Mr. Stephen Colbert’s Threatdown was even more hilarious than usual last night.
Author: R.J. Keller
Old fashioned
About a year ago, I cancelled my subscription to my beloved Bangor Daily News. Heating oil was on the rise, it seemed prudent to cut corners anyway we could, and since BDN has a website where I could get my news for free, I figured that corner was an easy one to cut. Besides, I could pat myself on the back for being Green. Saving a tree or two. That sort of thing.
This week, however–trees be damned–I started my subscription back up again. Why?
“Reader comments.”
As a writer, I have very strong feelings about the First Amendment. Freedom of speech and all of that. But the bickering and flaming that goes on in too many of these articles’ comments sections makes me wonder whether or not some sort of intelligence test should be administered before allowing individuals to post. Or at the very least that there should be some sort of moderation on these pages.
What finally did me in was an article that was posted on Wednesday, August 13. Last weekend, a young man was stabbed and killed by his apparently mentally ill brother who “thought he and his brother were romantically involved with the same woman.” The article went on to describe how the woman in question, a nurse, tried unsuccessfully to revive her friend by using CPR. I don’t think most of us can begin to imagine what she, and the members of this family and their friends, could possibly be going through right now. And, it seems, many people don’t care, because it took about five minutes from the time this story was posted for the bullshit to start in the comments section; beginning with this gem from a New Yorker:
And here I’ve been thinking that the dating scene in Manhattan is desperate!
Um…rimshot? I mean, seriously, what the hell was this shithead thinking? Perhaps it’s because this is only the latest in a record setting year of domestic violence homicides in Maine that I’m a wee bit oversensitive to this type of comment. Or perhaps it’s because I witnessed a young man who knew both of these young men breaking down in the store on Monday morning when he discovered the news by reading it on the front page of the paper. Or maybe, you know, it’s because I have a fucking heart and a soul and more than a little bit of sympathy and compassion for the family and friends of these men who are suffering a kind of loss I hope I never know, and who will undoubtably have read this idiotic remark.
All I know is that I’ve had enough of it. And so I’ll get my news the old fashioned way. Without a peanut gallery.
Math, music, and a history lesson
A gallon of milk weighs approximately 8.5 pounds.
A crate of milk contains 4 gallons of milk.
That’s approximately 34 pounds.
Last night, while working in the cooler, a crate of milk slipped out of my hands. I had a mere 1.0342302 seconds (give or take a millisecond) to save one or more of my precious toes and/or foot from being crushed under its weight. You would have been mightily impressed by the quickness and nimbleness I displayed in snatching this Crate Of Doom just in the nick of time. As I sit here typing this missive, my toes and/or foot are miraculously whole and unbruised.
Oh, how I wish they weren’t!
The trade-off was the alignment of my back. Apparently, it objected to being called upon to bear the weight of 34 pounds of milk so suddenly. It’s voicing this objection right now, in loud tones, the melody to which is: “Let it drop / let it drop / you shoulda let it drop.”
Needless to say, I’m not moving very quickly or nimbly today. Instead I’m reading a Civil War book I picked up yesterday, The Commanders of Chancellorsville – The Gentleman Versus The Rogue (Robert E. Lee being the gentleman, Joe Hooker the rogue) by Edward G. Longacre. For those of you unfamiliar with American Civil War history, the Confederates won the battle of Chancellorsville–in large part–by scaring the bejesus out of the Union Army. The tradeoff was the loss of Stonewall Jackson. It’s worth renting the otherwise yawn-inspiring movie, Gods and Generals, (based on Jeff Shaara’s very excellent book of the same name) just to see this battle enacted.
Today’s a good day for you guys to do some reading, too. Chapter 23 of Waiting for Spring (Tess verses her mother in a Phone Call Of Doom) is now up at Readers and Writers Blog. Also posted is Chapter 5 of J. Cafesin’s Disconnected, and (sadly) the final installment of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good. Check ’em out.
Smile, and the whole world’ll kick you in the ass…
Here’s a confession: I couldn’t flirt my way out of a paper bag. Seriously. If someone tossed me into a paper bag, then said, “Flirt your way out of it,” you’d never hear from me again. I lack that certain subtle quality that’s apparently required. In high school, while other girls batted their eyes and murmured whatever it is they were murmuring with seeming effortlessness to their boy–or boys–of choice, I could only manage a forthright, “So…are you gonna ask me out, or what?”*
Concede my surprise, therefore, when I found the following note waiting for me when I got to work Tuesday night, penned by my boss:
KEL, STOP FLIRTING WITH THE CUSTOMERS.
Actually, surprise is not the word I should have chosen to describe my emotions at that moment. Amazed. Astonished. Flabbergasted. Those just about do it. It took me several minutes to pick my jaw off the floor. I still have the bruise. And I spent the next eight-and-a-half hours a nervous, unflirty wreck. I buttoned my uniform all the way up to the top, geek-style, even though I can’t stand to have anything tight around my neck. I eyed each of my male customers with irritation and suspicion. They eyed me right back with what was probably amazement, astonishment, and flabbergastedness. And when my boss finally walked through the door at seven o’clock, I held up the note–clutched tightly in my fist–and growled:
“Just what the fuck is this all about?”
See what I mean about that certain subtle quality I lack?
“You’ve been flirting with the customers, and you need to stop it.”
“Flirt? What do you mean, ‘flirt’? I don’t even know how to flirt!” Then I unleashed my Paper Bag Gag. It had come to me at about three-thirty, and I’d been practicing it ever since. I’m proud to say it went over rather well, getting a hearty chuckle from my boss, the first shift girl, and the bread delivery guy. When he was done chuckling, my boss explained himself.
Apparently I smile too much, and it’s giving one of my customers–a scuzzy truck driver with no teeth whose wife recently left him–the wrong impression. Apparently he’s not used to friendly cashiers. Apparently I’m supposed to scowl at him and act like he’s got a lot of nerve coming to the store in the middle of the night to buy diesel fuel and coffee when I’ve got an important Star magazine to read, like the other overnight girl does. Apparently that would make him feel more comfortable.
Hey, I’m all for it. I’ve been practicing my scowl all week. I’ll keep practicing it this weekend. And I’ll unleash it on the asshole when he comes in early Monday morning for his diesel fuel and coffee. Because giving the customers what they want is my number one priority.
* Oddly enough, that line worked on the man who is now my husband. Go figure.
Nothing but net
Chapter 22 of Waiting for Spring has been posted at Readers and Writers Blog. I really like this chapter, if I’m allowed to say so. I have a rather soft spot for Tess’ ex-husband, Jason.
My goal in writing the Tess/Jason subplot was to create a tragic love story that could have been the subject of an entire novel on its own, and I’m pretty happy with the result. I wrote said backstory after a conversation I had with a friend of mine about the concept of Soulmates. Is there such a thing? What happens when you’ve found yours, then lost him? Is everyone entitled to just one, or are there dozens of potential soulmates out there somewhere?
Actually, that conversation was the impetus not just for this subplot, but for the entire book, even though I never use the term. And the idea of introducing Jason to readers as the jerkwad ex-husband, then having Tess gradually peel back the layers of hurt to reveal a once deliriously happy couple, came to me after I saw “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” (Great movie. If you haven’t seen it, get on it right away.)
And–if I’m further allowed to brag–one of my favorite lines of the novel comes from Chapter 22:
“I was fucking exhausted, completely worn out from a night awake and a day of work and an evening of back-breaking sex…”
So, check it out, along with Chapter 34:Colma of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good.
Human Touch
I believe I’ve told you about my co-worker, “E.” To refresh your memory, she’s the chick who is much cuter than I am and once drank Shirley Temples with me on a particularly slow graveyard shift. We switched shifts yesterday (her three-to-eleven for my graveyard) so she could go out with some buddies.
To be honest, I was looking forward to this. It had been awhile since I’d had any contact with Daytime Customers*. People who–more often than not–wear their pants in public and aren’t [yet] too stoned to remember what they came in for. (Hint: it’s probably something sweet.) Alas, I was destined for disappointment. The place was busy, alright, and all of my customers were wearing pants. As far as I could tell none of them were stoned. But the majority of them didn’t come into the store. Most of them were only there for pay-at-the-pump fuel.
I’m not anti-technology. Obviously I own a computer with internet access (high speed wireless DSL…that’s right, we’ve got that up here in the boonies). I have an iPod, Tivo (or something like it, anyway…I can’t remember what it’s called at the moment), and a cool thingamajig button on my keychain that pops my trunk open for me so I can put my groceries inside it with the greatest of ease. But I’ll tell ya, I felt a little disconnected from the world as I stood there, caged up at that lonely, rural convenience store, watching lines of people get out of their cars, pump their gas, then get right back in again and drive away. Most of them didn’t even bother to look into the store window to see if anyone was there. And it made me long for the old fashioned pump-your-fuel-then-walk-your-ass-into-the-store-to-pay-for-it pumps.
The few customers who braved a trip inside were greeted with a hearty smile and an enthusiastic “Howdy!” It took all of my self-control not to follow them as they browsed the aisles, just for the chance at a little bit of conversation. They all left the store with a heartfelt “Come again soon!!!!” ringing in their ears. And when “E” finally arrived at ten-thirty I actually hugged her. Poor girl. She probably thought I was stoned.
Speaking of stoned (yes…seriously) Chapter 21 of Waiting for Spring is up at Readers and Writers Blog along with Chapter 33: Scenic Hills of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good. There’s also some brand-spanking-new poetry posted by two poets; Nancy Allen and my buddy Joel Phipps. Check ’em out! You won’t be sorry.
*Saturday morning customers don’t count. They’re usually cranky or hungover, or both.
Some of This and some of That
Ah, yes, another potluck post.
1. My Internet Explorer is pulling a mini freak out on me. It won’t let me visit websites, blogs, etc that use Site Meter. This is very distressing since I use it on this blog. At least, I did until I figured out why I couldn’t get on here and deleted the Site Meter thing-a-ma-bob. So, if you have Site Meter on yours, and are wondering why I haven’t visited you…that’s why. I’m not a computer geek, so I’m not exactly sure what I.E. has against S.M., but I hope they kiss and make up very soon. Is anyone else having this problem????? [UPDATE: Looks like it’s not just me. Check out this article.]
2. I have to weigh in on the Manny Ramirez thing. If you’re not into baseball, feel free to skip ahead to #3. Basically my thoughts boil down to this: Thanks for the laughs, Manny, now good frigging riddance. The Hall of Fame awaits you, no question, and deservedly so. But no amount of homeruns can make up for selfish bullshit you’ve been pulling all season long. Oh, how I long for the days of real baseball! Before it became a haven for soulless, money hungry agents like Scott Borasshole. To quote my hero, Bill Lee: “That was real baseball. We weren’t playing for money. They gave us Mickey Mouse watches that ran backwards.” (Imagine what my thoughts were before I boiled ’em down…)
3. I’m going to a Portland Seadogs game tonight!!! Whoo hoo! (Ooops…I guess those not interested in baseball should’ve skipped ahead to #4.)
4. A Waiting for Spring reader emailed me yesterday wondering just what the hell Watermelon Tourmaline is. It’s a pink and green gemstone that–when cut just right–looks like watermelon slices and–when cut another just right way–is just plain beautiful. I used it in WFS for a few reasons. 1) it was once mined in Maine. 2) it went along well with the color motif that runs through the book. 3.) its ‘energies’ (if you believe in that kind of thing) are love, healing, and power…also very important themes in the story. 4.) a few years ago I fell in love with a tourmaline ring I saw (but couldn’t afford to buy) at Bennett’s Gems & Jewelry in Belfast, Maine. I figured if I couldn’t have it then Tess could. Here’s a website that’s chock full of information about tourmaline, including lots o’ photos.
5. Chapter 20 of Waiting for Spring has been posted at Readers & Writers Blog, along with Chapter 32: Hillsborough of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good. Check ’em out!
6. Have a great weekend!
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And in other news…
Wal-Mart mobilizes against Democrats
Wal-Mart Stores Inc is mobilizing U.S. store managers to lobby against Democrats in November’s presidential election, fearing they will make it easier for workers to unionize, The Wall Street Journal reported on Friday.
In recent weeks, thousands of Wal-Mart managers and department heads have been summoned to mandatory meetings at which the retailer stresses the downside for workers if store workers unionize, the paper said.
About a dozen employees who attended meetings in seven states said executives stressed employees would have to pay hefty union dues and get nothing in return, and might have to go on strike without compensation, and warned that unionization could force the company to cut jobs as labor costs rise, the Journal reported.
The Wal-Mart human-resources managers who have run the meetings didn’t tell those attending how to vote in the November elections, but made it clear that voting for the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, Sen. Barack Obama, would be tantamount to inviting unions in, the Journals said.
Wal-Mart could not be reached immediately for a comment.
Weddin’ tips
Found this brilliant post on Deep Friar’s blog today: Wedding Tips From A Cynical Bachelor. It’s the funniest thing I’ve read in a long time. But then, I’m not one for sentimentality…
Visa bills, nectarines, and bituminous concrete
I don’t know if you’ve ever worked nights before. If you have, you know what I mean when I say my brain feels like cottage cheese a good portion of the week; namely during the day, when Cottage Cheese Brain is exactly what I don’t need. Important phone calls are not returned, car maintainence appointments are forgotten, and toenails frequently go unclipped for weeks at a time. In short my life, like my panty hose, is coming apart at the seams. The toe seams.
To combat this trend, last night I made a decision that goes against my nature. I decided to make a list. Not the kind that reminds me of all the bad things I’ve done that need to be set straight. No, the kind that reminds me of all of the necessary things I keep forgetting to do so I can keep my life straight. For example:
– Pay your Visa bill, you idiot!!!!!! It was due last Thursday!!!!!! Late fees!!!! Ack!!!!!
– There’s a bag of nectarines in the back of the crisper. It’s been there forever. Throw it way.
– You finished Adrift in America last week. You forgot to blog about it.
Now that my overdue Visa bill and soupy nectarines have been taken care of, it’s time to tell you guys about Sid Leavitt’s Adrift in America, a “diary of a minimalist mariner.”
In the late 1980s, Mr. Leavitt–having been unceremoniously let go from his editor’s job at a Portland, Maine newsaper–sold his house and most of his belongings, bought a truck, and set off to see America. It wasn’t wanderlust that inspired him…at least not mostly. He hit the road because he wanted to live deliberately; to live frugally and suck out all the bituminous concrete of life. He was looking for freedom, too, the kind that meant “being able to say ‘Fuck you’ to your boss and be out of town 10 minutes later with everything you own.” Oh, to know such freedom! But what I love most about this book is that we get a glimpse of everyday America. Not the touristy, post card America; but real towns with real people. The ones we overlook when we’re on vacation.
So check it out. It’s posted at Readers and Writers Blog, here by chapters and here in its entirety.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clip my toenails.
R.J. Keller 