Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Friday, June 01, 2007
Who’s on first?
With summer comes some of the coolest movies, and Jenn and I we’re lucky enough to score Nana Donna as a sitter last weekend to go see Pirates at the local theater.
This is the second time we’ve gotten to go to this particular theater since we’ve moved to St. Chuck. Personally, movie theaters are like hair stylist—once you’ve found one that doesn’t screw things up to bad, you stick with it. We had a great one in Downtown St. Louis, with plush leather couches and drinks in real glasses, but since we now live about 45 minutes out from the city, we needed to find something a little closer to home. For the most part, the Mega-Screen at the Galaxy 14 does just fine.
The only real problem I had with the place was the service. Both times we’ve gone we’ve had this mentally challenged girl as the ticket gatekeeper, collecting her stub-toll before we enter the theater.
Each time she’s been sitting on a chair off to the side, a good twenty-five feet away from her post. Now, that may not seem like a big deal to you, but it takes her nearly a full minute to get to said post, another twenty seconds to lotion up her hands, ten to shoot me a look of consternation as she scrutinizes the validity of the tickets, thirty more seconds to chastise the children behind us for swinging on the red roping, and god only knows how long to rip the tickets and mumble something about how we’re running SO late that she doesn’t know if we’ll find a seat together.
Fuck you slow-ass-ticket-troll. (Oh, stop looking so offended. She started it.)
So it made me think, can you complain about the handicapped? Do you come across like a total douche if you say something to her boss?
I could just imagine the conversation going something like this:
Me: “That girl out front is really slow.”
Theater Manager: “Mentally challenged.”
Me: “No, I mean she needs to be quicker.”
Theater Manager: “You mean less slow?”
Me: “Exactly.”
Theater Manager: “Sir, I’m not sure how you could suggest she be less handicapped…”
Me: What? No, I mean she is…”
Theater Manager: “Impaired? Afflicted? Not right in the head?”
Me: “This is retarded…”
This is the second time we’ve gotten to go to this particular theater since we’ve moved to St. Chuck. Personally, movie theaters are like hair stylist—once you’ve found one that doesn’t screw things up to bad, you stick with it. We had a great one in Downtown St. Louis, with plush leather couches and drinks in real glasses, but since we now live about 45 minutes out from the city, we needed to find something a little closer to home. For the most part, the Mega-Screen at the Galaxy 14 does just fine.
The only real problem I had with the place was the service. Both times we’ve gone we’ve had this mentally challenged girl as the ticket gatekeeper, collecting her stub-toll before we enter the theater.
Each time she’s been sitting on a chair off to the side, a good twenty-five feet away from her post. Now, that may not seem like a big deal to you, but it takes her nearly a full minute to get to said post, another twenty seconds to lotion up her hands, ten to shoot me a look of consternation as she scrutinizes the validity of the tickets, thirty more seconds to chastise the children behind us for swinging on the red roping, and god only knows how long to rip the tickets and mumble something about how we’re running SO late that she doesn’t know if we’ll find a seat together.
Fuck you slow-ass-ticket-troll. (Oh, stop looking so offended. She started it.)
So it made me think, can you complain about the handicapped? Do you come across like a total douche if you say something to her boss?
I could just imagine the conversation going something like this:
Me: “That girl out front is really slow.”
Theater Manager: “Mentally challenged.”
Me: “No, I mean she needs to be quicker.”
Theater Manager: “You mean less slow?”
Me: “Exactly.”
Theater Manager: “Sir, I’m not sure how you could suggest she be less handicapped…”
Me: What? No, I mean she is…”
Theater Manager: “Impaired? Afflicted? Not right in the head?”
Me: “This is retarded…”
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
5 Things I’ve Learned in 2 Weeks of Fatherhood
I’m back at work after my two week hiatus to adjust to becoming a dad, so I thought I would share 5 random fatherhood things I’ve learned in my time away.
5: I doubt I’ll have any better idea how to relate to Noah then my parents did to me.
Times change. I recently stumbled upon a conversation that showed how little I know about what kids go through nowadays.
As I was pulling into my driveway the other day, a group of neighbor kids were playing in cul-de-sac, and had gathered together in a heated discussion.
“FINE!” one said, as he sped away on his bike, “If you’re going to be that way, I’m taking you off my buddy list!”
The girl he had directed the comment too reacted as if he had punched her in the chest. “You better not or I’m telling your mom!”
I wanted to go tell her to go hack his MySpace page. That’d show ‘em.
4: Fatherhood doesn’t bring maturity
Like responsible parents, Jenn and I got one of those baby monitors. Our Fisher Price model not only lets you hear the baby, but also give a series of lights to indicate the volume of your fussy infant. I’m sure I’m not the first guy that has pondered if he can belch loud enough to max out the light indicator like the “Test of Strength” at the county fair.
3: This boy owes me… big time
It occurred to me at two in the morning--when I was cleaning baby poop out of the wrinkles of his ball sack while he’s crying because he pee’d all over me, the wall, and in his own eye--that this boy owes me, big time.
2: “Gifted” is a big word
As I may have mentioned before, all of Noah’s cousins are pretty brilliant little kids. As such, my mother-in-law has become accustom to using the word “gifted” pretty liberally. When Noah was able to lift his head and watch people his first week home, she dubbed him gifted as well. I’m not sure he needs that kind of pressure to live up too. I mean honestly, what if it’s just retard strength?
1: Baby smiles mean nothing… kinda.
I’m done a bit of reading about how baby smiles mean nothing for the first few months. They aren’t a reflection of anything the baby is feeling. I get that, I truly do. With that being said, his smile means the whole world to me. When he looks at me wide-eyed with that perfect little smile, it’s a reflection of everything I feel for him.
5: I doubt I’ll have any better idea how to relate to Noah then my parents did to me.
Times change. I recently stumbled upon a conversation that showed how little I know about what kids go through nowadays.
As I was pulling into my driveway the other day, a group of neighbor kids were playing in cul-de-sac, and had gathered together in a heated discussion.
“FINE!” one said, as he sped away on his bike, “If you’re going to be that way, I’m taking you off my buddy list!”
The girl he had directed the comment too reacted as if he had punched her in the chest. “You better not or I’m telling your mom!”
I wanted to go tell her to go hack his MySpace page. That’d show ‘em.
4: Fatherhood doesn’t bring maturity
Like responsible parents, Jenn and I got one of those baby monitors. Our Fisher Price model not only lets you hear the baby, but also give a series of lights to indicate the volume of your fussy infant. I’m sure I’m not the first guy that has pondered if he can belch loud enough to max out the light indicator like the “Test of Strength” at the county fair.
3: This boy owes me… big time
It occurred to me at two in the morning--when I was cleaning baby poop out of the wrinkles of his ball sack while he’s crying because he pee’d all over me, the wall, and in his own eye--that this boy owes me, big time.
2: “Gifted” is a big word
As I may have mentioned before, all of Noah’s cousins are pretty brilliant little kids. As such, my mother-in-law has become accustom to using the word “gifted” pretty liberally. When Noah was able to lift his head and watch people his first week home, she dubbed him gifted as well. I’m not sure he needs that kind of pressure to live up too. I mean honestly, what if it’s just retard strength?
1: Baby smiles mean nothing… kinda.
I’m done a bit of reading about how baby smiles mean nothing for the first few months. They aren’t a reflection of anything the baby is feeling. I get that, I truly do. With that being said, his smile means the whole world to me. When he looks at me wide-eyed with that perfect little smile, it’s a reflection of everything I feel for him.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Noah
I know few people still read this, (I'll get better at posting now that I can log back into the blog) but I thought I would share a picture of baby Noah. Born May 11, 7 lbs. 11 oz. With the good looks of his mother and the calm personality of his dad. =)
Monday, March 12, 2007
Keeping up with Jones
My life’s had more drama then a country song the last few weeks. My car broke down for the ump-teenth time (we’re up to around two grand since the beginning of the year), Jenn’s grumpy because she can’t ever get comfortable (“you don’t know how hard it is having a baby…” Oy.), work has vacillated between eighty hour weeks and “what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here”, my freelance clients are dragging their feet so bad I don’t think I’ll ever get paid, and last, but certainly worst, my dog died.
Generally speaking, I really hate feeling sorry for myself. What’s worse is when I start seeing that I’m feeling sorry for myself and start resenting myself for it, compounding the problem. I know this. I see it clear as glass, yet still think, “you’re so fucking pathetic. It’s so obvious what you’re doing and you’re doing it anyway.”
See the pointless little loop? Yeah… me too. God, I’m so fucking pathetic…
Anyway, this weekend I remembered a funny little story that centered around the Poco-nator getting his own bumper sticker, so I thought I would share.
A decade and some change ago, I was working as a software trainer for CompUSeless. My roommate and best friend at the time, Jeremy (who also worked there as a sales associate) and I were standing around after one of my classes, waiting for quiting time when the “ever quotable” Mike Jones walked up.
Now, Mike needs a bit of an introduction, because he was one of those guys you either loved, or hated. I tended to find him really funny, which, statistically speaking, meant Jeremy found him less so. Much, much less so.
He would go on bizarre rants that went nowhere, but were fun to listen too. He was also oddly confrontational at completely inappropriate times. This all seemed a bit surreal coming from a guy that was 6’3 and maybe a buck sixty.
Mike: “You! Squatcheye! Tell me what your dog is doing this very second.”
Me: “Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered it.”
Mike: “You mean you don’t think about what Poco is doing during the day? What sort of pet owner are you? I should leg drop you.”
Jeremy: “Mike, what concerns me is that YOU think about what his dog does during the day.”
Mike: “Well clearly somebody has too. We need to hook up some sort of Poco-cam. Squatch, get on that. I’ll supervise. Don’t speak—just do.”
Jeremy: “Nobody is putting a camera in our apartment.”
Mike: “Alright, then YOU tell me what Poco is doing right now.”
Jeremy: “Knowing Poco? Probably doing the eyeball dance or humping his elephant.”
Me: “He did make that little stuffed elephant his bitch.”
Mike: “Double damn right he did. And I think we could all learn a little something from our boy Poco. W.W.P.D.”
Me: “W.W.P.D.?”
Mike: “What Would Poco Do. Words to live by. You see, Jeremy said something very true. Perhaps the truest thing he’s ever said. Poco would be humpin’ (dramatic pause) or dancin’. And that, my friend, is the key to the universe.”
Me: “The key to the universe is humpin’ or dancin’?”
Mike: The key to the universe is in what Poco would do at any given time. Some people need growled at. Others, humped. Sometimes you need to just take a moment and make fucked up noises at the back door for no particular reason. W.W.P.D. Learn it. Live it.”
A few days later Mike Jones had made up W.W.P.D. bumper stickers with “now with PocoCam” in small print.
Good times… good times indeed.
Generally speaking, I really hate feeling sorry for myself. What’s worse is when I start seeing that I’m feeling sorry for myself and start resenting myself for it, compounding the problem. I know this. I see it clear as glass, yet still think, “you’re so fucking pathetic. It’s so obvious what you’re doing and you’re doing it anyway.”
See the pointless little loop? Yeah… me too. God, I’m so fucking pathetic…
Anyway, this weekend I remembered a funny little story that centered around the Poco-nator getting his own bumper sticker, so I thought I would share.
A decade and some change ago, I was working as a software trainer for CompUSeless. My roommate and best friend at the time, Jeremy (who also worked there as a sales associate) and I were standing around after one of my classes, waiting for quiting time when the “ever quotable” Mike Jones walked up.
Now, Mike needs a bit of an introduction, because he was one of those guys you either loved, or hated. I tended to find him really funny, which, statistically speaking, meant Jeremy found him less so. Much, much less so.
He would go on bizarre rants that went nowhere, but were fun to listen too. He was also oddly confrontational at completely inappropriate times. This all seemed a bit surreal coming from a guy that was 6’3 and maybe a buck sixty.
Mike: “You! Squatcheye! Tell me what your dog is doing this very second.”
Me: “Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered it.”
Mike: “You mean you don’t think about what Poco is doing during the day? What sort of pet owner are you? I should leg drop you.”
Jeremy: “Mike, what concerns me is that YOU think about what his dog does during the day.”
Mike: “Well clearly somebody has too. We need to hook up some sort of Poco-cam. Squatch, get on that. I’ll supervise. Don’t speak—just do.”
Jeremy: “Nobody is putting a camera in our apartment.”
Mike: “Alright, then YOU tell me what Poco is doing right now.”
Jeremy: “Knowing Poco? Probably doing the eyeball dance or humping his elephant.”
Me: “He did make that little stuffed elephant his bitch.”
Mike: “Double damn right he did. And I think we could all learn a little something from our boy Poco. W.W.P.D.”
Me: “W.W.P.D.?”
Mike: “What Would Poco Do. Words to live by. You see, Jeremy said something very true. Perhaps the truest thing he’s ever said. Poco would be humpin’ (dramatic pause) or dancin’. And that, my friend, is the key to the universe.”
Me: “The key to the universe is humpin’ or dancin’?”
Mike: The key to the universe is in what Poco would do at any given time. Some people need growled at. Others, humped. Sometimes you need to just take a moment and make fucked up noises at the back door for no particular reason. W.W.P.D. Learn it. Live it.”
A few days later Mike Jones had made up W.W.P.D. bumper stickers with “now with PocoCam” in small print.
Good times… good times indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
