I keep warning Washington D.C. not to politicize beer, but they won't listen. New alcohol taxes are in the works, global warming and CO2, and now racism.
Time to show your proclivities toward beer and politics:
Also: I'm waiting for someone to weigh in with Arrogant Bastard as a write-in candidate. Except he already got elected.
Important update:
Because the government doesn't even know how to create jobs out of money, I'm here to help.
Here’s a plan: the government can give me 20 million dollars and I’ll make sure I employ 1000 people for the next year. I need a new home built, a chauffeur, a stylist, a publicist, and various assistants, suppliers and menial workers. I’ll need accountants and bookkeepers and an HR admin. I will not even start a business that produces anything, so there will be no failure and no hand out for extra money.
Just give me $20 million and turn me loose to buy all the luxuries Michelle Obama is enjoying, and I’ll employ all my friends and cronies and it’ll be copacetic and uncomplicated.
There. I think I now know everything necessary to run for Congress.
And the bronchitis is back. Or it could be the flu, since I ache all over. It invaded my sinuses 36 hours after working in a small enclosed room with another manager who came to work sick that day. Or from a customer who coughed into her hand and then handed me money. Or a customer who holds their credit card in their mouth before handing the icky end to me.
Yuck. It has quickly moved to my lungs. Damn.
This time however, it seems to be working its way quickly through all the stages, so hopefully I won't be coughing for weeks.
So, do I go into work this afternoon since I have the closing shift, where I can cough all over my co-workers and customers? Why yes, I will. I will go in and let the manager assess my condition. And he'll not care one whit since to do without me will mean more work for him.
Of course, I'll have the decency to use hand sanitizer all evening and use up a box of tissues. I just hope I can stay on my feet for 9 hours straight.
But, it's good to have a job!
Who gives a fig about the psychology behind pranks? Some things just gotta be done: (warning, potty mouth language!) :
I work in an amazingly large liquor store. If your credit card is going to be 206'd (denied) anywhere, it's there. Why? Because your credit card company is profiling you every day, with every purchase you make. With one swipe of a small magnetic strip, a thousand transactions are happening simultaneously and little robotic machines are go/no-go'ing a set of rules written by some actuarial expert that can capriciously decide that, since you don't ever use this card, and now all of a sudden you've spent $4.25 at a convenience store in another state, $21.50 at Target and now $124.00 at a liquor store, you're probably a criminal, grandma.
(cartoon h/t to Last of the Few.)
Every day, most people thank me for asking to see some I.D. when they present a credit card for payment. Almost everyone. If someone takes offense or is peeved by it, it will certainly be a black man. The result of such umbrage is to make me a bit more chary in asking for identification. I hope that makes black people feel safe and dignified and worthy of respect. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I'll gladly let whomever use their credit card if it will keep me from being the target of victimized wrath. It's everywhere. It's so tiresome.
Moreover, certain items in our store are behind lock and key. They are less costly than other items, but are the most likely to be shoplifted. These items are popular with thieves. I make no judgment call on why, it just is. Apparently, if we lock up the most-stolen items, people take offense that they have to ask for a manager to make the item available to them. I am often the target of their offended sensibilities. I assure them that it is a matter of scientific calculation, much like determining which car is the most stolen car in the U.S.: the one which is easiest to steal, most appealing in the fence market, and easiest to dispose of. That is the car to whom the most anti-theft devices are sold. It's an artful defense which I came up with on the fly, but it makes sense and they are satisfied.
Because, it really does make sense.
However two days ago, a black businessman had his card 206'd and I was very apologetic, but assured him that he should check immediately with his card company as it was likely a profiled pattern that included alcohol purchase. He was unable to complete the purchase and left to make some calls.
He returned an hour later, looked for his purchase that I was holding, and smilingly offered up a, "don't ever name your child Junior!" We both laughed when I told him that that was all the advice my new mother-in-law ever offered me before I married her son, and now I understand. He related that it had been nothing but a headache for him now that his son was old enough to have credit, too many cross-references were hitting the profile.
Innocent. Explainable. Fixable without drama.
Just remember: no matter what color you are, you are being profiled, pre-judged, categorized, and likely marginalized by facts that are beyond your control. If you don't like that, you must move off the grid. To abuse those who live on the grid with you is to not understand one's place. No matter "who you know" or what sort of lofty position you think you occupy, the Grid is a plane of intersecting points of interest. You will most certainly, at some nexus, find yourself crossed up in a misunderstanding.
It's better to prepare for it like an adult.
Me: Looks like you're having quite a party. When should we all show up?
He: Yeah, it's my daughter-in-law's birthday and we're throwing her a big party.
Me: That's so sweet!
He: Yep. She's great. She keeps our son away from our home!
*****
Me: Hello, how are you today?
He: (with a dazed and glowing expression, I'm thinking, way too early to be drunk) I'm just fine. . . I mean, I must have done something . . . I guess it's true . . . there is something to it. I was approached at the gas station this morning by someone with a story about traveling and being out of gas. . .
Me: Yeah, that happened to me last week. Scammers.
He: . . . and I don't know why, I listened and I just. . . I mean, I just gave him $10. I felt compelled, somehow. And then, when I arrived at work, I was just given a $5,000 bonus! I guess paying it forward really does work!
He exited with his bottle of wine; a small celebratory drink offering to the gods of pleasure I suppose, but I perceived it was the miracle of timing that had him more in awe than the actual amount.
*****
Me: Did we have everything you were looking for today?
She: (with inscrutable expression deadpans,) Yes.
Me: (after noting her beautiful and quietly active little 3 y/0 daughter looking amazingly like her mom) There you are, have a good evening. Your darling girl is a carbon copy of you!
She: (now with an alarmingly odd expression) Yes, but certainly not my temperament.
And she walks out, while looking oddly at her own child. It gave me a chill to realize I had just picked up on a non-bonded mother and child. I know it happens in life, that somehow, a mom just cannot connect with her own, but jarring, all the same to witness.
*****
She: (a former boss who was not a bad person, just a self-promoter extraordinaire who was threatened by the CEO's recognition of my talent and ability, and proceeded to crank down on me with micro-managing my computer needs. Long boring story short: I quit to work elsewhere and she got fired shortly thereafter.) Wow, it's funny how you come in here for just one thing and leave with so much!
Me: (recognizing her long before she lets on that she was my boss) It's our evil little marketing plan at work!
She: Oh, hey, Joan! It's you!
Me: Hello, C. How is your bike trekking going?
She: Oh, I'm at the top of the organization, I'm all over.
Me: Yes, I've seen you on the internet site for the charity event. Well done!
Did you see me on the news last Fall, as the spokesperson for a national brand tourist entertainment attraction?
Okay, I really didn't say that last line. But I did think it.
*****
Mom, Bride and Bridesmaids: Can we split this bill three ways? How much is $40 divided by 3?
Me: *Bou Blink*
In my mind, I am throwing mom and the whole gang out of the store. Bodily. And dialing up her finacee on her phone and pleading with him to call it off.
Later:
Groom and Groomsmen: Can we get another keg for the same price? Dude, we need some Yeagermeister. Is that enough vodka? Where are the cigars?
Me: Oh, congrats! I met the bride-to-be earlier.
Groom: It better not have been her. She'd better be at home!
And I think to myself, it's a wonderful world in perfect balance.
*****
Me: May I see an I.D. please?
He: Yes, certainly.
Me: And how old are you?
He: 21. I know, I look nothing like my photo, but I got contacts and cut my hair and, here, I have other identification, and my social security card and . . .
Me: It's okay. I can see that it's you.
He: Yeah, cool. I get that all the time.
Me: You'll get it for quite a while longer until you get a new license.
Next in line, obviously a buddy: How can you be so sure it's him?
Me: Because I'm an artist. I've studied the human face and line and form. I'm mentally measuring the distance between the eyes, where the point of the nose sits vertically between the brow and the chin. . .
He: Like a police artist?
Me: You never know.
He: (nervously,) uh, heh. . .
Immediate Next in line, a local celebrity looking at me intently.
Me: (after checking items) Debit or credit?
He: Credit. (He hands me his card and I glance at the name. Yep.)
Me: I know who you are so I don't need to verify your I.D. , but I will need your signature (or autograph if you like!) here, please.
He smiles, signs the credit slip and quietly slips out the door. I make a mental note that he is much taller and slimmer in person, and how sad that the modern television camera still reduces stature and proportion in a way that the movie cameras do not. Many movie stars are quite short, in fact, but they have perfect proportion of stature, so no matter what medium in which they are portrayed, they fill up the frame of view.
And then I thought of how much of our world, since time whenever, still revolves around little notes of confidence; credit slips made good by a simple human gesture of true identity and good faith. And how little our political "representatives" demonstrate of either.
And the parade of life continues to entertain me throughout my shift. Tonight three unlikely twenty-something roommates were the highlight. The Nice Girl With a Good Personality, the Good Guy Who Will Someday Sell You a Computer, and a tall, high-yellow young man in tshirt and jeans with a makeshift black caftan/robe/sheet wrapped decoratively (?) with pastel strips torn from bedsheets, hooded and draped, and all flowing behind him. I have no explanation or category for such an appearance except, He Who Has Never Been Laid (it's crude, I know, but really. C'mon.)
Bums, DT's, Babies, Jocks, Dads, Brides and Businessmen and next door neighbors and families on vacation. I have a perfect, two-minute relationship with each and every one of them. Just how I like my human interaction: short and sweet and shallow!
Twelve hours later, I can only have one thought: my feet and knees just ache.
But, I HAVE A JOB!! Did I mention that?!
It's all good.
The Pepper Dog and I were at the beach by 6:00 a.m. today. We greeted the sunrise and its attendant ushers-- birds and dolphins and a few scudding clouds that graced the scene to provide scale and contrast.
I sunk the chi, breathed a prayer, and considered, at this stage of life and a new retail career, how many realistic years I had remaining to rebuild some sort of hope for a comfortable descent into retirement. Or if it were even possible. Starting from scratch at this age, living in a motor home and driving an old car in order to lay low, keep a simple profile and have mobile options if things keep going south economically.
Here is what I asked myself: If I give ten hard years of work in order to secure the possibility of ten more physically easier years of work well beyond retirement age, how much can I hope to save, what investment can I make, what return of security can I expect that hasn't already been stolen by a group of politicians today?
I sweartahgott it's enough to make you shrug, right along with Atlas.
Stolen from the Borderline Sociopathic Blog For Boys, which is simply a necessary part of any compleat blogroll.
You've made plans? Bwahahaha!!!! Hoo-boy. You must work for the government.
The rest of us are so busy surviving that any thought of future plans or peace for ourselves and family have quietly succumbed to the onslaught of Hope and Change. There is no time for personal crises, much less the luxury of simple daily drama.
It's all part of the deconstruction of the American Spirit. And we may Tea Party and complain and protest. . . for now. Big talk until it becomes illegal. We'll see what we truly value. It may be only the next season of 24.
Funny thing, however. The more constrained we become by the impersonal destruction of our country, the more our deepest joys become intensely transcendent and precious. It may be time to think about preserving those self-evident joys and truths where they have the best chance of surviving: within your own family and community.
You may be hunkered down with a year's supply of food and creative plans for survival and that's all good. But now is not the time to go all Rugged Individualist. Most of us will need each other, and that's not a bad thing, just a new thing. Most of us think, "I can survive," but until we realize that surviving alone, while our neighbors fade away will afford us nothing abiding, transcendent or true. We will become a footnote in History, at best another chronicler of the demise of civilization.
Sorry, but the fantasy of Individualism is costly; you can only have so much food, ammo and advantage before you turn into a monster. That instinct to hunker and hide will only take you so far and ultimately will be defeated by the relentless insistence of a better organized, more tightly knit zombie government looking to feed off the living.
The age of pilgrims and pioneers seems to be passing, now that there is nowhere to run or hide. Conservatives keep wanting to play the game by the old rules, by seeking individual peace and freedom of conscience, not bothering anyone and happily going about their own business. But the Age of the Busybody will not relent, now that it can google you up at any point on the planet and garnish your sustenance for its own ends.
I'm watching what happens in Honduras. It's the canary in the mine.
Right now, however, I'm gonna go to work one more day and feed the Beast as little as possible.
Just making sure we're all clear on that. It wasn't okay for "Uncle" Walter and it's not okay for a President or a member of Congress or even a Dog Catcher.
Is everyone clear on the concept now?
The Tipping Point.
We there yet?
Neanderpundit isn't God, (well, not yet) but his passing of judgment on that most pernicious and pompous ass, Walter Cronkite, is not to be missed. You go now!
I'm just sayin' . . .
When the Cap and Trade legislation starts to affect the selling of beer, I think Tea Parties will morph into outright rebellion.
Don't say I didn't warn you, Congresssional Asshats. That goes for champagne as well.
Now, I don't know of any upcoming Beer Tax, but this whole thesis works great in the checkout line. No matter what the racial, ethnic, or political background of your fellow customer, you say, "um . . . did you know that beer bubbles contribute to global warming?" and you've suddenly got a Conservative on your team.
Don't go at this thing head-on, folks, 'cuz people don't understand it. Find which oxes haven't yet been gored and then gig 'em good.
For the truly heavy sleeper, this young man has created an alarm clock to warm the heart of every mom that has ever tried her best to wake the unmovable lump of teenager hiding under the covers. Oh, how I laughed!
What did tornadoes sound like before we had freight trains?
What did storm damage look like before we had war zones?
Before they had trucks to fall off of, where did unbelievable bargains come from?
That's about it for now. Laters.
Oh, it's just a fantasy of mine. Can't you just imagine the Left's sputtering implosion over something so sweet as that!?
Of course, the State Run Media would, out of expediency, swear she was having an affair with Rush. . .
O.K., really? I'm posting those particular words just to catch the google hits. I'm sure some leftard is looking for that particular bait.
Meanwhile, I just went through my archives from last November. Looks like I was way ahead of the current mood toward the long-gone Republican Party. It may not be dead yet, but it sure is a dull excuse for a party. The only people showing up are the insecure ones afraid of being left out.
However, if Sarah Palin would host a national radio talk show, just think of the immediate influx of cash into her beleaguered legal funds, the immediate following, and the hopeful replacement for Hannity's mostly cringe-worthy three hours of self-indulgence. I may have to send her some cash once I get a full two-weeks' paycheck in my new job.
****
Yes, I still like my job working with that devil, alcohol! My lovely oxford uniform shirt with snazzy logo inspires other clerks around town while I'm out shopping: Oooh! You work there?! Yessiree. Cache. Prestige. Awe. Yeah, I be stylin', they be hatin'. I don't even miss the office atmosphere of my former iterations of career choices. And the physicality of the work is doing a number on my arms and back. Bring it, Michelle O. Your guns got nuthin' on mine.
Later, peeps. I got five full days ahead of me with brutal shift work, but I have a by-gawd job . Praise be.
From the Onion News Network. Found in the various treasures of American Digest, home of a thoroughly excellent blog and extraordinary writer.
Light 'em off en masse:
Borrowed from the Young Americans.
Have a happy Fourth!
Anthony Van Loo has a defib implant for a heart condition. It allowed him to instantly and miraculously "reboot" after he K.D'd (Keeled Dover) on the field last weekend. He was up and off to the E.R., later released with no additional damage to his condition. Check it out and watch him jump!
More info at haha.nu
Apt. Such is a word fitly spoken. Can we make this moniker stick?
I'm on the Bus, not under it! Leslie asked me to participate in Take Three, a little writing exercise wherein you are given three sentences and must use them in a short story of 1,000 words. It's worth noting that it is a true experience from just the other day, and I arrived home on said day to find my 1,000 word assignment. I couldn't believe the convergence!
The random three sentences are in boldface:
I hate nature… and WalMart. Maybe not necessarily in that order, but both seem predisposed to favor the better survival instincts that I have so far managed to avoid. Today I experienced both nemeses in rapid succession as I hurried through the checkout line while the sounds of very near and numerous lightning strikes were thundering through the building. They were so close you could almost feel the hair standing up on your skin and that's never good. But, it's north Florida and we all know that you just have to tough it out. Nobody really carries umbrellas since they are a tell-tale sign that You're Not From Around Here, Are Ya, Lighting Rod?
Survival is key in the jungles of WalMart. Like some prehistoric computer game, one must carefully avoid certain demographics of people and place if one is to achieve the highest skill level reward: actually finding what's needed, on sale, and getting through the checkout lane first in line -- before the rain hits, not buying anything you didn't plan to. Yeah, I'm hard-core for this today. I am maneuvering for the hat trick, racing with the approaching storm because I know I am going to have to drive right into it to get home.
WalMart seems to attract grandparents who are raising their grandkids, and on any given day you have Nana, harried and weary, busting chops and riding herd on children who have no physical or cultural resemblance to her. Ungrateful and confused whelps that are by turns neglected and indulged by their working parents when they get home. These are just the sorts of game-ending Death Stars of the Golden Check Out Lane that you don't want to find yourself standing behind in line.
But I was happily smug and inattentive, proud of my WalMart run so far. I'd avoided the siren call of so many shiny things made by happy, grateful children in some mud-caked backwoods country, I'd kept to my plan, I stayed away from the cheap snacks aisle, I was home free with only the worry of the raucous thunder disturbing my winning edge.
A checkout lane with only one granny and her kidlet, and they're almost done. I position myself, lay out the items on the conveyor for maximum efficiency, have my debit card unholstered and my pin number at the ready, like an itchy trigger finger. It's all perfect. And then Nana starts asking questions of kidlet: “Where did you get that? Is that yours? Stop bouncing that. Did you bring that from home?”
My debit card begins to pivot downward in my now slackening grip, like some sad flower of hope wilted before fully opened. My breath has abated down to the instinctual quiet of watchfulness, since there is a razor-thin opening of time wherein one must decide to flee to another lane with all of its unknowns or stick out the growing uncertainty of success in your present circumstances. What to do?
The cashier is staring off into the distance, not even attempting interference or offering help. Good for her. Kidlet is now getting in Nana's grill; he's all of 10 years old but channeling his inner gangsta and bewildering a typical white woman who only expects respect for her person and others' property. And then kidlet attempts to play above his skill level and an insouiciant, "Chill, Nana, it's none of your business," phrase actually escapes his stupid brain pan and tumbles out of his mouth.
And that’s when Nana went commando. She called up the generations of grandmothers before her, and like some towering Fate came thundering down upon the ears of that dullard child with invectives and inarticulate, animal-like predications of his future and his chances of attaining one. Her arthritic hands snatched up the offending toy like a pebble out of the master’s hand and slammed it down on the conveyor belt. “How much is that?” she demanded. The unhurried cashier looked it up and charged her accordingly. They retrieved their several bags from the carousel and headed out, Nana still nattering away and kidlet slouching behind her, loathe to even touch the cherished orb of his temptations: a super ball. Just as well. Nana pitched the hated thing into the nearest trash can on the way out.
I finally exhaled,. I’m back on track, thankful that the Death Star command wasn’t given: “I need a manager on Register 11!”
The electricity in the air was getting thicker. I was worried, looking at the black sky, little birds being whirled around. The lighting was coming three flashes a second, clouds were boiling and all of a sudden, horns were honking. I looked up to see the formation of a funnel cloud a few miles from the parking lot. I scurried to the car, popped the trunk, tossed in my hard-won prizes and shivered as lightning kept dancing crazily nearby. No time to count seconds between flashes, it was a unified assault. “Sweet Jesus, don’t let me die at WalMart,” I pray.
Into the car, south onto the Interstate where the winds and water create a white-out effect. Moments like this make me very, very nervous. The weather station reports two tornadoes, one almost on top of me, and a waterspout following the north-flowing St. Johns River on its way out to sea. Reports are that the front hasn‘t moved.. “One of us is going to move,” I think to myself and press on past idiots in moving cars with their flashers on. Illegal and stupid!! Other moving cars have no idea if you are stopped in the middle lane or just advertising your nervousness. I mock and curse them, damn Yankees.
Twenty minutes later and the traffic is moving sub-speed, tip-toeing past a pick-up truck that went into the woods, either by hydroplaning or winds, who can say? Prayers offered up by fellow-travelers are assailing the brassy ether above us as we move south, toward sunlight.
I beat nature. . . And WalMart!
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