*Long Post Alert! Batten Down The Hatches! Run For Your Lives!*
Saints be praised, pass the malt liquor around, and may every politician that isn't Mark Foley kiss the next baby they see! For my computer, ladies and gents, is now virus free. Thanks to Eric's search and destroy suggestions, my computer has reverted to its former self. I haven't posted in the last couple of days, so I'm going to slice up this post into neatly digestable chunks.
Pertaining To Matters Of Work:
I managed to sell enough good stuff to make EXACTLY what I needed to pay rent this month. I got $160 for what I sold, which breaks the record for the most scratch I've ever acquired over selling my beloved possessions ($96 being the previous record). Not having visions of Eviction Notices dancing around my head (or to be less dramatic, visions of a pissed-off roommate beating my head in) anymore is quite a relief.
The other day, I had another problem customer come in. She hit one of my biggest buttons. I'm one of those people that if you come up to me and ask me if I have a problem, and I don't currently have a problem when you're asking me that, I automatically start having a problem. It's a bizarre self-fulfilling prophecy. A part of it, admittedly, is me being overly defensive, but another part of it is that I just don't like people sticking their noses in my business. "So what if I have a problem? Piss off, chum, it doesn't concern you". Of course I can't say that while I'm on the job, but I would dearly love to. So this lady comes up with an armful of books while I'm on the counter and as I start explaining the buying process, she gives me a blank disinterested stare, the kind of stare that says "why are your lips flapping at me, lowly peon? Shouldn't you be busy polishing my silverware or something?" The stare didn't bother me; when you're in Paradise Valley, on the cusp between Phoenix and fancy-pants Scottsdale, you get used to smug asshole uppercrust bourgeoise Grey Poupon-spreading platinum-card-waving starfucking Botoxed-to-hell-and-back Moneybags motherfuckers giving you static (which is hilarious: what kind of jerkoff acts all high and mighty when they're in a THRIFT STORE? This isn't Hermes, or even Brentano's, for Christ's sake).
What bothered me was her immediately asking me, in a haughty voice, "are you feeling a little edgy?" I didn't respond at first, because the question flat-footed me. I wasn't feeling edgy, I wasn't in a bad mood, and to the best of my knowledge, I didn't have a nasty look on my face or anything. I will admit that I'm not the kind of guy that smiles rainbows of love, brotherhood, and explosive joy at people; hell, I have trouble at times with mustering a simple grin at strangers. But I don't grimace at people, nor do I scowl, nor do I scream "I'm going to trepanate you, dip you in salt, whip you with a strap, and skullfuck your brain into Jello" at people, even when I really, reeeeeeeealllllllllly want to (some of my readers, at this point, might be saying "but what if the person you're insulting doesn't know what trepanation means?" to which I respond " and that is when I pick up a trusty large-print Websters dictionary and beat some vocabulary into them"). So I wasn't giving her any reason to accuse me of being "edgy". I guess because I wasn't as sycophantic and servile as she expects customer service to be, she decides that I'm an asshole. She walks off while I start inspecting her books, making some backhanded comments that I should "be more friendly" and "you should try smiling". I refrained from expressing my deeply held conviction that I hope one day illegal immigrants will mass into a small army and invade the manicured hills and golf courses of Scottsdale, wrapping the throats of the pampered and uber-rich with barbed wire and hanging them from lamp-posts, so they can play pinata, swinging spiked bats at their twitchy designer-label-clad corpses. Few things fill my body with warmth and hope for the future quite like the prospects of a bloody class war. Ah, the joys of childish and unrealistic political fantasies....
Long story short, she comes back, I give her the offer, and as I'm typing up her information, she pushes my buttons again. Again she asks if I'm edgy, and when I don't reply (trying to be neutral and cool, like Switzerland), she starts taking that as a sign of haughty indifference, if not outright arrogance. The three minutes spent typing, printing, and handing her her cash slip were insufferably long, every second stretched out by her accusations of my being a dick (while she never called me a dick or asshole, her face and tone expressed her strongly held belief that I was indeed a walking taint). She eventually takes her money and leaves, leaving me to repeat in my mind my customer service mantra, the one I used all the time while working at Harkins: "the customer is always an idiot until proven otherwise". I could write an entire post explaining while I hold this view, but I will refrain (for now).
Last bit about work: had some guys come in yesterday asking for a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook. The only thing more obvious about this dynamic duo than their rampantly apparent Tweaker-dom was the fact they have not washed in weeks. These dudes REEKED, both of body odor and stupidity. The Anarchist Cookbook? Of course we don't have a copy of the fucking cookbook, you Una-Shitbombers. When I told them we didn't have it, one of them reminscied about the time they found two boxes full of the cookbooks behind a B. Dalton's and sold them for $70. Even if B. Dalton carried the cookbook (which I hiiiiiighly doubt), these idiots admitted to us that they were book thieves. I've dealt with a lot of obvious dumpster divers, but these guys took the reward for being the most empty-headed. If Dalton didn't carry it, then it just shows they're deeply incompetent liars, or Option B: somewhere in Phoenix, there is a commune of militant activists who are REALLY pissed off that their two boxes of cookbooks, strategically hidden behind a B. Dalton's, got snatched.
Pertaining To Matters Personal And Private:
Mom is still out of it. Pops will be in town next week (oh, the awkward silences, how I've missed thee). Haven't done the dishes in a couple of day, and my room is starting to reach Katrina-crisis levels of mess again.
Pertaining To Matters Of Media:
To keep this post from doubling in size, I'm going to blow through this part.
DVDs I've watched:
-Finished Neon Genesis Evangelion. Incredible series. Sure, the ending is a mindfuck (and I don't think I've talked to anyone whose seen Eva who didn't think the ending was fucking surreal), but it almost seems quaint in comparison to a David Lynch or Luis Bunuel film. Well worth the time spent watching this series. Now I just have to watch the closing movies, and then I can hand Chris back his box sets.
-Started watching and managed to finish Samurai Champloo. Fan-friggin-tastic. At this point, I'm willing to watch anything that S. Watanabe puts out, the man is on fire. Everything about this series is great: the music (so far, the only anime I've watched where I don't fast-forward through the opening credits, just because I want to listen to the music), the animation, the characters, and the anachronisms (a baseball game in a samurai show? Yes please). There were a couple of loose ends that I wished they tied up (how did Mugen learn his style? Whatever happened to Manzo the Saw? Why didn't that assassin who fought Jin in the second episode and said they would meet again never showed up a second time? etc).
-Watched another documentary: Hell House. Premise in a nutshell: it focuses on a group of evangelicals who every year build a haunted house designed to scare sinners into salvation (they have date rape rooms, an abortion room, a simulated Hell, etc). The film succeeds because the film-makers keep themselves out of it: the people depicted being involved in Hell House come across as both sympathetic and batshit crazy. The distance created between film-makers and film subjects keeps it from being too much of a freakshow. Its also quite a funny film: the scene with the ex-rave scene enthuasist bitching about the rave/rape room scene not being authentic enough had me in stitches.
-Read the first volume of Douglas Rushkoff's comic series Testament. In brief: can't wait for the second one. For fans of cyberpunk, the Old Testament, and governmental conspiracy theories, Testament is the comic of choice.
-My UK edition copy of Simon Reynolds "Rip It Up And Start Again" (a history of post-punk music) came in today. I've been still reading "Demanding The Impossible" for the last few days, and I'm really into it, but I must confess that its nice being able to put it aside and read something a little bit lighter for awhile.
My fingertips are starting to ache (as I imagine your eyeballs must after reading all that text), so I'm going to put this puppy to rest. Good evening to you all.
P.S. Watched the Lost season premiere tonight. Dammit, when will the Jack flashbacks stop? He just isn't that interesting a character.
Saints be praised, pass the malt liquor around, and may every politician that isn't Mark Foley kiss the next baby they see! For my computer, ladies and gents, is now virus free. Thanks to Eric's search and destroy suggestions, my computer has reverted to its former self. I haven't posted in the last couple of days, so I'm going to slice up this post into neatly digestable chunks.
Pertaining To Matters Of Work:
I managed to sell enough good stuff to make EXACTLY what I needed to pay rent this month. I got $160 for what I sold, which breaks the record for the most scratch I've ever acquired over selling my beloved possessions ($96 being the previous record). Not having visions of Eviction Notices dancing around my head (or to be less dramatic, visions of a pissed-off roommate beating my head in) anymore is quite a relief.
The other day, I had another problem customer come in. She hit one of my biggest buttons. I'm one of those people that if you come up to me and ask me if I have a problem, and I don't currently have a problem when you're asking me that, I automatically start having a problem. It's a bizarre self-fulfilling prophecy. A part of it, admittedly, is me being overly defensive, but another part of it is that I just don't like people sticking their noses in my business. "So what if I have a problem? Piss off, chum, it doesn't concern you". Of course I can't say that while I'm on the job, but I would dearly love to. So this lady comes up with an armful of books while I'm on the counter and as I start explaining the buying process, she gives me a blank disinterested stare, the kind of stare that says "why are your lips flapping at me, lowly peon? Shouldn't you be busy polishing my silverware or something?" The stare didn't bother me; when you're in Paradise Valley, on the cusp between Phoenix and fancy-pants Scottsdale, you get used to smug asshole uppercrust bourgeoise Grey Poupon-spreading platinum-card-waving starfucking Botoxed-to-hell-and-back Moneybags motherfuckers giving you static (which is hilarious: what kind of jerkoff acts all high and mighty when they're in a THRIFT STORE? This isn't Hermes, or even Brentano's, for Christ's sake).
What bothered me was her immediately asking me, in a haughty voice, "are you feeling a little edgy?" I didn't respond at first, because the question flat-footed me. I wasn't feeling edgy, I wasn't in a bad mood, and to the best of my knowledge, I didn't have a nasty look on my face or anything. I will admit that I'm not the kind of guy that smiles rainbows of love, brotherhood, and explosive joy at people; hell, I have trouble at times with mustering a simple grin at strangers. But I don't grimace at people, nor do I scowl, nor do I scream "I'm going to trepanate you, dip you in salt, whip you with a strap, and skullfuck your brain into Jello" at people, even when I really, reeeeeeeealllllllllly want to (some of my readers, at this point, might be saying "but what if the person you're insulting doesn't know what trepanation means?" to which I respond " and that is when I pick up a trusty large-print Websters dictionary and beat some vocabulary into them"). So I wasn't giving her any reason to accuse me of being "edgy". I guess because I wasn't as sycophantic and servile as she expects customer service to be, she decides that I'm an asshole. She walks off while I start inspecting her books, making some backhanded comments that I should "be more friendly" and "you should try smiling". I refrained from expressing my deeply held conviction that I hope one day illegal immigrants will mass into a small army and invade the manicured hills and golf courses of Scottsdale, wrapping the throats of the pampered and uber-rich with barbed wire and hanging them from lamp-posts, so they can play pinata, swinging spiked bats at their twitchy designer-label-clad corpses. Few things fill my body with warmth and hope for the future quite like the prospects of a bloody class war. Ah, the joys of childish and unrealistic political fantasies....
Long story short, she comes back, I give her the offer, and as I'm typing up her information, she pushes my buttons again. Again she asks if I'm edgy, and when I don't reply (trying to be neutral and cool, like Switzerland), she starts taking that as a sign of haughty indifference, if not outright arrogance. The three minutes spent typing, printing, and handing her her cash slip were insufferably long, every second stretched out by her accusations of my being a dick (while she never called me a dick or asshole, her face and tone expressed her strongly held belief that I was indeed a walking taint). She eventually takes her money and leaves, leaving me to repeat in my mind my customer service mantra, the one I used all the time while working at Harkins: "the customer is always an idiot until proven otherwise". I could write an entire post explaining while I hold this view, but I will refrain (for now).
Last bit about work: had some guys come in yesterday asking for a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook. The only thing more obvious about this dynamic duo than their rampantly apparent Tweaker-dom was the fact they have not washed in weeks. These dudes REEKED, both of body odor and stupidity. The Anarchist Cookbook? Of course we don't have a copy of the fucking cookbook, you Una-Shitbombers. When I told them we didn't have it, one of them reminscied about the time they found two boxes full of the cookbooks behind a B. Dalton's and sold them for $70. Even if B. Dalton carried the cookbook (which I hiiiiiighly doubt), these idiots admitted to us that they were book thieves. I've dealt with a lot of obvious dumpster divers, but these guys took the reward for being the most empty-headed. If Dalton didn't carry it, then it just shows they're deeply incompetent liars, or Option B: somewhere in Phoenix, there is a commune of militant activists who are REALLY pissed off that their two boxes of cookbooks, strategically hidden behind a B. Dalton's, got snatched.
Pertaining To Matters Personal And Private:
Mom is still out of it. Pops will be in town next week (oh, the awkward silences, how I've missed thee). Haven't done the dishes in a couple of day, and my room is starting to reach Katrina-crisis levels of mess again.
Pertaining To Matters Of Media:
To keep this post from doubling in size, I'm going to blow through this part.
DVDs I've watched:
-Finished Neon Genesis Evangelion. Incredible series. Sure, the ending is a mindfuck (and I don't think I've talked to anyone whose seen Eva who didn't think the ending was fucking surreal), but it almost seems quaint in comparison to a David Lynch or Luis Bunuel film. Well worth the time spent watching this series. Now I just have to watch the closing movies, and then I can hand Chris back his box sets.
-Started watching and managed to finish Samurai Champloo. Fan-friggin-tastic. At this point, I'm willing to watch anything that S. Watanabe puts out, the man is on fire. Everything about this series is great: the music (so far, the only anime I've watched where I don't fast-forward through the opening credits, just because I want to listen to the music), the animation, the characters, and the anachronisms (a baseball game in a samurai show? Yes please). There were a couple of loose ends that I wished they tied up (how did Mugen learn his style? Whatever happened to Manzo the Saw? Why didn't that assassin who fought Jin in the second episode and said they would meet again never showed up a second time? etc).
-Watched another documentary: Hell House. Premise in a nutshell: it focuses on a group of evangelicals who every year build a haunted house designed to scare sinners into salvation (they have date rape rooms, an abortion room, a simulated Hell, etc). The film succeeds because the film-makers keep themselves out of it: the people depicted being involved in Hell House come across as both sympathetic and batshit crazy. The distance created between film-makers and film subjects keeps it from being too much of a freakshow. Its also quite a funny film: the scene with the ex-rave scene enthuasist bitching about the rave/rape room scene not being authentic enough had me in stitches.
-Read the first volume of Douglas Rushkoff's comic series Testament. In brief: can't wait for the second one. For fans of cyberpunk, the Old Testament, and governmental conspiracy theories, Testament is the comic of choice.
-My UK edition copy of Simon Reynolds "Rip It Up And Start Again" (a history of post-punk music) came in today. I've been still reading "Demanding The Impossible" for the last few days, and I'm really into it, but I must confess that its nice being able to put it aside and read something a little bit lighter for awhile.
My fingertips are starting to ache (as I imagine your eyeballs must after reading all that text), so I'm going to put this puppy to rest. Good evening to you all.
P.S. Watched the Lost season premiere tonight. Dammit, when will the Jack flashbacks stop? He just isn't that interesting a character.
When are you coming over? I have the chilies and the papaya!!!
I worked in a used bookstore and this guy would come in, ask us what we bought so we'd tell him some authors. next day he'd come back with them. well one was a signed book by Jim Harrison that I saw at another used bookstore a few blocks away so i called the cops. I tried to stall him but he got away...on his bike!!!! Well, we never saw him after that!!! Dickass!!!!