in my earbuds, I was saddened to find that it no longer played. Oh well, at least I can still use it as a 1G flash drive.

So, in order to assuage my deep sorrow over the loss of my beloved technological distraction, I've put a replacement on my Wish List. Although, instead of another shuffle, I'd like to try out an iPod Touch. I promise not to stupidly leave this one in my pants pocket.

New Sneakers

old sneakers

I've had the same pair of sneakers since the end of my sophomore year of college, circa 2003. That's longer than my longest relationship, and they've put up with more abuse than my exgirlfriend. That's longer than I've lived in one place, and they feel more comfortable than any place I've called "home" in a while.

But I think it's time to put them out to pasture. The tread, where it's still visible, is faint and shallow. I've worn through the sole on the heal and across the pad of my feet on both shoes, and my socks get wet when I walk on wet grass or through the shallowest of puddles. The toe has been starting to separate from the left shoe. I ripped out the loose insole lining of the right shoe years ago. Surprisingly, they don't smell too terribly bad.

I just bought a new pair of sneakers, a discount pair of red, grey, and black Converse. (I was going to get a pair of Chucks, but they didn't have any good-looking one's on sale.) So, I'll check back in when I'm thirty and let you know how they're holding up.

He's Followed Me

I was standing around at work, minding my own business, expressly not working, when a regular customer who knows my name (even when I "forget" my name tag) called out to me in distress. I turned my head and raised my eyebrows before I even realized she'd called out for "Josh" to help her.

So, he's here, too; Josh moved here with me. And he apparently hasn't had much luck finding a job in the city, either, and is working at the Piggly Wiggly, too. Or else he just likes to hang out at grocery stores and get to know cranky old ladies who can't open the ladies bathroom door because the handle sticks a little.

Either way, I'm glad to know he's alive and well. I was starting to get worried about him.

Text Message Apologies

I'd rather get no apology at all than a text message apology. I don't want to have to pay my cell phone provider just to know that you want me to forgive you.

Bacon Chocolate

The Long-Dater, with whom I've gone out on several more dates over the past couple of months, gave me a gift when we met up last Friday: A chocolate bar with bacon bits inside. It was delicious; salty and sweet mixed together perfectly. My only complaint is that there wasn't enough bacon. Perhaps I should try chocolate-covered bacon. Anyone with a fondue pot want to come over and try some experiments?

Banks Can't Swim

While standing in line at the bank, I heard one guy tell his friend that "he didn't believe in banks." This is a statement that I would expect out of a grizzled old man with a dip of chaw in his lip and his 'coon-hunting rifle in his grip, not from a twenty-something prep-punk that follows his buddy to the bank. Though, with the way financial institutions in America have been going under like so many unsupervised kids at the public pool, I don't begrudge anyone not trusting in banks anymore.