Archive for June, 2006

For Everything Else, There’s Beer Bellied Intoxication

June 30, 2006

2 24 ounce mugs of Sam Adams Summer Ale: $11

1 Extra Large Boneless Buffalo Wings: $8.99

1 Wings & Skins Platter: $8.99

1 16 ounce mug of Same Adams Summer Ale just for fun: $6

Being totally okay that you spent $156 on a 4 month gym membership, yet purposefully and gleefully skipped cardio and abs to dine on deep fried fat with barley and hops while watching the Red Sox game with you gym buddy?

Priceless.

Well…actually…it cost $34.98, not including tip. And I’m not going to even begin to factor in how much a missed gym day costs.

But let’s just stick with ‘priceless’.

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How Much Do Streetside Window Washers Get If They Have A College Degree?

June 29, 2006

I am poor. Very. Very. Poor.

I get paid on Friday. Very. Very. Little.

I need a second job. So. So. Badly.

It’s gotten to a point where I’ve decided I need to get some cash in my pocket immediately. Right now, I have less than $50 in my account, which means that the paltry number of hours I work at the Eagle will not last me with a two week paycheck. So today, I’m going to speak to them and see if I can get some more hours. Until then, I’ve comprised a short list of jobs I’ve found in the Boston Globe yesterday that may be a possibility.

*Mammographer
*Histotechnologist
*Retail Greeter
*Cable Installer
*A job listed only as SUMMER JOBS to DEFEAT the REPUBLICANS
*Experienced Mate…which I hope to be something to do with boating

Wish me luck. Resumes are out.

Superman Has Let Himself Go

June 28, 2006

Let me preface this post by saying that I am ashamed with how many of my more exciting and entertaining blogging material revolves around the world of American Eagle. Let me also say that it is humbling to realize that most of that which goes on in my life that COULD be considered bloggable would be lucky to be turned into a pithy one liner.

My advice to any bloggers out there? Don’t leave college.

Every morning shift at the Eagle is usually pretty quiet. There’s a manager and two associates on duty till about noon, because until lunch time, especially on the sunny days, no one cares too much about coming into the mall. Including us.

On one of these days, I was working the front of the store. If anything, the screaming boredom is muffled just a bit by the people watching made available to me through the front doors of the store. As I was folding some tank tops [$9.95, and in a variety of colors!] I glanced up to take a look at the flow of people going in and out of the food court. That’s when I saw him.

Superman*.

Only take away the good looks, chiseled body, Hollywood paycheck and paparazzi pursued fame. And multiply all that by 4.

Amid the early shoppers and late morning walkers were four men. Shirtless. And potbellied. And hairy. Each with a big red S painted on their chest**. Presumably celebrating slash commemorating the new Superman movie.

I don’t know if you know this, but have you ever seen people at the Gap, American Eagle and other such places wearing those walkie talkies? Well, we use them for everything. Need another jean size? We ask for it. Funny looking customer with an electrical outlet styled haircut? We make fun of it. Saw a naked customer in the fitting rooms? We announce it. And this situation was no different.

Everyone else moved away from their post and went to look outside. The SubParMen had looped around the escalator and the wig and hair straightener cart and came back around in front of the store. You could always tell when they were coming and going because there was an invisible force field that surrounded them for about 8 feet on all sides. No one moved closer to them than that.

One of the managers who had just gotten in for the day was fixed in a gaze. She then mumbled I’m going to get a coffee, and followed them through the mall, updating us on their comings and goings through the headset. Productive morning? Nah, not at all.

Funny as hell? Oh yes, now.

Much later in the day, we all came to a few realizations that made the morning’s events that much more bizarre. The Superman movie hasn’t even opened yet. And our mall doesn’t have a movie theatre.

We still can’t figure out why they were there.

*Did you hear the rumor that the new Superman had to have his…um…package…digitally reduced because it was too…large…to be put in tights?

**Whenever I see someone with a Superman t-shirt on [or in this case, painted on], I’m reminded of Dane Cook and his stand up. He says something along the lines of how he hates it when he sees those t-shirts, and all he wants to do is shoot them in the chest, then say Huh…I guess not.

When The Revolution Comes, Where Will You Hide?

June 27, 2006

Not quite the same material as the kid with the penis story, but it still does the trick.

Je N’Aime Pas Les Filles

June 26, 2006

For the last few days, the Eagle has been doing more business than a fat man during Christmas. The amount of people we have in the store at one time is unbelievable. At any one time, I can expect to have the fitting rooms full, the go-backs cart packed, and a full line at the cash registers. It’s a living hell adorned in moderately priced apparel.

As I was putting some clothes on the go-backs cart, a woman walked into the fitting rooms carrying some shorts. I asked her how many she had, and she replied Deux…umm, two. I smiled as I walked her to a fitting room and asked if she was from France. She said yes, she was, and went to try on her clothes.

A little while later, she returned the clothes to me and asked how I knew she was from France. Not wanting to seem rude by drawing attention to her incredibly thick accent, I made up some excuse by saying that a Canadian would have probably wouldn’t have said two before deux. I don’t know why this reasoning came to mind. I just knew I couldn’t tell this woman she sounded like Steve Martin in the new Pink Panther [ps…what the hell was he thinking with that waste of film?! I’m disappointed, Steve. I hope you’re reading this].

She continued to question me, though, and asked me how I knew deux meant two. Again, not wanting to be rude by telling her that every person and their mother knows that deux means two, I let her know that I used to take French when I was in high school and a bit in college. Then, out of the sacre bleu, she starts speaking to me in French.

I don’t know if this was a challenge to the validity of my French education or what, but I quickly came right back at her. By no means am I fluent or proficient, but I’ve been known to conjugate a few etres since my last class. So after a brief conversation in broken francais, I started to take care of my other customers.

Hey, how many do you have?…Okay, great. Let me just take you to this dressing room where you can commence to shit all over the walls, leave hangers underneath the seat, return all 8 items to me inside out with deodorant all over and knock over my stack of jeans while you leave. Have a great day, and thanks for coming to America Eagle, you size 2 tramp.

When I got back to the fitting rooms entrance…she was still there. French girl.

And when I got back the next time. And the next time. And the time after that. She was always there. Asking me questions. Where do I live? Am I still in school? Did I know how hard it was to find a place to live for 10 weeks in America while here on an internship?

On one of my return trips, she asked me if it’s possible to travel to the north of Boston, where I live. Of course, I said. Just take the green line to North Station and you’re set. No, no she said. To visit me.

I’m sure most of you are getting where this is going. I, on the other hand, am clueless to the matters of what the French call amore. Especially that heterosexual hubabaloo.

Oh…um, you and your friends?
No. Just me.
Oh…well…oh…

I don’t know how it happened, but I ended up giving the French girl my email address. She’s going to get in touch with me about a date.

Go into work expecting to sell some jeans and tube tops. Leave work, having broken down international and sexual boundaries.

C’est la vie.

Did You Know One Year In Blogger Years ‘1’ Is 21 Years Old? I’m Taking My Blog Out For A Drink!

June 23, 2006

Well. Its finally here. The day that we’ve all [read: no one] been waiting for.

Tonight. Yes, tonight at midnight, is the first birthday of my blog.

I’ve got a one year old!

At this age, my one year old does things that most you parents only wishes your child could do. It communicates in an understandable way, and not with crying or pooping or making a mess. It is enjoyed by several people [SEVERAL! MANY SEVERAL PEOPLE!] from all over, while usually one year old babies are only enjoyed by their immediate family because come on, when something just poops and cries and eats and poops, you’ve gotta have some sort of strong emotional bond to be able to like that thing.

Finally, my one year old has introduced me to many other great people and opened up whole new experiences to me that other one year olds would never be able to do. I’ve attended SxSW, one of the most informative, eye opening, exhilarating places I’ve ever been. I have read the ongoing life stories of countless people from across the world, opening me up to so many different experiences. I’ve nurtured my writing style, gained a new appreciation for all that goes on around me [everything is bloggable], and have had fun throughout all of it.

All in all, I’d say my one year old has given me a lot to be thankful for. I’m eager to see what it gives to me in the coming months and years.

Happy birthday, Come To Find Out!

I Am Now Complete

June 22, 2006

One of the things that I’ve learned in my times and travels is that you should consider yourself a lucky person if you have a passion. Something that excites you whenever you think of it, vitalizes you when you partake in it, and drives you to succeed in all areas of your life. Some people never seem to find this something, though, and spend years of their lives trying to discover the fuel to light their inner fire.

Internet. Yesterday, I found that fuel. Yes, I attended the gas station of passion, and I got a free tank of plus gas-o-line. I’ve pumped my tank so full of it, I should be considered a walking, talking, mobile napalm.

That passion? That drive? That rejuvenating drink that sends me soaring higher than Red Bull laced with Aderol?

Girl’s. Junior. Softball.

Sitting in my folding chair, coffee in hand, 8th graders played their little 8th grade heart outs. And I became a man possessed. It was like the gates to the underworld opened wide to let loose a bevy of soccer mom spirits, whom, with their nalgenes and bumper stickers, filled my very soul with a hunger for orange slices and a thirst for blood.

As my friend, Carla, and I watched her little sister, Stephie, play her little heart out, I could feel the rage taking control of me. It started when little number 12 made her little double play by catching a fly and smacking the runner smack in the face with a softball glove packing some heat. Her ponytail almost came clean off. After that, it was all downhill.

During the mid-inning switch up, I heard a girl on Stephie’s team, NeatCo, tell her mother that, as she ran to first, the baseman punched her. PUNCHED HER. In her stomach. I slowly turned around, and said very calmly Which. One. The girl pointed out number 7 on the opposing team, The Holders.

Mmm Hmm. Alright. I see how this game is played. I’m gonna go key her parent’s car.

For the rest of the game, I used my loud voice. The one reserved only for concerts, emergency alerts, and bashing little teenage bitches who dare cross the line. Threats I employed included,

*Mommy divorced Daddy back in the last water break.
*Jake Gyllenhaal hates you, don’t kid yourself.
*I will slash your parent’s tires.
*Nice swing Tiger, too bad this ain’t golf.
*You throw like a girl.

Hungry for orange slices. Thirsty for blood.

I’ve never been more enthralled by something in my life. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, fueling my enthusiasm more than anything else I’ve ever felt. I imagined myself coaching the team. Morphing them from a bunch of girls to a pack of feral cats. Pigtails tied with the hair of the fallen. Nail polish applied with the blood of the defeated. They would be my 8th grade army of cleated terrors, and I?

I would be their Softball Master.

I don’t quite remember what happened after The Holders scored 3 runs against NeatCo, but I’m told it involved me saying I am taking command of the team and organizing 2 hour practices 2 times a week, asking Do the girls run laps? And what about weight training?, and finally something regarding sucker-punch-number-7 and finding out where she lives.

Being passionate is exhausting. And may wind up getting me a restraining order. But part of being driven is never say die.

Unless it’s to some little shit who sings We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher. You can say die to her.

Apparently You CAN Always Get What You Want…Even If You Recklessly Vandalize Someone’s Belongings

June 21, 2006

Bar Manager: So what exactly happened to your hand?

Laura: I cut it.

Bar Manager: I see that. But how?

Laura: I put my friend’s drink in between my boobs so that when he came back he’d have to reach inside. But it accidentally fell out and I slashed my hand open on it after it exploded.

Bar Manager: Oh.

Me: Be careful of that bloody tissue. She’s got the hiv.

Laura: HAHAHA!

Bar Manager:

Laura: So are you gonna buy me a new drink?

Bar Manager: ……Yeah, alright. What’ll it be?

I’m Like A Vigilante Against Stupid And Rude People

June 20, 2006

For the past week or so, a friend of mine that I went to college with [God, how long will it take for me to get used to the past tense when dealing with this subject?!] has been in Boston training for her job. She got hired as an employee with the Boston Beer Company, and basically is a rep for Samuel Adams.

Let the jealousy wash right over you. Mmmm. Sweet jealousy. Made with the finest hopps.

So I’ve had the chance to spend a few nights with her, as well as some of her incredibly entertaining co-workers, who are all getting trained by the company here in Boston. The wealth of stories I gathered in just the Saturday night excursion ALONE are enough to both shame all our parents as well as put to shame anything we thought was ‘crazy’ back in college.

Nope. Not easier. Still wicked hard to use the past tense.

The one thing that I swore I would write about, though, was our encounter with Bitter Ol’ Bitch at one bar in Faneuil Hall. For those of you who haven’t visited Boston, Faneuil Hall is a big area comprised of shops, bars, restaurants and other entertainment venues. Its one of the Boston highlights, so make sure you pay a visit.

Anyways, the first bar we walk has only two bartenders. A man and Bitter Ol’ Bitch. Guess who we had?

In the beginning, we kind of figured that maybe she was having a bad day. Being 45 years old and having to serve 20 somethings can’t be the most uplifting of experiences. So we gave her the benefit of the doubt when she yelled at us to MOVE AWAY FROM THE WAIT STATION! NOW AND QUICKLY!

We also gave her the benefit of the doubt when she would fill our beers up with more head than a whore can give on a BOGO night. We’re out to have fun, right? Let’s not let someone ruin it.

However, things got to be enough when she began to mouth off to us. Mind you, we are polite people. Not only that, but because my friends work for Sam Adams, they have to be on their best behavior while in one of the bars they sponsor. So when we began to get not only the cold shoulder, but the evil die in a fire stare, we got a little frustrated.

Don’t worry, though, we maintained our cool. Well. For the most part. See, when I asked the woman how much my drink was, she did this thing that I will never, ever forget. It was one of those moments where you don’t hear or see anything else but what is happening right in front of you.

As I asked how much my beer was, she leaned in real close, and with more emphasis on every syllable than was needed, she said FFFFoooour FFFFFiFFFFtyyyy.

One, single, solitary glistening bead of phlegm jumped from her lips, arched over the bar, and in a glorious swan dive not performed by even the most skilled of athletes, slammed right into my right eye.

My head reeled back as if I were punched, and whiplashed back into place. I stared her right in her eye, gave her an even MORE intense die in a fire stare, and slapped a $5 dollar bill on the table. She kind of smirked, turned the register, and cashed the bill. She made no attempt to give me back my 50 cents.

So I stood there, staring. She stood there. Staring. Finally, without loosing her gaze, she reached into the register and took out two quarters. She walked back over to the bar, dropped them in front of me, and made a quick turn as if to say HA! I win, LOSER! I AM THE BEST BARTENDER OVER 40 EVER!

Obviously, she doesn’t know me.

Excuse me, MA’AM?! MA’AM!

[lots of emphasis on the ma’am]

She turns back around and gives me a look.

Ma’am?! You forgot your TIP!

I slid both quarters towards her with a smile. As she came back over to pick up her paltry pay, I slipped my finger over one of the quarters and slowly drew it back. Leaving her with a single coin.

There you go!

I pocketed the quarter and walked away.

Try and pay for the hair dye to cover up those gray patches with that. Ass.

Cinnamon And Sugar Say Happy Father’s Day

June 19, 2006

Should I feel uncomfortable, unnerved, awkward or grossed out by the fact that my father used a nudie dance entertainment type of bar as a point of reference in order to drive up to see my Nana?

DJ’s Golden Banana is something that I neither want to associate with Father’s Day nor going to see my gray, sweet old Nana. Nor do I appreciate the uneasy feelings related to both him knowing and referring to this place as well as the unwelcomed visuals.

Ew. And I just got one.