Wednesday, March 30, 2005

success dependent on chance...

Last night's show at JR's turned out to be much more socially arousing than I had expected. While the bands were all great (Woods Afire, The Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers, and The Mountain Goats), I couldn't quite focus on the second half of the show. This was after I had gone to the bathroom to relieve some excruciating bladder pressure. I had done so with an unknown partner of course, as you must often do in a piss trough situation such as it was. While I washed my hands, the stranger who stood next to me in my private moment of waste removal suddenly walked out, and without washing his own hands I might add. Catching the door before it slammed shut were two noisome frat-esque boys who proceeded to ask me what took "us" so long in the bathroom. One of them even said "You two weren't in here yankin' each other's puds were ya?" I ignored their comments, giving them a blank stare while I dried my hands with the last two paper towels. Ignoring people who are quite obviously desperate for attention isn't always the best idea. Especially when they're twice your size and have a penchant for picking fights with queers. I tried to walk out, but the talkative one grabbed my arm and asked why I wasn't in the mood for a laugh. I think I might have crossed the proverbial line when I said, "I didn't hear anything funny." In moments like this, my mouth says whatever my brain thinks would be the most entertaining response before it actually rationalizes the entirety of the situation and then realizes the inevitable repercussions. I walked out of the bathroom with my face still arranged properly. I had stunned them. It wouldn't last long. I knew that as soon as they finished at the trough, they would come looking for me. I stayed close to the bar like a child on roller skates for the first time, clinging to the outer wall of the rink. An old co-worker from my short stint at a popular chain of import stores suddenly approached me out of nowhere. I hadn't seen this guy in almost a year. He's not even from here. He lives in some other town. What the hell was this guy doing here? He doesn't like this type of music or this type of bar. Either way, this is where my luck suddenly turns around. I don't make a habit of considering myself lucky very often. When good things happen to me, I usually blame it on things like the fact that I'm just totally awesome or that "I'm just that good." But this time...this was luck, pure and simple. You see, this guy that sought me out through the crowd just to say hello, this guy that I truly don't consider a friend but simply an acquaintance or as I said before "an old co-worker", yea...he just so happens to be best friends with Mister and Mesdames Pud Yanker. How did I know this? Because when they found me in the crowd, grabbed me and spun me around to get a clean punch at my jaw, they noticed I was having a friendly chat with their bestest little redneck buddy. After a few exchanges of "I was about to kick your ass, dude." and "no, I was about to kick YOUR ass, dude." one of the guys leaned in close to me, turning his eyes away like he was looking for the cops and said "you want to go party?" I immediately said no thanks. "Party" in frat language, and especially with that body language, means let's go do something illegal that might permanently affect our health. No, thanks. I get enough of that while watching television. Then I stood there pretending to listen to the band as I watched the three wankers walk up the stairs and out the front door together. I had to verify with my friends that they indeed would have got my back if the situation had turned nasty. Of course they responded with a resounding yes, but that's easy for them to say now. The threat had left the building. I left the building too eventually, with my jaw intact and my luck laying somewhere on the stained industrial carpet next to the bar.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

what in the wide, wide world of sports is going on here...

Ok, maybe I like baseball a little too much. Maybe I'm crazy for sitting out in the freezing rain only to watch my Hogs go down two games to one this weekend. I did begin questioning my behavior while sitting amongst only a handful of people this afternoon, slightly damp, covered in blankets, and shivering in the cold, all to watch some dudes toss a ball around and adjust their junk repeatedly. But that's what everyone should do occasionally. No, not adjust their junk, I mean they should stop and question what they are doing. I did it, and I realized something about myself. I enjoy adjusting my junk...and I like baseball more than the average person, and I'm OK with that. It's a simple, honest pleasure that I can enjoy legally and without risk of catching anything other than maybe a cold or a foul ball.


Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Apparently the "No Public Dumping" sign with threats of a $500 fine was not enough to keep the locals from abusing the oh so popular, easy to access Putman Street dumpster. My neighbors have resorted to using some creative, albeit slightly unorthodox and overly logical, thinking to create what they hope will keep entire living room sets from mysteriously filling their trash receptacle every night. Unfortunately this method backfired a few nights ago when the unknown furniture dumpers instead used the garbage guard ghoul itself to fill the dumpster.

Friday, March 18, 2005

to the sunrise and the sunset the master and his servant have exactly the same fate...

Getting up before the sun is like visiting a foreign country. I was supposed to take Natalie to the airport this morning, but her flight was cancelled. We didn't find out until right before we were about to leave the house. So there I was, showered, dressed for work, and nowhere to go. I sat around the house for awhile wondering when stores and restaurants opened, but then out of frustration I decided to just start driving. I took my time, going the long way whenever I could, and then I stopped at the deli for some breakfast. At the deli, everyone kept giving me weird looks, like "who's this guy, where's he from, and who told him he could be up this early?" Anytime I venture out this early in the morning, it always seems like everyone is staring at me. Then I grabbed a cinnamon roll, strawberry yogurt, and a milk, and dashed for the register. I couldn't tell you one word the checkout lady said to me, but I think it involved something about a penny. Was it English? I didn't care. I had my breakfast and she couldn't take it away from me. I took the food with me and decided I'd go to work really early and eat at my desk while reading the newspaper online. On my way there, it seemed like there had been some changes to the official Arkansas state driving laws that I had yet to be informed of. I was honked at twice and received a gracious bounty of dirty looks. Was I on the wrong side of the road? I know I was sitting on the correct side of the car. After getting to the office, I found out that apparently the internet doesn't open until eight o'clock, or somewhere around then. So I sat there eating my food while staring out the window watching the leaves blow in the street. When the internet finally came back on around eight, I read for a while and noticed everyone was late for work. I started working on a project and then nine o'clock rolled around and still there was no sign of anyone showing up today. I began questioning the clock on my computer and comparing it to my cell phone and every other clock in the office. Was there some change in the office hours today? Was this something else that I was not informed of? Better yet, did I even have to work today? Keep dreaming, Chris. Just as I had made a mental list of all the fun things I could do on my day off, everyone arrived. No explanation was given. I just assumed it was a Friday thing. Production is always severely tranquilized on an American Friday. But as everyone creeped into the office with that morning zombie walk, I suddenly felt as though I had the advantage today. I was awake before them, I had breakfast, I made it to work early, and I was already elbow deep in a drawing. Yes, today will be different. Today is the day that will be forever known as the day I woke up early.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

they throw a good sound...

Music. That's what happened last night at JR's Lightbulb Club. And it was good. My friend Po drove up from B-World last night, making the dangerous trek across rural Arkansas just to see a couple of great bands, Calla and the French Kicks. Even after the insanity that is sometimes known as mid-term critiques, Natalie took time out of her busy schedule to join us. That's how cool these bands are.

Calla


French Kicks


French Kicks


French Kicks

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

"the terror of tiny town" was the first all-midget western...

Everything has a damn computer in it. I heard a rumor today about a mishap with Lexus. Their cars come with Bluetooth technology and the geniuses decided that it was a good idea for the cars to come "equipped", meaning the Bluetooth comes activated on the car. Not surprisingly, they began having problems with the cars getting viruses. This rumor actually turned out to be false. But just imagine what could happen if your car could get a computer virus. I could be going 70 mph down the interstate and the driver's seat could reset its position from my personal settings to that of a tiny midget with a gimp left arm.

I don't drive a Lexus (nor do I have automatic seat settings), and my car doesn't have a virus, but it does have a psychotic computer. If you've been reading along to the lame story-of-my-life that is this blog, you know that I thought I had some kind of sensor out on my car. It turns out that my car is actually a hypochondriac. It is working just fine. It pretended to be sick and went into "limp" mode which is like safe mode in Windows. It was trying to prevent me from further damaging anything, but in reality there was nothing wrong to begin with. My mechanic reset the computer and now all is well. If my car was a person, I'd slap it around a bit and tell it to stop acting like such a pussy. But it's not a person. It's a car. And I'd never slap a car.

There's an unwritten rule in parking lots, street sides, driveways, and garages across the world. You never touch another man's car. I've always followed this rule. I'm careful when I open my doors in a parking lot, not just to avoid damage to my own car, but to avoid denting others. You all know that some folks just didn't get the unwritten memo on this. Wait...what? I could go on and on about people who I've seen slam their car doors into the side of my car or the people who have used my side mirror or my bumper to prop their shopping carts on. But the perplexing moments are when I walk to my car to find someone just leaning on it, or using the hood to write something on a piece of paper, or just touching it in general (stop touching my car please, sir). It happens. It happens to my car way too much. But get this...I walked out to my car this morning, which was parked on the street in front of my own house, to find some little high school dude PICKING at the trunk like it had boogers on it or something. He was casually scraping the gap between the trunk and the tail light with his fingernails like he was flaking off paint or some dead skin from a sun burn or something, while at the same time staring up the street like he was waiting on a bus. The paint was fine. This kid's brain was not.

Me: "Can I help you?"

Dude: "No. I'm waiting on a friend."

Me: "Can you go wait somewhere else then?"

Dude: "You don't have to be rude about it."

Me: "I just don't like people touching my car."

Dude: "I wasn't touching your car."

Me: "Yea, ok. I didn't just see you picking at the trunk. What was that?"

Dude: "Pfff, whatever dude."

People shouldn't deny their car picking habits. The first step is recognizing the problem. The second step is eradicating it.

That's Fayetteville for you though. There's always some rando dude doing something completely strange. This weekend while Natalie was pouring concrete on the front porch for a school project, some rando hippy just walked up out of nowhere and asked her what she was doing. After she explained it, he didn't say a word. He just took a seat on our front porch and lit a cigarette. I came downstairs and saw some long-haired hippy lingering in my yard. I laughed at first, then I started thinking about how truly absurd this image was. I walked outside and gave him my usual unhappy with the situation look. He soon left, but not before telling me his name was Fred. Well, good for you Fred. You managed to waste an hour of your day sitting near people, not making any friends in the process, but still giving me at least another paragraph to blog about. Thanks, dude.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

it starts thursday as usual with the canteen quiz and again no one wins the big cash prize...

I sometimes find myself going to places solely to watch other people. It's way better than television. Like last night I went to Brewski's with some friends. I grabbed a beer and quickly found a booth, sliding into the seat against the wall so that I could face the front door and the rest of the bar. The best seat in any place is always the one facing the front door. As the night went on, I noticed that I really wasn't doing anything other than casually conversing with friends and watching everyone else that was there. Even our conversations were about the other people in the bar. I saw lots of people doing lots of things last night, none of which was too memorable, but I still cataloged it all in my head.

I watched my friend Anna, who works at the bar, chase after some guys that were too drunk to realized they walked out without paying. I saw a girl dressed just like Cindy Lauper. I commented on her attire, then it turned out she knew one of my friends and sat down with us. So then I had Cindy Lauper at my table. I thought I knew Cindy, but it turns out I didn't. I saw a girl with huge breasts popping out of her tiny shirt. I saw the same girl constantly tug at her shirt to keep those bad boys under control. I watched as some guy at the bar slowly lost all of his friends to other groups of friends. After realizing he no longer had anyone to talk to, he began looking around the room with this look that said "where did all my friends go...oh, there's a few over there...oh, and there's some more of them talking to those other people...well, I'm cool just sitting here alone...totally cool with this...just watching soccer...no big deal...totally cool." I saw a girl put her hands on her ass and shake it up and down for seemingly no reason at all. I watched as another girl repeatedly rubbed her ass on my friend's shoulder, also for seemingly no reason at all. Each time she did it, she would turn around and apologize, sometimes hugging my friend as if that was her motive all along. I saw several of my friends passing through the bar. We waved at each other, exchanged hellos, then they continued moving along. I have no idea where any of them were going. They simply vanished into the crowd. I watched some guy use the table I was sitting at to write a girl's digits on the back of a receipt. A few strangers sat next to us at the table because the place was so crowded that people had resorted to sharing tables with strangers European style. I saw a girl spill a drink at our table, and then magically whip out a dry towel from nowhere and quickly clean it up. I have no idea where that towel came from. I was perplexed for a good 5 seconds. On my way to the restroom, I weaved in and out of a large group of people playing pool. There must have been like 15 or 20 guys with pool cues standing around two pool tables. I'm not sure what game they were playing, but with that many players it was sure to be complicated. In the restroom, I stood at a trough style urinal next to a guy that was whistling a song that did not in the least bit resemble the song playing over the speakers in the bathroom. On my way back to the table, everyone was staring at me. I thought I might have dribbled a bit of pee on my jeans or something. I checked when I sat down. The jeans were dry, but the zipper was half open. I'm sure no one noticed the zipper because of my blinding good looks and dashing style. Then the lights came on, and we were all ugly again.

Friday, March 11, 2005

archie was the bitch and jughead was the butch, that's why jughead wears that crown-looking hat all the time: he's the king of queen archie's world...

While Natalie worked on school stuff late last night, I sat at my computer and read ghost stories to her from the internet. It was fun for awhile, then when I decided to go to bed I realized I had freaked myself out. I could hear every single noise both inside and outside of the house. Suddenly the rattling vent in my bedroom became the sound of someone walking through the house. The kids playing soccer on the high school football field became the sounds of lost children's souls trying to find someone to play with. The cat licking his butt at the foot of the bed became the sound of the walls bleeding. I worried myself to sleep. That's nothing unusual though. It's just normally not caused by thoughts of ghosts and apparitions. Natalie's parents have a haunted farm that I've stayed at before. I say "stayed" because I definitely don't sleep there. I just kind of stay there. Ghosts bother me. Ever walk into a room alone and feel the presence of another person, like a really cold feeling and the hair on the back of your neck stands up? That kind of thing happens to me alot. Am I a wuss for letting this bother me? Probably, but at least when some gangsta' spirit comes up behind me and tries to cut me, I'll be ready for him. I keep my eyes OPEN!

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

don’t be in love with the autograph, just be in love when you scream that song on and on...

Poo.

It's like that first line you have to draw on a blank page to get past the mental block before beginning a drawing. "Poo" is what I use to battle what little Writer's Block I have. I don't usually have a problem with Writer's Block. I guess he's probably got bigger fish to fry. I mean, why bother someone who begins writing everything with the word poo?

My car is sick. Yes, Nubian Magic has a weak oxygen sensor, or possibly a broken mass air flow sensor. I don't know yet because I can't get her into the shop until Monday afternoon. I was going to Little Rock this weekend too. It's my friend's bachelor party weekend, but scratch that I guess. I don't trust my truck on a three hour trip either. I sure hate not having vehicular transport. I think I'll just go hippy this weekend and walk everywhere or just not leave the house. Sure, my truck can get me around town, but it seems more appropriate for me to just sit around and complain alot.

I guess I have to look on the bright side, the baseball stadium is within walking distance and the weather should be terrific this weekend. Nobody said I can't enjoy myself while my car is broken. It's another three game series starting tomorrow. Too bad I have to work all day tomorrow. I'd almost kick a puppy to have tomorrow off. I said almost.

po' folk cakes n shit...

This cakes often appeared on tha Sunday dinna table trippin tha depression n tha war years so jus chiznill with the S-N-double-O-P. It's bizzle in some families fo` three generizzles . Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay . Wussup to all my niggaz in the house. Durn tha "olden days," many families could not afford tha luxury of tha traditizzles fruitcakes, so this recipe became tha popular Christmas fruitcakes of tha pizzy . Hollaz to the East Side.

1 cup cold D-R-to-tha-izzug deala
1 cup packed brizzay sugar
2 cups raisins
1/2 cup lard
1/2 teaspoon siznalt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon clockin soda
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven ta 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Lightly greaze one 9 x 13 inch pan fo sho.

Place cold crazy ass nigga briznown sugar, raisins, lard, siznalt, cinnamon, nutmeg, n cloves in a large saucepan so sit B-to-tha-izzack relax new jacks git smacked cuz its a G thang. Bring this combinizzles ta a boil. Ya F-to-tha-izzuck wit us, we gots ta fizzy you up fo' sheezy. Let cracka fo` a fizzy 6 minutes, thizzay allow mixture ta coo` ta lukewarm cuz its a G T-H-to-tha-izzang. Hollaz to the East Side. Set aside.

In smiznall ballin biznowl, combine flour n soda. Gradually add tha dry ingredients ta tha cooled mixture. Add vanilla, n blend into gangsta. Pizzy batta into prepared pan cuz its a G thang.

Bakes in tha preheated oven fo` 90 ta 120 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into tha centa of tha cakes comes out clean. Allow ta coo` upside yo heezee. Store fo` at least a wizzy before cizzay. This cakes will remain moist fo` months. One, two three n ta tha four.

Lata. Crazy Ass Nigga.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

tulsa is a drama, and that's a genre i'm not particularly interested in...

More baseball. That's all I have to say. Three more games this weekend and I'm pooped.

The mother came to visit, and so I obviously attempted to entertain. I did an "ok" job of it too. This morning was a little different though. She brought some movie that "I had to see" and I quickly learned that seeing it wasn't exactly a necessity like she said. I sat and watched the parts when people fought, were killed, and cursed alot (the good parts), then got up and went in the other room pretending to do something when the sappy, girly parts came on. I came back at the end and said "that was pretty good". Some movies are so predictable, and so are some people.