Musings
Gas Station Etiquette?
This concept is completely new to me. Last I checked, gas stations were a “first come, first serve” sorta dynamic. People go in, get their gas, bitch and moan about the price, then leave. I was keenly unaware that there exists a form of code of conduct for it. Let’s review.
Believe it or not, I was out and about for a good reason; a good deed even. A friend of mine, wrought with stomach flu, had requested that I pick up some Tylenol for them. As most would know, if it’s a friend or family member, I will usually assist if it’s in my power to do so.
I went out to my car, but realized the damn thing was on “E”. I forgot to fill the tank the night before. The Safeway gas station was on the way to Walgreen’s. Once I started driving, however, I slipped into autopilot mode and spaced the gas station entirely. So, I bee-lined to the Walgreen’s instead.
I picked up the Tylenol PM, a couple of Cadbury eggs and continued off to said friend’s place. She answered the door - definitely under the weather - wondered how much it was, but I told her not to worry about it. Even had to emphasize that I was sure about it. After all, this was supposed to be a good deed, right?
Upon leaving her complex, I noticed I’d also skipped a Chevron station on the way as well. I must’ve been really out of it to miss two gas stations. I shrugged, though, and figured I’d backtrack to the Safeway one since I had the requisite “Club Card”. (Ooooo, special.)
When I got there, the place was packed; as was expected for rush hour. A two-tier fuel truck also made it difficult for people to exit. The line was at least two to three cars long. I hate when this happens. You see, I have one of those nifty cars that has a gas tank…on the passenger side. Not the driver’s. This makes maneuvering in crowded gas stations exceptionally difficult.
Luck was on my side, though, for on the inner left side of the station there was an opening. Just shy of the fuel truck, no less. I bypassed the car line and stuck my nose in. That’s where things got hairy. One car decided to leave, passing through the station dock and out, thus allowing a very irate woman to come through.
“You do know there was a line, didn’t you!?” she yelled
I ignored her.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” she repeated.
I rolled up my window.
Couldn’t quite make out the rest of her rant, but I’m pretty sure “dickhead” was among the expletives.
The pubescent attendant looked like he was coming ’round to my driver’s side window. I motioned him over to the passenger’s side since said woman was still in mid-rant. Before I could tell him to fill my tank…
“No, man, she was first,” he said.
He then left to service another car. The disgruntled woman looked begrudgingly satisfied with this conclusion, and sped off to another terminal. I waited a good five or so minutes for the attendant to return. A part of me was tempted to file a grievance with his supervisor. Self-reliance got the better of me, and I figured the best idea would be to leave. Unfortunately, an SUV was blocking my egress.
Snot-nosed gas boy returned to my car - with ‘tude, of course - and finally took my card. Once the tank was full, and he took his sweet time to get back to me, I proceeded to back out. I had to be careful because an ass-load of fuel truck still blocked the left side. The SUV woman took this as sign to move up while I was trying to maneuver. Edging out of a gas station with two tons of fuel behind you, an SUV in front of you, pump to the right of you, and a snack shack to the left of you means needing to pull forward!
I motioned to her with my hands in the air, “What’re you doing?!”
She continued to pull forward, narrowly missing my front bumper.
I motioned again!
She got out of her car, a look of vehemence on her face. At that point, I did what any red-blooded coward would do in the face of PMS. I did as best a back-up as I could, then hauled arse outta there. It seemed everyone was out for my head.
I’ll admit that pulling into the one free pump when no one could access it in line was a wee bit discourteous, but - truth be told - I was unaware that this was out of the norm. Last I checked, gas stations - like downtown parking - were Social Darwinism personified. Rule o’ thumb being, he/she who gets the spot…rules. End of exercise.
Apparently, I missed a memorandum or something.
So, I throw it out to you folks…was I a dick?
Honest answers appreciated.
Quick Thoughts on the Oscars
- Every time Penelope Cruz speaks, I’m reminded of Latka from Taxi.
- I don’t know what it is about Adrian Brody’s face, but every time I look at him, I want to hit him.
- Sophia Loren looked kinda like an Ent from Lord of the Rings…with a wig.
- Nicole Kidman was looking blissfully un-Botox-android-ish yesterday evening.
- Every independent film or documentary last years seemed to take place in India. It was like Hollywood was outsourcing.
- Wolverine didn’t do too bad as host. Still needed more claws, though.
- A.R. Rahman won Best Music and Song for Slumdog Millionaire. And, boy, did he deserve it. Let’s put this in perspective. Any Bollywood film you’ve ever watched that was worth its weight in tandoori chicken was written by him.
- Heath Ledger’s posthumous win - while nowhere near surprising - was kinda touching, especially when his family went up to accept on his behalf. (Plus, his sister’s kinda hot.)
- Jerry Lewis accepted the Humanitarian Award…and here I thought he was dead. Zombie, maybe? He did kinda shamble.
- I’m not a believer in a “Gay Agenda”, nor did I see Milk or The Wrestler, but I think Mickey Rourke got fucking robbed. Sean Penn has already won it. Mickey’s had a rough career, he deserved it more. However, I can’t help but think that California politics played a part in this decision.
Honey Tea Perfection
Rarely…very rarely…one of my experiments in blending turns out absolutely perfect.
My attempt at a chrysanthemum-lotus-Silver-Needle white tea? Awful. My effort to blending dried fruit with herbals? Meh-ish. But occasionally, one can catch lightning in a bottle and marvel at its shininess.
Lately, I’ve been on a rooibos kick. Not red rooibos, don’t much care for it. Rather green rooibos and it’s cousin, honeybush. The former actually helped me with an embarrassing health issue. The latter, well, I hadn’t tried it yet. Both were good by themselves, but not intirely great. Both together, near great…but still missing something. Numi Tea gave me the idea.
Their Sweet African Red contained both honeybush and green rooibos. The underlying natural sweetness of the two was there, but it was subtle. Still wonderful, but what if said drinker wanted more?
That’s where stevia comes into play. Oh, stevia…how I love thee!
Try this at home. 1 tsp. of green rooibos, 1 tsp. of honeybush, and about a 1/2 tsp. of stevia leaf. Steep for five minutes in 16 oz. of boiling water…and presto!
You have the closest approximation to a honey tea (without actual honey used) I’ve found to date.
In my humble opinion anyway.
Sorry for going a little long on this…just thought I’d share.
I’m all giddy ‘n stuff.
Weeks Gone By
Either the Horn of Heimdall is a-blowin’, the Four Horsemen are drawing nigh, or swine have taken flight…I know not. But this weekend-work-saddled lout had a fairly decent couple o’ weeks. And busy. Lord, has it been busy. My metabolism (and wallet) haven’t been keeping up so well. Writing an in-depth expose on ‘em would take far more effort and time than I’m willing to muster. Plus, what fun would it be if it made any sense? So here’re a few tidbits and observations made from the last ten days or so.
Let’s begin.
(1) While getting gas, friends and I noticed the beginnings of what we thought was genetically impossible. A species cross-breed, if you will. Emo hair, girly pants, hoodie…all there. However, said aqua blue pants were sagged to about waist length, just enough to expose boxer shorts!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there is something worse than a polar/grizzly cross, and it is in a neighborhood near you. Thou hath been warned(-eth?).
(2) Ground Kontrol in downtown Portland used to be one of the coolest places on Earth. An 80s-style arcade that served beer, what can top that? We also learned that Tuesday nights was Rock Band night. Think stage, two widescreen televisions, and a fog machine to boot. It’s like karaoke for your inner headbanger.
Four of us arrived to partake. We had our band name - Manwich - and we brought our rock faces. Well, as much as one can bring rock faces while bespectacled for a video game. One of us had the idea to use karaoke rules when signing up for songs. It seemed sensible enough; put all your cards on the table and let DJ Wannabe sort it out. About three songs in, and we were up. We absolutely killed at Nine Inch Nails’ “Hand that Feeds”, nary a silent geek in the house.
Our second song…
Oh wait, we didn’t get a fucking second song!
Dunno if they were just playing favorites or if we just came across as a bunch of heckling douches, but other “bands” went up an average of three times. Aside from filling in spots individually, collectively we only went up as Manwich…the one time. And we even tipped.
So, screw you, Ground Kontrol. You are not worthy of the awesome might that is Manwich!
Following that veritable “burn”, we decided to take our band-ing back to an apartment. On the way in, we noticed the most paradoxical pro-life bumper sticker. Ever.
It read:
If it isn’t a baby, then you aren’t pregnant.
Wait…what?
What were they describing, a tumor? Oversized parasite? Kuato from Total Recall?
I was at a loss, and halfway tempted to leave a turd on the hood of the car with a little sign that said: “Not a baby.”
(3) Ladies and gentlemen, I think I need help. My tea obsession has reached critical mass. I spent the better part of two days - two separate errands - hunting down new things to try. First on the list was a tea I’d read about on the review site I contribute to. It was called milk oolong. Apparently, there’s an oolong tea that is picked and cultivated at a certain time of year, from a certain altitude, at a certain temperature. The resulting liquor has a vaguely milky/creamy flavor to it.
I could’ve easily purchased the stuff online, but I’m the stubborn sort and decided to hunt it down locally first. The closest thing to a local version was the Milk-Scented Kinsen Oolong put out by Stash Tea. However, I wasn’t sure if it was the same stuff. Lucky for me, their homebase is literally a five-minute jaunt from where I live. Alas, the shopkeepers had no idea either. I was discouraged.
To make up for it, though, they let me participate in the tea tasting they were having, and let me walk away with a sample of the milk-scented stuff. Hopefully it’d live up.
Well, it didn’t. Aside from a mild hint of creaminess, it tasted like an ordinary oolong, which in turn tastes like a dirt-smoke version of a green tea. In my opinion, anyway.
Tea Quest # 2 was an herbal tea I’d read about (again on the review site) called Greek Mountain Shepherd’s Tea. On Mount Olympus, there is a type of shrub called Sideritis syriaca (or ironwort), and the locals have used it as a tea for hundreds of years. Preparing it called for steeping 15g of whole shrubs and boiling - not steeping - ‘em for ten minutes. Not only was this something I hadn’t heard of, but it wasn’t prepared as other herbal teas were. Sounded like something I had to try.
Funny thing, though.
None of the Greeks I knew had heard of the stuff.
I did some calling around to Greek delis. Neither place had any deliveries. I went to the Tao of Tea store in S.E. Portland. They said they had a sample at one point, and would be getting more, but ran out. Blast!
Looks like online shopping time. *le sigh*
Tea Quest # 3 was hunting down a bamboo whisk. During the winter storm months, I developed a liking for matcha - in essence, a finely pulverized, powered green tea. Unlike other teas, where you simply steep the leaves, matcha uses the entire leave for consumption. The powder is like…well…green hot chocolate, only better for you. One simply pours hot water in and let’s the powder take.
I was missing an important tool for matcha preparation, that being the aforementioned bamboo whisk. It was required for mixing the powder into the water better, leading to a frothier brew. Before, I usually settled with a fork or straw to do my stirring. Not the same.
After perusing the H-Mart and Uwajimaya, I finally found one for $14. That shit ain’t cheap. Next was finding…well…matcha. Dumbshit “moi” forgot to pick some up while at the Tao of Tea store. Hurray for thinking ahead.
Happy ending, though, the matcha came out perfect.
Not that any of you coffee drinkers really care.
(4) I have this friend - see - we shall call her…Catalyst. Cat, for short. Both are quite fitting, I assure you.
Cat zapped off a group text wondering who’d want in on some Harvey’s Comedy Club action. As of yet, I had a few “tentative” plans, but nothing solid. Plus, I hadn’t seen her in months. Long overdue face-time was a must.
I got there surprisingly early, she and her ride arrived a few minutes later. We b.s.’d for a bit in the lounge before, then moseyed in for the main acts. Let’s just say, the comedy was “off” that night. The first guy looked like a cancer patient and seemed keenly aware that he was dying (not literally) on stage. The second guy wasn’t much better, a cracked-out Mexican who looked vaguely like Jack Black from Nacho Libre. Sounded like him, too. I was waiting for him to talk about his “stretchy-pants” at any moment. Alas, never came to pass.
The true entertainment wasn’t the acts, it was - as always - Catalyst. Picture if you will, a film noir femme fatale with the inner child of a Chucky doll. If you can somehow fathom that image, then you have some idea of the person I’m referring to. As friends go, always a good time.
Case in point:
Cat can clang shots of vodka without any problem. The softer stuff, though, hits her far quicker. White wine was the culprit this time. It hit her a little too hard, too fast. Wasn’t her fault, though. The blond wife of a friend of hers did the honors of smoothing out her buzzing head with a neck massage. Poor Cat never left that woman’s bosom for the rest of the night.
And occasionally looked at the wide-eyed husband to utter a purr-like, “Can I keep her?”
Conversations ranged from blow-up dolls, to “fish tacos with chicks”, to…well…I don’t quite recall. No, I was never drunk, I just seriously can’t fathom what else was discussed at the moment. She’s probably even reading this. And I’ll probably be shot. With a hamster.
At least I’ll die giggling.
(5) I’m just going to have to accept the fact that I can’t hold my liquor anymore. Not a damn thing. Beer, wine, and - heaven forbid - the harder stuff. I can’t seem to stand it anymore. Aside from only being able to drive on one beer only, I can’t seem to stand the taste of it anymore. Well, ‘cept for beer. Good beer, anyway.
Examples:
I was the fifth wheel for a friend’s double-date birthday party. We ended up at Huber’s, and we noticed that absinthe was on the list of drinks. That perked our interests a bit. Granted, it was probably watered down compared to its heartier Hungarian cousin, but at least it would offer some idea as to the taste. I’d been curious about it for years.
As I informed several people since, the stuff tasted like the minted, pale arse of a stripper named Licorice. It was foul to the tongue-touch. I barely made it through two sips before I passed it down the table…which was then quickly imbibed by our designated driver.
Smart.
A couple of days later, I had a friend over for movies and sammiches; a female friend. She brought the wine, I made the sammiches. For the record, I make a mean sammich. Can’t cook worth a damn, but I make a great pot o’ tea and my sammiches are nigh on unmatched. Okay, that’s probably speaking a bit too glibly, yet that’s what I’ve been told. Moving on…
She brought over a $40 bottle of Barbera - a highly-potent, highly-acidic Italian red wine. I’d never tried the stuff, but I had a good history with Italian reds; Sangiovese being my absolute favorite. Beyond that, I’m more of a beer guy, and as we’ve all learned…not a lot of beer.
The movie we agreed one was Bottle Shock, an indie flick about the Napa Valley wineries in the 70s. Seemed fitting enough. We made it through that one and thought it “meh”. I was two glasses in at this point. She suggested I choose a second flick, and I delved into my old movie box.
Shaun of the Dead.
Perfect!
We made it about halfway through before a piercing headache stabbed me through the temples, followed by instant bodily fatigue. She asked if I was getting tired, and I said “no”. Then I felt…”the gurgles.” You know “the gurgles”. That feeling that all is not well in the Land of Bowel.
At 12:30, with the movie incomplete, I said we had to call it a night and sent her on her way. Nothing happened. And off I went to put my head in the toilet. Two glasses, that’s all. Didn’t even get a buzz off the stuff…just instant pukey-face.
Whee!
Conclusion
I haven’t been this active in awhile. Aside from my awesome vacation down south, things’d been a wee bit stressful. It was kind of a nice change of pace from the work-sleep-pray-for-instant-death grind of yestermonths. Pitfalls and pratfalls et al. The weeks ahead promise cupcakes, a second Coraline viewing (best movie EVER!), a night of town-painting, and hopefully more tea questing to come.
On occasion, one just needs a reminder that regardless of the near-misses, embarrassments, and frivolous activities…life really isn’t all that bad. And the parts that are bad, well, they’re the stuff comedy is made of. Laugh and others laugh with you.
You thought this would be a Valentine’s Day entry, didn’t you?
Well, I may be a tea-drinkin’, lightweight, bespectacled, dough-y, geeky manchild…
But I still have brass ones.
Er…okay…maybe copper.
Zinc?
LOLkey
Perhaps I’m just too easily amused, or perhaps it’s way too early in the morning for me. Either way, this had to be shared.
My dinner this evening/morning was two sliced of white bread with mayo and ketchup. Not exactly the “breakinner” of champions, but when you’re short on time, you have to improvise. While I was in the middle of eating, I began to type in a URL on the back desk computer. The “L” key felt slimy. I looked down and saw mayo and splorted onto the “L” and “O” keys. I cursed and went about wiping up my globby mess.
When I looked up back at the computer screen, I noticed - in my attempts at cleaning - that the address window was:
“lkkooooooooooooooooooooooooooopppppppppppppppppolko”
And I started laughing.
It looked to me like a blind, toothless, drunk monkey had tried to type out “LOL”…but failed miserably.
Like I said, I’m probably just easily amused, tired, or ‘tarded.
Eh, you decide.
Assburger
Several years ago, it was brought to my attention - by way of one of my dad’s friends, a guy I considered a shallow dickhole - that I might have Asperger’s Syndrome. My first reaction was the reaction many have when first encountering the name.
I am not an ASSBURGER!
Once my mind reemerged from the toilet, I was told what that was. High-developmental autism. In Lay-speak, anyone who functions on a near-social level, demonstrates high intelligence, but often acts inappropriate due to a lack of understanding for social cues. Case in point, laughing at a funeral…or commenting on a “bodacious rack” when the woman in question is right there.
The basis for this third party opinion was the guy’s own personal experience with the condition; his son labored through it. Of course, when I first heard the accusation (and indeed, I considered it such), I refuted it. But…
Being the ever-neurotic sort that I am, I took a mind’s eye gaze at ghost’s of social life’s past.
…5th grade, I was laying down on a set of bleachers. The friend of my first crush - well, first “acknowledged” crush - came up to me. She asked if I liked the girl. Most would freeze and give a reluctant reply. Mine was a clear and emphatic, “NO!”
Rest is history.
…Junior year of high school, prior to a dance, I noticed a girl sitting. She was wearing a very lovely dress. I thought I would work my supposed magic and compliment her. It didn’t come out right.
“Strangely enough, you look elegant today,” I said with a proud smile.
I was lucky I didn’t get slapped.
…Senior year, a friend of mine and I were walking down the locker-lacquered hallway. A couple of girls were sitting on the floor next to one such locker. One piped up.
“Hi! My name’s Jenny!” she said, arm raised.
I reached into my pocket and pulled something out.
“You are worthy enough to shake my comb.”
She recoiled the hand in horror.
Hey, I thought it was funny at the time.
…Working the usher’s podium at a movie theater some years later, a man came in - dressed to the nines - with two aging “angels”. He also sported a blond Miami Vice-like mullet. He leaned in as if to give me his ticket, then quickly withdrew it, did some type of douche-y pirouette, followed by a “tada!” stance.
My exact words: “Enough with the pimp thing, just gimme the damn ticket.”
Needless to say, he complained.
…Flashforward a five more years, a few of us went to fetch a friend at the mall. We were talking up a storm. The conversation segued from farming to the unauthorized intrusion of male sheep.
We were in the kids section.
…Present Day.
A man called to make a reservation. He asked how I’m doing. My exact reply was “Hello.” For some reason, I always felt stumped whenever that question was asked, not sure why. He, then, thought he had a bad connection. After that confusion subsided, I saw about dealing with him quickly.
He called back to rant that I was the rudest person he’d ever dealt with, and that he’d complained about my curtness to my managers before.
My exact reply was, “Okay.”
He said he called ‘em like he saw ‘em, then hung up.
The common traits ascribed to people with Asperger’s Syndrome are monotone voices, wild hand gestures, obsessive hobbies and pursuits, and many tend to lean towards sci-fi as a method of escape. Many are also described as frighteningly smart.
I was never diagnosed with this form of autism. The category didn’t exist when I was a kid. While I can be pegged with some of the traits, there are some glaring differences. I inflect quite a bit, I consider myself fairly sociable, I’m a bit of a tard, and my hand gestures…well…I’m working on ‘em.
Point being…
Can I really claim this as an excuse? Or am I just an “assburger”?
I’ll ask the next girl I like as I flip her off in gym class.
Yes, that really happened too.
Notes from the Road
I recently took a week-long (and well-deserved) vacation, and made an eighteen hour jaunt from Oregon to Southern California. Rather than write an extensive travelogue about my trip, I jotted a few quick notes whenever I had time. Most of them don’t make any sorta of coherent sense. This is the result:
January 12, 2009
-Traveling the Siskiyous late at night is scary as shit. Visibility due to fog is travailing at best.
-A pick-up did a u-turn in front of me then flipped and cap-sized into a ditch. I would’ve called 911 for the poor feller, but I was too busy shitting my pants.
-A car passed me going 90, then sped off. Said car had a Christian dove on the back. Something tells me that is not what Jesus would do.
-I was originally going to stay in Santa Nella. I already traveled fourteen hours at this point, but the usual Holiday Inn Express backdrop plan was $94. Eff that! I called a Marriott. Too bad it was in Merced.
-The road to Merced was like encountering every redneck stereotype on a conveyor belt. I even encountered a “Gun Club Rd.”
…If this is the Heartland of ‘merica. Then Lady Liberty needs a quadruple bypass and a pacemaker.
-I thought of a new story. The night prior to my departure, my brother and I were discussing a Harry Potteresque/steampunish teahouse. He was thinking of a real place with a Ragdoll cat and a St. Bernard on a carpet…something straight out of Hobbiton. I was thinking of a teahouse run by a Ragdoll, and the St. Bernard (as a sammich maker).
The title? The Tearoom of Tally Furrowbrow. A collection of wholesome fantasy short stories with the tearoom as the reflective backdrop.
I need a life.
*End of Line*
January 13th, 2009
-Sometimes working for a hotel is awesome. NOT often. But sometimes. King bedroom…to myself…$39.
…Now if only it came with a prostitute.
(Wait, nevermind. This is Merced.)
-This is one weird town. Hickville is to the left of me. New Jack City is straight ahead of me. Barrio is to the back. The cosmopolitan nature of this gives me tears and candy dreams.
Shut up, I voted Obama.
-The only place within walking distance to eat was a friggin’ Carrows. Uh…no. So, I looked up microbreweries. FOUND ONE!
-The brewery. Oh lord. It’s called “Big Bubba’s”, it’s a steakhouse, and all the beertaps have ornaments. The IPA had a howling wolf. The Irish stout had a bear. At least I think it was a bear. There were cowboys and and a pistol thrown in there somewhere.
-The brewery sampler. Six HALF-PINTS of beer - served in a wooden thingy shaped like a gun revolver. I only finished three.
Verdicts? The IPA and the red ale were excellent. The Irish stout was good but not thick enough. The rest were ass…blame it on the Belgian yeast.
-Just got done drinking my Prostate Tea, while watching Blades of Glory…in green tennis shoes.
I’m livin’ the dream.
*End of Line*
January 14th, 2009
-California drivers have this little habit. They will ride your ass for twenty miles before they pass you. The behavior is akin to canines mating. I wonder if there’s a correlation.
-Driving in Pasadena sucks the testicles of a polar bear.
-Visited the Girl from Boat Trip. She bum-rushed/tackled me with a hug. Awesome.
-Saw this house on the outskirts of L.A. County that looked like a British cottage on a patch of green. I think a wormhole sent it here.
-Angeles Forest has, maybe, ONE tree. L.A. must be really proud of that tree.
-I really do wish they all could be California girls.
*End of Line*
January 20th, 2009
-I learned a new term for “vagina”.
…Ready for it?
“Apostle’s Grove”.
Soooo using that for a book title someday.
-While driving up I-5 North, I noticed a woman jogging on a bridge. She was wearing a sparkly halter top. *sigh* Only in SoCal.
-You know you’re karaoke-ing with a bunch of geeks when they start yelling “FOOT-FOOT-FOOT!” during the base drum hits to a song…as if they were playing Rock Band.
-Orange County states a very strong case for moving southward.
-California has more geek girls per capita than the whole of the Northwest. Yes, that includes Idaho.
-Everything begins and ends with Del Taco.
-Everything I need to know in life can be summed up by Flight of the Conchords.
-XXX Vitamin Water rocks my arse, and not just for the porno name.
-I knew I was back in Oregon when someone pumped my gas…and the gas station bathroom smelled like patchouli.
*End of Line*
*End of Trip*
(Best Vacation…Ever…)
January 21st, 2009
I’m finally home, and I’m sick.
“Welcome to Oregon, here’s your influenza.”
*FIN!*
New Years Resolutions for Everyone Else
Musings at Midnight
Most can tell that I do a fair share of my writing at night. I’m not exactly sure why that is, but the only time I follow up on a textual tug is in the wee hours. When the average citizen is either asleep, working, or drinking themselves to Mordor, I’m clanking away at a keyboard. However, I can’t really call this a tradition, rather a recent phenomenon.
A clear side-effect of this is that the mind never shuts off; day, dusk, doesn’t matter. The last few days are evidence of this. During my work week, I averaged about five hours of sleep. Not for lack of trying or lethargy, but more for an overabundance of pondering. Oh, and dentist appointments.
So, there I sat after a mid-evening nap, right cheek numb with Novocaine, preparing to unleash an unhinged stream of conscience. Apologies in advance if none of the thoughts appear cohesive, connected, or correct. I’m in a off-my-damn-chest sorta mood.
Pronoun Problem
I was having a conversation the other day, and the subject of transgender came up. Often the issue surrounding this is how to address someone who is between procedures. How do you address them? Sir? Ma’am? Uh…hey you? That steamrolled into a topic of discussion about pronouns.
If someone were - say - gender-confused, mid-op, or possessing both sex organs, what is an appropriate way to address them? There’s a fifty-fifty chance feelings could be hurt. Heavy odds for so small a thing as a greeting. Opting out of the issue entirely would also cause trouble. “He/She” sounds stupid, “They” is too obvious and unspecific, “It” is plain wrong on so many levels. A person is not plant.
This got the ol’ English major side of me thinking. I had to dust off the degree a bit, the thing had been mothballed since the first Bush term of office. I started by adhering to universality and specificity. Most Indo-European tongues divide terms according to gender. One can’t think of language without putting forth masculine or feminine attributes to it. I blame the French for this.
The answer was easy; sidestep gender entirely. I came up with “herm”. You guessed it, the nicked version of hermaphrodite, and it acts as a blending of “him” and “her”.
Here’s an example of a gender-specific phrase: “He went to get him some soup.”
Altered to gender-unspecific: “Herm went to get herm some soup.”
Not perfect, but there’s at least a flow, albeit dodgy.
However, we finally settled on nothing. It was a moot issue. If all else fails, you simply address the person by the name they give you. Asking as such would also give a clue as to how that person wishes to be referred. But it was an interesting convo while it lasted.
Werdz ar phun.
Midget or Dwarf
One thing that has always surprised me is how a term so common in our lexicon can be harmful. Of all the words an average joe or jane wouldn’t believe to be offensive, it’s “midget”. I was surprised when I first heard of it. Monikers and labels that have graduated to the level of epithetism usually sound awful once they roll off the tongue. Without citing examples, everyone can agree that even the most benign of all racial slurs has a harsh - almost gutteral - quality when uttered. They don’t sound nice.
Midget, in sharp contrast, doesn’t have the same bite as it’s slurry cousins. When I think on it, I hate to admit it conjures an “Awww”. That’s just it, it sounds cute. Cuddly even. However, I can see how someone with that condition might deem it a slur. Not everyone wants to be called cute. I certainly don’t. Well, unless the bearer of the brand was of the buxom brunette variety.
What I don’t understand are the terms that are deemed acceptable. Other than the commonly-grafted “M-word”, the alternatives sound worse, in my opinion. I will admit I’m not educated on the subject, but when it is addressed, the two accepted labels that stick out are “little person” and “dwarf”.
I’m sorry…dwarf? When I think of a dwarf, I think of this an ill-tempered, bearded, hermitic, gold-horder.
And little people?
When I think of little people, visions of DArby O’Gill come to mind. Or Gulliver.
If ever there were two terms that had negative connotations, it’s those two. Don’t get me started on the acronyms. The community is oft-referred to as the “LP Community”. There’s one problem with the lettering. The average American poo-flinger won’t make the correlation between L.P. and Little People. More likely, they’ll think of a vinyl copy of an Iggy Pop record.
I think some serious brainstorming needs to be done at LP Central for cooler terminology. If I had a vote, I would make a case for “minja”.
C’mon, it sounds badass.
Mexico, I’m Unimpressed
In January, I took a cruise to Mexico with the family. We made port in Ensenada by about the third day. And…oh…what to say about Mexico. The city of Ensenada was beautiful, bustling and lively. The architecture, stunning. The food was exactly what you’d expecting authentic Mexican to be, a gorgeous gut bomb. On the roads between towns, though, yeesh.
My aunt informed me that Baja and most everything north of South America didn’t have sanitation services. The evidence was as clear as the smog-filled sky.Trash littered the road like a trail of tuberculosis. During one excursion, I noticed a pile of garbage as tall as a neighboring building. Seagulls swarmed the bonfire of debris in a King Kong-Vs.-biplane manner. I wasn’t impressed.
The other feeling I got was an impending sense of dread when I was exposed outdoors for too long. Mexico feels like a surprise attack waiting to happen. This could’ve been media-induced paranoia, but the same aunt chimed in again with, “Oh no! Mexico is perfectly safe..as long as you know what you’re doing. And if you have someone who knows the lay of the land to show you the ropes.”
Wait, what?
I’m not a Layman when it comes to tourism, having left the country on three occasions - twice to Europe. Not once did I feel I needed to latch onto a local for subsistence. The only precautions afforded me on those treks were to keep my passport with me at all times and my wallet in my front pocket. The rest was self-explanatory. Mexico felt unsafe.
After observing the grime and grit, I can safely say Latin America is not high on my traveling to-do list. I’d sooner hit Siberia. Next on the docket is definitely Asia Major.
In a point of irony regarding Mexico’s sanitation deficit, does anyone else find it odd that a hefty percentage of the U.S.’s sanitation employees…are Mexican?
[Blank] and the Boys
I shall close this long-winded loquaciousness with one last observation.
Karaoke-ing is my proudest guilty pleasure. Maybe it’s the faux-fame, the peacocking element, or the challenge of testing one’s vocal chords, but nothing beats rocking the mic at a dive bar. Nothing. The dingier the atmosphere, the better, as long as I get my four songs in. However, there is one nitpick that I’d like to make.
There is one phrase that I dread from the KJ, though, “Ladies and gentlemen give it up for Chet and the boys!”
And the boys. I fucking hate that. Once I hear that addition, I can expect one of three groups of people:
(1) Frat fucks.
(2) Aged frat fucks.
(3) Frat fuck bachelor party.
And not a singer among ‘em. A yeller or two, maybe, but not a one to act as a tuning fork for the rest of the posse o’ pain. Worse is the song selection. It never deviates, two options only; “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard or “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling” by The Righteous Brothers. Like they’re in fucking Top Gun or something.
No beverage is strong enough to withstand the mournful howls of four or five drunken douches waxing un-melodic. Jameson came close once, but my ears still caught it. And they wept wax.
If one of you readers happens to belong to an And the Boys group, I have one request. Trade up a little! Go for some Neil Diamond, maybe. Last I checked, “Sweet Caroline” is nigh on un-butcherable. You can’t be any worse than an aged Neil.
O.D. (Original Dumbass)
So, I made a boo boo.
I knew I probably caught a bug. My sister’s boyfriend passed his lovely plague onto me. (What a thoughtful guy, eh?…Actually, it’s not his fault. He couldn’t help it.) However, I forgot to pick up some Airborne at the first signs of “the tingle”.
You know “the tingle” - that little itch in the back of your throat that rings like a tiny li’l bell. It warns you that something is amiss, slightly askew, not as it should be. I got that early indicator the following day, but didn’t act on it. I figured my usual powerhouse of supplements and uber-teas would protect me from any boyfriend-in-law cooties.
I was wrong.
Before my last day of work for the week, the head-clogging commenced. Boys in my family have the unfortunate side-effect of getting really stupid once the head swells with gunk. I noticed this as I was grocery shopping and forgot to pick up sammich meat. The clogginess reared its retarded head again when I made a second stop to pick up medicine. I forgot the stuff…twice.
Finally, I got home and armed myself before that night’s workshift. I made my usual Power Pomegranate White Warrior tea, doused with some DayQuil, and popped a couple of Mucinex.
Let’s stop there for a moment.
Normal Mucinex DM’s dosage instructions are as follows: one or two tablets every 12 hours, no more than four in a 24 hour period. That is for normal Mucinex DM.
The shit I got was Maximum Strength Mucinex DM. Information on the website indicates that if the recommended dosage is exceeded, possible side-effects include: nervousness, irritability, anxiety, hallucinations, and dizziness. The product shouldn’t be taken if other stimulants are consumed. My dumbass read the label without glasses on, and I assumed the dosage was that of the normal brand.
This means I went to work on two DayQuil (which were caffeinated), two cups of tea (which were caffeinated), two Maximum Strength Mucinex DM tablets, and had two more cups of caffeinated tea while at work. I’ll just say the shift went by really quickly, given that I only remember about half of it. It was like being drunk without the booze and on speed - wandering around the lobby talking to myself, checking the mirror to see if my teeth were straight, having intellectual debates with pair of scissors.
You know, the usual.
This continued throughout all of that Thursday. To any of you who had conversations with me during this bout, my sincerest apologies. I blamed the NyQuil, but it wasn’t Big Q’s fault.
I woke up that following Friday around 4AM, took out the trash, made tea, made oatmeal (for me and my brother/roommate), made a bagel with cream cheese and jelly…
It was 8AM, and there I sat writing this damn blog.
But my nose was clear…um..if that counts for anything.
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