href='http://www.mediafire.com/?j2gm1mi4uh2'>http://www.mediafire.com/?j2gm1mi4uh2
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Fall
Feel recharged, it's finally Fall.
Today is the Equinox, leave it up to Coltrane to spark us up with some sexy notes.
John Coltrane- Equinox
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Sensory Analyst Combo: Part One
Sound: Aphex Twin "Alberto Balsam"
Sight: an open desert road
Smell: new leather
Taste: St. Germain Elderflower liqueur
Feel: Adventurous yet retrospective.
Additional notes: you're wearing a black turtleneck and maybe have just picked up a German hitchhiker. You've just quit a high paying job to move to the desert to finish a book you've been trying to write for years. You have suddenly become bisexual and have strange sexual and/or food cravings. You buy a clarinet at a yard sale in Tempe, AZ.
Sight: an open desert road
Smell: new leather
Taste: St. Germain Elderflower liqueur
Feel: Adventurous yet retrospective.
Additional notes: you're wearing a black turtleneck and maybe have just picked up a German hitchhiker. You've just quit a high paying job to move to the desert to finish a book you've been trying to write for years. You have suddenly become bisexual and have strange sexual and/or food cravings. You buy a clarinet at a yard sale in Tempe, AZ.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
That Sound
With the development of a new city comes thoughtful preparations for the natural disasters that may occur in a city during it's lifespan. Take for instance Scranton, Pennsylvania, as the strong and somewhat large Susquehanna river flows through, 20 foot dikes stand ready for an impending flood.
It probably has been snowing in Pennsylvania even before William Penn was born, but does the city of Scranton prepare for this predicable weekly occurance?
Snowdays were different when I was a kid. Pre-global warming brought blizzards of snow, wet heavy masses of slush caking the steets. My school district spanned through the Back Mountains where plows dared not to go, which gave us a closure edge so to say.
My house was not painted pastel purple and my name did not have Madam as a prefix, yet I could predict, I had a certain ESP as to when the snow was coming, way before the newcasters saw a jetstream. There was an evolutionary timeclock to the snow days. At sunset, on the nights before it snowed, I could hear it coming.
My brother and I sat in dads boat whose canvas cover was as frozen stiff as our speculative pessimism. I told my brother about the sound I heard and he inquired to the tone as he threw icicles through the tire hanging from the pine tree. I told him to listen harder and close his eyes. The sky was the weirdest color at these times and I watched my brothers shiny pink lips reflect the sad almost flourescent purple light as his eyes twitched closed. He couldn't hear it, but to me it sounded like a high yet somehow contradictory low pitched humm, not uncomfortably loud or harsh, it sounded like a rich wind whistle, uncomfortable yet exhilirating like the pinch you get on your spine at a first date kiss. He was jealous that i could hear the snow coming and predict certainty before Vince Sweeney of the 6 o'clock news could.
If the snow started to fall at night before school, every television station posted the school closures on an revolving loop of school names that appeared at the bottom of the screen. It would usually start out with a 2 hour delay but as I wiped the condensation from the kitchen window and held me ear held my ear to listenpast the Agolino's Italian water ice truck, past the Pizza Hut, and over the Appalachains I could hear the snow about to barrel through my neighborhood as valuable as a train full of Alaskan King Crabs.
At times of uncertainty, there was always Bobby Kulick. My brothers childhood friend was an overweight spoiled Irish kid. In the summertime his shorts gathered in between his legs in the crotch area producing what looked like a khaki canvas curtain pulled in at the middle by an invisible pulley. He was quite a dramatic soul, "running" away from his single mothers home often, and finding salvation at our house where he would hang out with my dad, in his annoyance with Kulick, would put him to work cleaning the litter box or sweeping the back porch. I can recall one day after High School, approaching my brothers bedroom door to buy a joint, but instead finding Kulick laying alone on Adam's bed wearing the racoon hat that my cat Mr. Whiskers used as a girlfriend and eating a mini bag of Dorito's while watching MTV's "The Grind". Anyway, Bobby Kulick had a ton of good toys and junk food including a cotton candy maker, a magic 8 ball, a seemingly endless year round supply of girl scout thin mints and he even (discovering my own jealousy) had his own set of red Atlantic suitcases.
But Kulick had what noone else in the tri city area did; a premature alert of school snow closures. Kulick's ma, Cathy, was assistant to the district superintendant, so when he decided that the roads were too icy or slippery, he called Cathy who then called the news stations.
"DAD, we're going to Kulicks!!!!!!" we'd scream up the stairs and ran the 2 blocks downhill to his weird dark, burnt orange carpeted house.
"Guys (lisp) I told, you (takes out retainer) , I ran out of cotton candy sugar last time you were here!"
"It's cool, where's your mom? Showering huh? Is she using the Pantene sample my mom sent down last week? It's ok, we'll wait for her. Say, is your phone on the hook?"
Sometimes Kulick was of no help, like say when he was at his dad's house that was, increasing the jealousy, a sportmens hunting lodge in the Pocono mountains. When Kulick was away I lethargically and half-heartedly prepared for school in hopes that I'd be dressing in my snow jumper and not tights. Last minute decisions were made in the morning hours by school officials as snow plows spun out of control and salt towers ran dry.
The ten seconds that each school name appeared on the screen seemed to be too long. When Penn State got to the screen, you began to get a little dizzy with anticipation, there were a few campuses so you had time to spin in a circle or throw the cat around, and then it came, your schools name, the symmetry of the professional computerized letters so framiliar and perfect, and there it read CLOSED. By the time Richmond High was on the screen Adam was doing flips off of the Lazy Boy onto the day bed and I was unclipping my gloves from the forced air heater.
The sound, that humm, that waaaahwahhwooo, it was like an one toned xylaphone with platinum keys, I could hear it, the sound flowing over my town as I slept, into the backyards in and in front of the sun rise, past the water ice truck, above the Pizza Hut and bouncing over the Appalachains.
Human Guinea Pig
Hi dudes. As most of you know I am currently participating in a clinical trial at NYU for an experimental drug for my psoriasis. This is a documentation taken from my journal. I know this is very long but I promise it's worth reading. All of the information contained is true. smooch.
November 12th, 2008- I reach what many call "the breaking point". I'm standing in my apartment bathroom. I should be happy. I've finally made it to New York. I have really good friends, lot's of writing inspo and a 4 inch thick posturpedic memory foam mattress pad. I should be happy. I should be happy. I rub the concealer from my cheek. Dry, flaky red circles appear. I bend my right arm. I look to see the crease break open and bleed. I should have expected that. I take off my shirt. I pick up the hand mirror and turn around. My back is a splotchy mess. Dried blood speckles some of the white spots. I pick up my hair and see what has been preventing me from my favorite jaunty ponytails...plaques, spots, redness, scales whatever you call them ... they're all over. Really bad this time. It's a beautiful Fall in Brooklyn and my psoriasis is the ugliest it's been since high school. I pad back to my room and pull back my covers in defeat... I'll sleep all day again. It's snowed in my bed I guess because they'res white stuff everywhere! This is it. I open my secret waitressing dough stash and count ... maybe six hundred dollars. This can definitely get me in with a great NYC dermatologist. I call my mom for sympathy, I have a plan.
4pm- My mother, the angel that she is told me she has researched and found the best derm in the country and he's right here in New York. Better yet, she offers to pick up the tab! Gotta love her!
November 17th- My appointment with Dr. Bruce Strober. I hail a livery cab to the NYU medical center. My driver is very nice and asks me what I'm going to eat for lunch. I don't know. He told me he's saving up his tips for two pieces of pizza. His cab smells good and leathery. I aks him what phrase he hears more in a days work 1. step on it or 2. keep the change. He doesn't know. I take the elevator to the dermatology department and sit next to a woman turning the pages of People with white cotton gloves on. I have never had psoriasis on my hands and I am really very thankful for this. Before I go in for examination, the lovely receptionist informs me before I go in that the minimum the appointment will cost FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS! She's looking at me all decked out with my dirty white boots and technicolor hair streaky hair, thinking that I'm going to head for the hills. I calmly sit back down and wait. Dr. Strober enters the exam room. He's middle aged and good-looking with a round irish face and a kittenish jew-fro. A female aid enters also. From years of having this disease I know this means I'm going to have to get naked. I take down my hospital gown and as Strober examines the various parts of my body he rattles off a series of three consecutive numbers as he goes from area to area. The large Afro-American aide jots them down on the grid before her. As he approaches my scalp I inform him that i have a few extensions glued to my head. I self conciously report that this probably isn't good for my scalp and his aide sounds of an aggreeing "MMMMMMM uhhh HUH!" When the exam is complete and I'm back in my clothes our consultation begins with his explanation of the numbers game. He's used them to calculate the percentage and severity of my psoriasis. I am at a 70. History shows up and I paint a vivid psoriasis portrait... tar tubs at age 2, vacations to the beach spelling out skin-ulterior motives, having to give up varisty volleyball to drive 30 miles three times a week for 30 second intervals of light therapy. Enough creams and oils to lube the San Fernando valley for a year. Phew! Since two months old, I've dealt with this and I wil not take it anymore! Strober can very obviously guess my financial situation and with no health insurance, I wasn't facing many options. Right to the table it comes, a clinical trial. Right here at NYU. As a human gunea pig I test out an experimental medicine not on the market yet. A biologic immuno-suppressant that I inject myself with 3 days a week. It's in Phase 3 of the trial which means the medicine has a very small chance of being lethal although effectiveness and side-effects are relatively unknown. I think Strober is surprised at how little coaxing I need to sign up. After being told my appontment was reduced to THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS I'm sent with a note downstairs. As I walk to the Dermapharmacology department the first set of nerves sets in. My only real concern is how it might negatively affect my brain function, we all know what a creative genius I am! If I lose a limb or an eye, as long as I can wear a tank top in June... hello dolly! I am also concerned that it might make me fat and if I'm some huge porker trying to squeeze through the turnstyles at Court Street then no tank tops for me! After signing my life away to Abbott Pharmacutical Supercorporation I'm sent to imaging for a chest x-ray to make sure I don't have tuberculosis. Over to the 7th floor I go for an EKG. Turns out if my ticker and lungs are in good shape, I'm good to go! After hauling myself around NYU all day I go to the cafeteria and choose a nice beef frank. Some old lady in front of me is taking forever at the condiment station. She's too cute to shove aside (like I most frequently do at the coffee bar) so I circle the soup island for a bit looking for cute medical student scrub butt outlines. The place is mobbed and there's not an empty table or seat to find. I turn the corner and see the old hot dog lady, she's sitting alone. I sit with her and smile at the three pounds of sourkraut shes shoving in her little dentured mouth. Back at my apartment I read over the paperwork. I can quit the trial at any time. I will be compensated fifty dollars for each trial visit I complete which barely covers a livery cab there and back. I must agree to use two forms of birth control for the span of the study. This part is emphasized in three pages. I am also advised that consuming alcohol during the study is considered dangerous due to lowered metabolic reaction in my liver. I am going to do this.
November 17- A call I receive from my study coordinator advising me that i am in perfect health and I am eligible for the study. November 19- Back at NYU for my first real trial appointment . My study coordinator is a large blonde Puerto Rican woman named Liz. She has the personality that most PR women have, a big warm personality peppered with sass that just explodes all over you. You know her, that girlfriend you had in High School that all the guys loved. Not for her pudgy little tummy or oragey dye job, not the promise of touching her back-pocket-less jeans, for the love of her boisterous, loud and loving companionship. Liz gives me my first of three injections. A veil of white goes over my field of vision. I wake up on the exam table, with a chocolate biscotti in my hand. Liz's hands are over her mouth. The study doctor is looking over me with a wrinked brow. I apologize for I have never passed out in my life. I am given 4 sealed unmarked boxes containing 2 syringes each. The labels on them state that they can contain 50 mg of ABT-874 OR placebo. I am instructed on how to inject myself. I can choose my thigh or stomach. I have to do this twice a week for three months.
November 27th is Thanksgiving and the day of my first self-injection. As I sit with a platter of mushy foods on my lap I watch my Uncle Skipper sit on a hospital bed in his living room. He is quickly dying of spinal, brain, and lung cancer. He saw a doctor a few weeks earlier for feeling ill and today he sits hunched over, unable to speak or move. He is 42 years old. My Aunt and dad retreat to the back porch for frequent cigarette breaks. I am alone with Uncle Skip. I move towards him. The blanket over his arm falls to reveal the tattoo I had loved to look at as a kid. Bart Simpson with a caption above "well you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't". This is the last day I'll see Uncle Skip alive. As my father drives us home through the orange-tinged Zinc mining hills of Allentown I ponder if sacrificing my health for the sake of vanity is worth the risk. Later I sit on my toilet, needle in hand and in my head is "well you're damned if you do ...."
Dec. 2- I'm becoming quite the pro at self injections. Smoking a little bit of weed beforehand seems to lessen the sensitivity of my skin. When I'm finished, I walk to the bodega for an Ice Cream Snickers or pack of plain Lays, a treat for being brave. Dec. 15- I see no improvement whatsoever. I am convinced I am on the placebo and all of this is just a waste. After injecting myself last week, a small drop of medicine hung from the needle tip. The placebo is supposedly a sugar water right? I lift to my mouth and drop on my tongue. A chemical taste spreads through my mouth. At my next study visit, Liz shows me pictures of my naked body that showed minimal but marked improvement.
Dec. 20- I can't stand any of the girls I work with except for this one Australian girl who is very flirtacious and friendly. She got all pouty when I refuse to do a JagerBomb with her so I tell her I'm on a experimental trial drug that prohibits me from drinking alcohol. She comes in two days later telling me theres this really funny show on TV called Testees where 2 guys make a living by using experimental drugs. I don't know how this show can be funny but after I see an episode where they lose their sight, I'm hooked and love it even more when I realize Kenny Hotz from Kenny vs. Spenny makes cameo appearances! Most people participate in clinical trials to make lotsa dough, I was making close to nothing but the idea of expediting a new medicine to the market to help spotty kids like me really makes my day! Awwwwwwwww!
January 2- My "lesions" show improvement. Although red, they seem to be flattening and when I run my hands over my skin in the dark, it almost feels normal. Refusing alcohol is proving to be almost impossible. (I will continue to update as I improve (or not). thanks for reading... as always)
November 12th, 2008- I reach what many call "the breaking point". I'm standing in my apartment bathroom. I should be happy. I've finally made it to New York. I have really good friends, lot's of writing inspo and a 4 inch thick posturpedic memory foam mattress pad. I should be happy. I should be happy. I rub the concealer from my cheek. Dry, flaky red circles appear. I bend my right arm. I look to see the crease break open and bleed. I should have expected that. I take off my shirt. I pick up the hand mirror and turn around. My back is a splotchy mess. Dried blood speckles some of the white spots. I pick up my hair and see what has been preventing me from my favorite jaunty ponytails...plaques, spots, redness, scales whatever you call them ... they're all over. Really bad this time. It's a beautiful Fall in Brooklyn and my psoriasis is the ugliest it's been since high school. I pad back to my room and pull back my covers in defeat... I'll sleep all day again. It's snowed in my bed I guess because they'res white stuff everywhere! This is it. I open my secret waitressing dough stash and count ... maybe six hundred dollars. This can definitely get me in with a great NYC dermatologist. I call my mom for sympathy, I have a plan.
4pm- My mother, the angel that she is told me she has researched and found the best derm in the country and he's right here in New York. Better yet, she offers to pick up the tab! Gotta love her!
November 17th- My appointment with Dr. Bruce Strober. I hail a livery cab to the NYU medical center. My driver is very nice and asks me what I'm going to eat for lunch. I don't know. He told me he's saving up his tips for two pieces of pizza. His cab smells good and leathery. I aks him what phrase he hears more in a days work 1. step on it or 2. keep the change. He doesn't know. I take the elevator to the dermatology department and sit next to a woman turning the pages of People with white cotton gloves on. I have never had psoriasis on my hands and I am really very thankful for this. Before I go in for examination, the lovely receptionist informs me before I go in that the minimum the appointment will cost FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS! She's looking at me all decked out with my dirty white boots and technicolor hair streaky hair, thinking that I'm going to head for the hills. I calmly sit back down and wait. Dr. Strober enters the exam room. He's middle aged and good-looking with a round irish face and a kittenish jew-fro. A female aid enters also. From years of having this disease I know this means I'm going to have to get naked. I take down my hospital gown and as Strober examines the various parts of my body he rattles off a series of three consecutive numbers as he goes from area to area. The large Afro-American aide jots them down on the grid before her. As he approaches my scalp I inform him that i have a few extensions glued to my head. I self conciously report that this probably isn't good for my scalp and his aide sounds of an aggreeing "MMMMMMM uhhh HUH!" When the exam is complete and I'm back in my clothes our consultation begins with his explanation of the numbers game. He's used them to calculate the percentage and severity of my psoriasis. I am at a 70. History shows up and I paint a vivid psoriasis portrait... tar tubs at age 2, vacations to the beach spelling out skin-ulterior motives, having to give up varisty volleyball to drive 30 miles three times a week for 30 second intervals of light therapy. Enough creams and oils to lube the San Fernando valley for a year. Phew! Since two months old, I've dealt with this and I wil not take it anymore! Strober can very obviously guess my financial situation and with no health insurance, I wasn't facing many options. Right to the table it comes, a clinical trial. Right here at NYU. As a human gunea pig I test out an experimental medicine not on the market yet. A biologic immuno-suppressant that I inject myself with 3 days a week. It's in Phase 3 of the trial which means the medicine has a very small chance of being lethal although effectiveness and side-effects are relatively unknown. I think Strober is surprised at how little coaxing I need to sign up. After being told my appontment was reduced to THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS I'm sent with a note downstairs. As I walk to the Dermapharmacology department the first set of nerves sets in. My only real concern is how it might negatively affect my brain function, we all know what a creative genius I am! If I lose a limb or an eye, as long as I can wear a tank top in June... hello dolly! I am also concerned that it might make me fat and if I'm some huge porker trying to squeeze through the turnstyles at Court Street then no tank tops for me! After signing my life away to Abbott Pharmacutical Supercorporation I'm sent to imaging for a chest x-ray to make sure I don't have tuberculosis. Over to the 7th floor I go for an EKG. Turns out if my ticker and lungs are in good shape, I'm good to go! After hauling myself around NYU all day I go to the cafeteria and choose a nice beef frank. Some old lady in front of me is taking forever at the condiment station. She's too cute to shove aside (like I most frequently do at the coffee bar) so I circle the soup island for a bit looking for cute medical student scrub butt outlines. The place is mobbed and there's not an empty table or seat to find. I turn the corner and see the old hot dog lady, she's sitting alone. I sit with her and smile at the three pounds of sourkraut shes shoving in her little dentured mouth. Back at my apartment I read over the paperwork. I can quit the trial at any time. I will be compensated fifty dollars for each trial visit I complete which barely covers a livery cab there and back. I must agree to use two forms of birth control for the span of the study. This part is emphasized in three pages. I am also advised that consuming alcohol during the study is considered dangerous due to lowered metabolic reaction in my liver. I am going to do this.
November 17- A call I receive from my study coordinator advising me that i am in perfect health and I am eligible for the study. November 19- Back at NYU for my first real trial appointment . My study coordinator is a large blonde Puerto Rican woman named Liz. She has the personality that most PR women have, a big warm personality peppered with sass that just explodes all over you. You know her, that girlfriend you had in High School that all the guys loved. Not for her pudgy little tummy or oragey dye job, not the promise of touching her back-pocket-less jeans, for the love of her boisterous, loud and loving companionship. Liz gives me my first of three injections. A veil of white goes over my field of vision. I wake up on the exam table, with a chocolate biscotti in my hand. Liz's hands are over her mouth. The study doctor is looking over me with a wrinked brow. I apologize for I have never passed out in my life. I am given 4 sealed unmarked boxes containing 2 syringes each. The labels on them state that they can contain 50 mg of ABT-874 OR placebo. I am instructed on how to inject myself. I can choose my thigh or stomach. I have to do this twice a week for three months.
November 27th is Thanksgiving and the day of my first self-injection. As I sit with a platter of mushy foods on my lap I watch my Uncle Skipper sit on a hospital bed in his living room. He is quickly dying of spinal, brain, and lung cancer. He saw a doctor a few weeks earlier for feeling ill and today he sits hunched over, unable to speak or move. He is 42 years old. My Aunt and dad retreat to the back porch for frequent cigarette breaks. I am alone with Uncle Skip. I move towards him. The blanket over his arm falls to reveal the tattoo I had loved to look at as a kid. Bart Simpson with a caption above "well you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't". This is the last day I'll see Uncle Skip alive. As my father drives us home through the orange-tinged Zinc mining hills of Allentown I ponder if sacrificing my health for the sake of vanity is worth the risk. Later I sit on my toilet, needle in hand and in my head is "well you're damned if you do ...."
Dec. 2- I'm becoming quite the pro at self injections. Smoking a little bit of weed beforehand seems to lessen the sensitivity of my skin. When I'm finished, I walk to the bodega for an Ice Cream Snickers or pack of plain Lays, a treat for being brave. Dec. 15- I see no improvement whatsoever. I am convinced I am on the placebo and all of this is just a waste. After injecting myself last week, a small drop of medicine hung from the needle tip. The placebo is supposedly a sugar water right? I lift to my mouth and drop on my tongue. A chemical taste spreads through my mouth. At my next study visit, Liz shows me pictures of my naked body that showed minimal but marked improvement.
Dec. 20- I can't stand any of the girls I work with except for this one Australian girl who is very flirtacious and friendly. She got all pouty when I refuse to do a JagerBomb with her so I tell her I'm on a experimental trial drug that prohibits me from drinking alcohol. She comes in two days later telling me theres this really funny show on TV called Testees where 2 guys make a living by using experimental drugs. I don't know how this show can be funny but after I see an episode where they lose their sight, I'm hooked and love it even more when I realize Kenny Hotz from Kenny vs. Spenny makes cameo appearances! Most people participate in clinical trials to make lotsa dough, I was making close to nothing but the idea of expediting a new medicine to the market to help spotty kids like me really makes my day! Awwwwwwwww!
January 2- My "lesions" show improvement. Although red, they seem to be flattening and when I run my hands over my skin in the dark, it almost feels normal. Refusing alcohol is proving to be almost impossible. (I will continue to update as I improve (or not). thanks for reading... as always)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Shine ON You Crazy Diamond
Although I plan to use this solely as a music blog, something weird happened at work today that I MUST share.
Sunday...another day of work at the illustrious Chicken Coop Incorporated. 6 hours behind the bar... Burnt out prosties screaming at me to make their long islands stronger, meat heads eating orders of 30 chicken wings and race track dykes asking me on dates through winds of ranch dressing breath.
The Chicken Coop is owned by a really sweet yet overly anal older dude. This guy has 2 sons that both work full time at C.C. and are vastly different. Brandon, is a sweet kid, 19 years old, he works in the kitchen. The other son, "Chad" on the other hand is quite, hmm how do you say it? A douche bag. Chads the sole bartender at Chicken Poop and I've seen Chad on several occasion be mean to old people, which, if you know me well, is my biggest aggravation. Chad is the type of person that, if you walk into work and say HI to him, he will just look at you and walk away. Earlier today at work Chad was telling his equally obnoxious friends about the new Ed Hardy jeans he'd recently bought, adorned with RHINESTONES. Once I worked a 6 hour shift with him and he, for the entire 6 hour shift deemed it necessary to tell me what a mother-fucking tough guy he was. The evolutionary time clock of the conversation went from 1. guys he beat up at bars 2. guys he beat up at bars because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 3. guys he beat up at his house 4.guys he beat up at his house because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 5. guys he almost beat up but they were lucky that he didn't 6. the fact that he till holds the record for longest time in the penalty box for Pittson Area High School ice hockey. The last time I worked with Chad he brought in a duffel bag full of muscle milk and protein shake containers and like an orange mad scientist, made one concoction after another in the bar blender.
Predictably, Chads previously mentioned girlfriend is a waitress at the Chicken Coop. I probably don't need to explain what she's like but I will. Marshmallow nails (fake french tip acrylics), spray tan, bad highlights, cement like lip gloss and stonewashed bootcut jeans. When first moving back to the area, I was harshly judgmental of such specimens, but after meeting some truly OK women that looked and acted like this, I lifted my petty intolerance of such girls. Until, that is, she asked for a Miller Lite for table four. What came out was the epitome of all infuriating neck burning dizzying personal hatred; a BABY VOICE! Fake baby voices are the black plague of wanna-be cuteness. Seriously, the worst.
So now that you know all of the players in the act, let me tell you a little ditty that sealed the deal on my employment at the chicken coop. As I was preparing my belongings to leave for the day, I asked Chad if there were any extra shifts open. He said no (as he insists on working 7 days a weeks and then complaining about it for hours on end). At that point I said "well if you ever want a day off call me". Scott mumbles ok and then heads into the kitchen. I walk to my car and Tiffany, who heard the us talking while playing a video poker game, follows to me to my car and yells out "UM YOU KNOW HE's MY BOYFRIEND, RIGHT?" I stare her her shellacked lips as I open my car door, I think in my head hmmmm HUH? and then respond uhhh yeah, stating the fact and not really knowing why she asked me in the first place. Confused, I turn on the engine and try to make sense of what she said and why she said it. Then the most hilarious, most disgusting possibility comes into my head. Did she think I said GET?! No. NO ! NO?! Eww! She thinks I want to hang out with her Chad on his day off HAHHAHAHAHAHAH!
I have to clear this up! This can't possibly be happening and if it is, it must end! I walk back into chcken coop and hear a LIVID Tiffany SCREAMING in the kitchen pantry to the black cook, Garfield. "THAT CHICK IS CRAZY. WHAT A WHORE! HOME WRECKER, I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK?!"
This is bad, now I'm scared. There are easily throwable baskets of hot fried chicken wings, sauces everywhere, forks, and, with years of working in the mental health field, there is not a madder hen than a hen that thinks you want to fuck her rooster.
Brutus, the preppy teenager cook boy is staring at the wall near the ice maker and I have to tell SOMEONE what just happened, so I drag him outside. I'm in a daze and trying to explain to him everything when Tiffany walks outside, flicking a grill lighter at her smoke.
I explain, I hope she understands. I mumble; I have a boyfriend, I mean I'm a lesbian, I mean I'm married. I like tall skinny guys, i mean I don't even like guys, I mean i have a crush on him and point to the teenage cook. he raises his eyebrows and walks inside. Im mumbling everything now, How do I convince her the last guy in the world I would ever hit on is her boyfriend without just saying it? She understands and apologizes. My skin crawls as I drive home in a daze.
I can remember countless days where my mother would scream at my father for mumbling, "mumble mouth" she called him. I can thank my father for get another genetic aberration, as if psoriasis and a bumpy nose weren't enough...
The Chicken Coop is owned by a really sweet yet overly anal older dude. This guy has 2 sons that both work full time at C.C. and are vastly different. Brandon, is a sweet kid, 19 years old, he works in the kitchen. The other son, "Chad" on the other hand is quite, hmm how do you say it? A douche bag. Chads the sole bartender at Chicken Poop and I've seen Chad on several occasion be mean to old people, which, if you know me well, is my biggest aggravation. Chad is the type of person that, if you walk into work and say HI to him, he will just look at you and walk away. Earlier today at work Chad was telling his equally obnoxious friends about the new Ed Hardy jeans he'd recently bought, adorned with RHINESTONES. Once I worked a 6 hour shift with him and he, for the entire 6 hour shift deemed it necessary to tell me what a mother-fucking tough guy he was. The evolutionary time clock of the conversation went from 1. guys he beat up at bars 2. guys he beat up at bars because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 3. guys he beat up at his house 4.guys he beat up at his house because they tried to touch his girlfriends boobs 5. guys he almost beat up but they were lucky that he didn't 6. the fact that he till holds the record for longest time in the penalty box for Pittson Area High School ice hockey. The last time I worked with Chad he brought in a duffel bag full of muscle milk and protein shake containers and like an orange mad scientist, made one concoction after another in the bar blender.
Predictably, Chads previously mentioned girlfriend is a waitress at the Chicken Coop. I probably don't need to explain what she's like but I will. Marshmallow nails (fake french tip acrylics), spray tan, bad highlights, cement like lip gloss and stonewashed bootcut jeans. When first moving back to the area, I was harshly judgmental of such specimens, but after meeting some truly OK women that looked and acted like this, I lifted my petty intolerance of such girls. Until, that is, she asked for a Miller Lite for table four. What came out was the epitome of all infuriating neck burning dizzying personal hatred; a BABY VOICE! Fake baby voices are the black plague of wanna-be cuteness. Seriously, the worst.
So now that you know all of the players in the act, let me tell you a little ditty that sealed the deal on my employment at the chicken coop. As I was preparing my belongings to leave for the day, I asked Chad if there were any extra shifts open. He said no (as he insists on working 7 days a weeks and then complaining about it for hours on end). At that point I said "well if you ever want a day off call me". Scott mumbles ok and then heads into the kitchen. I walk to my car and Tiffany, who heard the us talking while playing a video poker game, follows to me to my car and yells out "UM YOU KNOW HE's MY BOYFRIEND, RIGHT?" I stare her her shellacked lips as I open my car door, I think in my head hmmmm HUH? and then respond uhhh yeah, stating the fact and not really knowing why she asked me in the first place. Confused, I turn on the engine and try to make sense of what she said and why she said it. Then the most hilarious, most disgusting possibility comes into my head. Did she think I said GET?! No. NO ! NO?! Eww! She thinks I want to hang out with her Chad on his day off HAHHAHAHAHAHAH!
I have to clear this up! This can't possibly be happening and if it is, it must end! I walk back into chcken coop and hear a LIVID Tiffany SCREAMING in the kitchen pantry to the black cook, Garfield. "THAT CHICK IS CRAZY. WHAT A WHORE! HOME WRECKER, I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK?!"
This is bad, now I'm scared. There are easily throwable baskets of hot fried chicken wings, sauces everywhere, forks, and, with years of working in the mental health field, there is not a madder hen than a hen that thinks you want to fuck her rooster.
Brutus, the preppy teenager cook boy is staring at the wall near the ice maker and I have to tell SOMEONE what just happened, so I drag him outside. I'm in a daze and trying to explain to him everything when Tiffany walks outside, flicking a grill lighter at her smoke.
I explain, I hope she understands. I mumble; I have a boyfriend, I mean I'm a lesbian, I mean I'm married. I like tall skinny guys, i mean I don't even like guys, I mean i have a crush on him and point to the teenage cook. he raises his eyebrows and walks inside. Im mumbling everything now, How do I convince her the last guy in the world I would ever hit on is her boyfriend without just saying it? She understands and apologizes. My skin crawls as I drive home in a daze.
I can remember countless days where my mother would scream at my father for mumbling, "mumble mouth" she called him. I can thank my father for get another genetic aberration, as if psoriasis and a bumpy nose weren't enough...
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