Set up:
My friends and I were in a bar in Nashville, in the heart of “southern” country, listening to a songwriters open mic, which featured more than one song about how the south was great and Yankees sucked. (and I’m not talking about the baseball team .)
As we were leaving, my friend Joe and I stopped in the bathroom. He stepped into a stall but I could see his bright red Ohio State Buckeye hat peeking out over the top.
Reality:
As I stood at the urinal, a loud drunken southern boy burst into the room.
Hillbilly: Whew! Someone fucking let loose in here, dawg. (pause as he unzips) Someone fucking let loose in here, boy. (another pause as he presumably looks for his penis.) Whew, dawg, someone let fuckin’ loose, huh?
Me: (in a low grunt, peeing and trying to mind my own business) Yeh.
Conversation over.
What I shoulda said:
Hillbilly: Whew! Someone fucking let loose in here, dawg. (pause as he unzips)
Me: You’re telling me, it’s nasty, nas-T.
Hillybilly: Whew, dawg, someone let fuckin’loose, huh?
Me: I think it was the guy in the red hat
Hillybilly: Huh? (as he quits searching for his penis and begins searching for the dawg that let loose.)
Me: And that’s an Ohio State hat!
Followed by me exiting.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Magic of 8s (or 8 reasons I like the number 8)
I like the number 8.
Am I obsessed? No.
Do I think the number is following me? No.
Do I see some connections with my life and the number? No.
I am forcing these connections for the sake of this blog. But it's really starting to work out for me.
Eight is everywhere, especially if you look for it. It’s the ball you sink to win pool. It’s one better than the great wonders of the world.
The eighth thing you get when you Google eight: The Eight Irresistible Principles of Fun.
If that’s not a sign …
So here is the first installment of 8s. (Ironically, blog number 8 on Phillis with words.)
8 reasons I like the number 8
1) The Magic 8 Ball: That prognosticator, shaken not stirred, which stirs me to make decisions I otherwise would never be able to handle. All signs point to yes.
2) It’s the pun in my favorite joke; Why’s 6 afraid of 7? 7, 8(ate), 9.
3) There’s 8 letters in Dwellers, Penguins, FN Improv, Cavalier (my car if not my attitude), Lawrence and Danielle.
4) Soccer superstar Shannon McMillan: Shannon ‘The Cannon’ - and I ain’t talking about taking pictures.
5) There are 8 planets. (sorry Pluto, but it works out for me!)
6) *
7) Visually, half of 8 is 3 and 3 is a magic number. (the other half is the mirror image of 3, and if there’s anything that represents the magical unknown, it’s the world inside a mirror.)
8) 8 is like infinity on its side.
- Thanks for reading -
Am I obsessed? No.
Do I think the number is following me? No.
Do I see some connections with my life and the number? No.
I am forcing these connections for the sake of this blog. But it's really starting to work out for me.
Eight is everywhere, especially if you look for it. It’s the ball you sink to win pool. It’s one better than the great wonders of the world.
The eighth thing you get when you Google eight: The Eight Irresistible Principles of Fun.
If that’s not a sign …
So here is the first installment of 8s. (Ironically, blog number 8 on Phillis with words.)
8 reasons I like the number 8
1) The Magic 8 Ball: That prognosticator, shaken not stirred, which stirs me to make decisions I otherwise would never be able to handle. All signs point to yes.
2) It’s the pun in my favorite joke; Why’s 6 afraid of 7? 7, 8(ate), 9.
3) There’s 8 letters in Dwellers, Penguins, FN Improv, Cavalier (my car if not my attitude), Lawrence and Danielle.
4) Soccer superstar Shannon McMillan: Shannon ‘The Cannon’ - and I ain’t talking about taking pictures.
5) There are 8 planets. (sorry Pluto, but it works out for me!)
6) *
7) Visually, half of 8 is 3 and 3 is a magic number. (the other half is the mirror image of 3, and if there’s anything that represents the magical unknown, it’s the world inside a mirror.)
8) 8 is like infinity on its side.
- Thanks for reading -
Monday, February 4, 2008
Stupidity Has a Name - Waiting in Line
I’m in line at the grocery store; the express line, because I have five things to buy.
It’s Saturday, so it’s crowded. Three or four people wait in front of me and several people join behind me at a respectable distance. As the next person collects his change and carries away his 10 items or less, I move forward, roughly the amount of space evacuated, which really only makes sense.
But waiting in line is no place for making sense.
And waiting in line is no place for claustrophobics. And the longer the line, the worse it is.
I’m begging the idiots of the world to stop and think about it. (I know I’m preaching to the choir, because no one who reads this blog is an idiot.) It doesn’t have to be that way, (I don’t mean idiots should read my blog, I mean they should stop doing idiot things especially in lines) because no matter how close you stand to the person in front of you, you still have to wait the exact amount of time it takes for them to finish before it’s your turn.
I am not claustrophobic. But I am easily annoyed by stupidity, and second only to driving, standing in line brings out the stupid.
And stupidity reared its ugly head when I moved to fill the evacuated space and the numb-nuts behind me moved up the length of the evacuated space plus another half foot, which means she is now encroaching on my personal space. When the next patron moves I move into that evacuated space. Ms. Spatially Challenged pushes her buggy another extra half foot. The closeness makes me uncomfortable (which is perhaps another issue all together) so I inch forward, trying to balance the space between the person in front of me and the Stupid behind, but instead of letting it equal out, the brainless monkey inches forward, too. So I balance again. Toadstool-for-brains inches forward again.
This time, I hold my ground. It is after all, my ground.
When the person in front of me moves to the credit pin pad, I lay down my five items, and the Idiot behind me, since I only have five things on the counter, decides there’s plenty of space, so makes a move to get her stuff on the counter too, by first pushing her buggy forward another foot. Problem is, I’m only eight inches away.
The buggy rolls up onto my ankles.
“Oh, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said, wanting to add, I guess I can forgive someone who obviously doesn’t know better. And I mean obviously.
I don’t like to incite checkout-rage, so I inch closer to the guy pushing numbers into the pin pad, giving my ankles a figurative cushion, if not a literal one. The buggy doesn’t back away, though. Instead, it hits me again.
“Oops. I’m sorry.”
This time, I stand my ground. Literally and figuratively. I’ve patiently waited for this spot longer than My-Name-is-Samantha has and I’ll take as much space as I need.
I don’t let her off the hook, I don’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not, which invites her to explain.
“I thought I could get to the counter, and start putting my stuff up.” Like she’s getting through the checkout faster if she could just push me forward with the bumper of her buggy.
I imagine her thinking she needs to hurry because her immense brain waves might penetrate the plastic container and spoil her 2% milk.
I nod my head in silence which Miss If-milk-were-brains-she-got-2%-is-right takes as positive reinforcement for her plan, and begins digging into her cart, laden with more than 10 items, and piling her stuff on the counter behind mine. Barely.
As she bends her simple-math challenged (let’s not even talk about physics or geometry)self into the cart, of course the out of reach concept of action resulting in an equal and opposite reaction means the cart moves forward and I get hit a third time.
In the end, did Miss Wow-I-can-breath-and-watch-TV-at-the-same-time get through the line any faster? No.
Did she save even a speck of time? No.
Did I punch her? No.
But I wanted to.
What happened was she waited, doing nothing, next to her pile of things while I paid for mine.
Exactly the amount of time she would have waited if she didn’t move forward one iota from the time she got in line until I handed over my $20 bill.
My ankles would have liked that.
Epilogue
After watching closely as the cashier scanned each of her 13 items, and then telling her the amount, our hero decides that’s the right moment to start rummaging in her purse for payment.
Can I relate that level of frustration in writing? No.
All I could do was hope to be out of the parking lot before she could get behind the wheel of a car.
It’s Saturday, so it’s crowded. Three or four people wait in front of me and several people join behind me at a respectable distance. As the next person collects his change and carries away his 10 items or less, I move forward, roughly the amount of space evacuated, which really only makes sense.
But waiting in line is no place for making sense.
And waiting in line is no place for claustrophobics. And the longer the line, the worse it is.
I’m begging the idiots of the world to stop and think about it. (I know I’m preaching to the choir, because no one who reads this blog is an idiot.) It doesn’t have to be that way, (I don’t mean idiots should read my blog, I mean they should stop doing idiot things especially in lines) because no matter how close you stand to the person in front of you, you still have to wait the exact amount of time it takes for them to finish before it’s your turn.
I am not claustrophobic. But I am easily annoyed by stupidity, and second only to driving, standing in line brings out the stupid.
And stupidity reared its ugly head when I moved to fill the evacuated space and the numb-nuts behind me moved up the length of the evacuated space plus another half foot, which means she is now encroaching on my personal space. When the next patron moves I move into that evacuated space. Ms. Spatially Challenged pushes her buggy another extra half foot. The closeness makes me uncomfortable (which is perhaps another issue all together) so I inch forward, trying to balance the space between the person in front of me and the Stupid behind, but instead of letting it equal out, the brainless monkey inches forward, too. So I balance again. Toadstool-for-brains inches forward again.
This time, I hold my ground. It is after all, my ground.
When the person in front of me moves to the credit pin pad, I lay down my five items, and the Idiot behind me, since I only have five things on the counter, decides there’s plenty of space, so makes a move to get her stuff on the counter too, by first pushing her buggy forward another foot. Problem is, I’m only eight inches away.
The buggy rolls up onto my ankles.
“Oh, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said, wanting to add, I guess I can forgive someone who obviously doesn’t know better. And I mean obviously.
I don’t like to incite checkout-rage, so I inch closer to the guy pushing numbers into the pin pad, giving my ankles a figurative cushion, if not a literal one. The buggy doesn’t back away, though. Instead, it hits me again.
“Oops. I’m sorry.”
This time, I stand my ground. Literally and figuratively. I’ve patiently waited for this spot longer than My-Name-is-Samantha has and I’ll take as much space as I need.
I don’t let her off the hook, I don’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not, which invites her to explain.
“I thought I could get to the counter, and start putting my stuff up.” Like she’s getting through the checkout faster if she could just push me forward with the bumper of her buggy.
I imagine her thinking she needs to hurry because her immense brain waves might penetrate the plastic container and spoil her 2% milk.
I nod my head in silence which Miss If-milk-were-brains-she-got-2%-is-right takes as positive reinforcement for her plan, and begins digging into her cart, laden with more than 10 items, and piling her stuff on the counter behind mine. Barely.
As she bends her simple-math challenged (let’s not even talk about physics or geometry)self into the cart, of course the out of reach concept of action resulting in an equal and opposite reaction means the cart moves forward and I get hit a third time.
In the end, did Miss Wow-I-can-breath-and-watch-TV-at-the-same-time get through the line any faster? No.
Did she save even a speck of time? No.
Did I punch her? No.
But I wanted to.
What happened was she waited, doing nothing, next to her pile of things while I paid for mine.
Exactly the amount of time she would have waited if she didn’t move forward one iota from the time she got in line until I handed over my $20 bill.
My ankles would have liked that.
Epilogue
After watching closely as the cashier scanned each of her 13 items, and then telling her the amount, our hero decides that’s the right moment to start rummaging in her purse for payment.
Can I relate that level of frustration in writing? No.
All I could do was hope to be out of the parking lot before she could get behind the wheel of a car.
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