Bullshit Manifesto

I haven’t been online to post as much of late as the computers here at work have been all screwy, the sales computers were being replaced, and I’m hella busy. At any rate I am alive, and have a story for the masses.

So, I don’t know if I mentioned it here before, but I’m getting married in January. The invitations went out and we’ve been getting the RSVP’s over the past week or so. Yesterday we got one back from my mother’s uncle.

“Monsignor,” or M from here on out, is a Monsignor in the catholic church. I was raised catholic. I received 4 of the 7 sacraments (that’s all but last rites, marriage, and being ordained), 3 of which were administered by M. He married my grandparents, my parents, my aunts, my uncles, and my mom’s cousins. He performed the funerals of my grandfather (M’s brother), my grandmother, and my mom’s uncle (M’s other brother). I was an altar server for nearly all of those ceremonies that I was around for (I was an altar server for about 7 years). He baptized nearly all of the offspring, with one exception that I’m aware of. My cousin was conceived out of wedlock, so he didn’t baptize her, so she was baptized by another priest. He’s old and extremely catholic, being a Monsignor and all, making him very old school.

Milca and I are not getting married in the church. I don’t have a problem with this, and my reasoning behind this could take up another couple posts of their own. Milca was baptized catholic, but that’s about where that ends. She and I are very spiritual, and embrace morals and ethics very dearly.

The RSVP card had “NOT” written in where you were to put the number of people that were coming. Under that he wrote, “No mass? Is she catholic?” Enclosed was $25.

Milca got the card before I did, and had already decided that we were sending the money back. I agreed. M’s Birthday is coming up, and we were going to go to the surprise party. That is, we were planning on going. M also has an annual Christmas party that we will not be attending either.

I talked to my mom last night about this. She didn’t try to convince me to change my mind but she did try to get me to talk to him to find out what’s going on. I may talk to him, I haven’t decided 100% yet. Right now I want to write a card that merely says, “No, there will not be a mass. No, she is not catholic.” and include the $25.

The funny thing is that Milca was worried that my mom would be upset about the ceremony not being in the church. While she would prefer it be in the church, she has been extremely understanding and wonderful. I would expect nothing less from my mother. I suppose I should have expected some kind of a response, but I still can’t help but be offended.

Silly Jeebus.

When my brother Corey was born we found out that he was allergic to most everything under the sun. Wheat, beef, milk, nuts, etc. Through the years he has beaten most of those allergies, but if he has some milk or nuts he might die. Seriously though, this one time we made macaroni and cheese with real cheese and he was in the ER that night having an asthma attack.

I, on the other hand, haven’t had a single allergy… or so I thought. In my previous post I talked about getting poison oak. This is the second time this year, and the only two times I’ve ever had it. It sucks. Imagine someone taking the flesh off of your face, using it as an ashtray, and putting it back on your face, burning embers and all. Not fun. I looked poison oak up on the internet and found out that the reaction that it causes is *gasp* an ALLERGIC REACTION. Most people are allergic to poison oak, but there are some that aren’t at all and could roll around in the stuff. These are people I’d like to put in a canvas sack and beat with bamboo reeds.

Fuck allergies, fuck not being able to scratch my face, and FUCK POISON OAK RIGHT IN THE ASS!!

Day One

I started Friday without a Halloween costume and with a full tank of gas. After driving all over the damn place, with the Pookie by my side, we ventured here and there until I had my epiphany, which came late this year. I decided to be a Weapon of Mass Destruction. The Pookie and I went to Michael’s, which was rather busy and understaffed, and got the fixings to make this WMD costume come to life. Felt, sweatshirt, and construction paper in possession we went to p’rick’s to hang.

Day Two

The day of the Dead Alive party at p’rick’s had arrived, and I spent a good chunk of the morning putting together the final details of my costume, which had me looking like a missle, cone head and all, with WMD written on my chest and the American flag on my back. This costume taught me one important fashion lesson, which is that white sweats aren’t in style. At all. Target didn’t have them, and Mervyn’s only had one style that was discontinued and on sale. The fact that they were on sale was cool, but having to go to more than one store to find that sale may not have been worth it to me at the time.

The party was good fun. thebombmom provided the standard munchies (chips w/ salsa con cream cheese, etc.) along with some new and old favorites. Old favorite being apple slices dipped in caramel, the new was kitty litter cake. Two different kinds of cake crumbled and mixed with pudding topped with tootsie rolls that had been heated and molded to look like cat shit, served in a kitty litter box and dished out with a kitty litter box scooper. It was frightful to look at, but hella good to eat.

During the film there was an added treat, vanilla pudding with some strawberry preserves during the custard scene in Dead Alive. Some people couldn’t eat it at all, even though it was quite yummy.

After consuming mass quantities and passing out a few times I had gethered enough strength and wakeful energy to drive home. Thank God for the extra hour… or should I thank Ben Franklin?

Day Three

Sunday morning I cleaned out the grill from the BBQ I had at the pad recently, then Milca and I went hiking with the dogs. We hadn’t been able to go out for some time, what with the damn forest being closed, so the dogs had a good time, as did Milca and I. There weren’t any plans on the table yet for Halloween night, so it was likely going to be a night at home with the family. What I hadn’t planned on was Milca’s mom grilling Milca’s brother about his personal life. And she wonders why he comes to visit once a week at best. Overall it was good times, but it wasn’t the Halloween that I was accustomed to. I suppose I had my fill of that on Day Two.

Day Four

Monday was an added bonus because I had to plan my vacation time in February and thought then that I might want the day off after Halloween. I didn’t really need it, as I wasn’t hung over or anything, but it did allow for some rest and relaxation, AKA video game time. I am getting pretty pissed at Tony Hawk at this point. I even got to watch the Empire Strikes Back (Completely Fucked Edition) leaving only the last film before my official review.

Along with my goofing off I also had to do some laundry duties and wash the dogs. Okay, so this isn’t as bad as the last time I had to do a chore, and this job wasn’t specifically saved for me because I’m the man of the house, but it just seemed that my luck with chores hasn’t improved much. I woke up this morning with a rash on my face and under my arm. “What the hell?” I asked. Oh, yeah, I washed the dogs, which means that this is poison oak. On my face. Again. At least it’s not on my mouth this time. Fucking poison oak.

With all the drama and shenanigans that happened yesterday I thought that I was overwhelmed by how complex my life and the lives of those around me was. That is, until I got home, when I heard about someone else I know who is dealing with actual problems that truly matter.

Before you start complaining about what’s happening in your life, you might want to take a step back and look at all of the good things you’ve got going for yourself. When you do that and truly appreciate how blessed you are you’ll laugh at what you thought was an actual problem.

I woke up this morning. The air was crisp. I could feel the cold air in my lungs almost as though I were breathing ice water. I’m alive, there are people who love me, there are people that I love, and the fact of the matter is that I got to wake up this morning. I am truly blessed.

As I posted here, Led Zeppelin is the best rock and roll band ever. This, of course, is one of those arguments that you could argue to your grave, but I wish to comment on one of the many facets of their music that I haven’t heard too many people bring up in the past. They are Dorks.

Album: Led Zeppelin II
Song: Ramble On

“Mine’s a tale that can’t be told, my freedom I hold dear.
How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air.
T’was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair.
But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her, her, her….yeah”

Album: Led Zeppelin – (Untitled)
Song: The Battle of Evermore

“The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall, the ring wraiths ride in black, Ride on.”

Album: Led Zeppelin – (Untitled)
Song: Misty Mountain Hop

“So I’m packing my bags for the Misty Mountains
Where the spirits go now,
Over the hills where the spirits fly, ooh.
I really don’t know.”

Album: Led Zeppelin – Physical Graffiti
Song: In The Light

“Oh, did you ever believe that I could leave you, standing out in the cold
I know how it feels ’cause I have slipped through to the very depths of my soul.
I just wanna show what I’d give you it is from every bend in the road
Now listen to me
Oh, whoa-whoa, as I was and really would be for you, too, honey
As you would for me, oh, I would share your load.
Let me share your load. Ooh, let me share, share your load.”
(Possibly a Samwise Gamgee reference?)

This is above and beyond any other Mythological references, and various other tales that belong in a fantasy novel. Milca pointed out that there music has the feel of the days of Renessaince, or some other time. I’d agree, except when they’re singing about wanting to give you every inch of their love.

It’s pet peeve time again. This happens every year around this time, and I am going to do my part to correct everybody.

Frankenstein

Frankenstein’s Monster/Creation

Tons of people make that mistake, but few really get it. Frankenstein was the guy that made the Monster. The Monster had no name. Hell, when he was played by Boris Karloff in the original film the end credits had “The Monster” played by “???”

So if you are talking about the Monster, say the Monster. If you’re talking about the doctor, just Frankenstein is fine.

It’s not their fault, as in Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein they never actually meet Frankenstein, only his Monster.

That is all.

I live with my lovely fiancé and her mother. This makes me the lone male in the house, which isn’t counting the dog or cat, neither of whom have balls. This means that when a jar needs to be opened, trahs needs to be taken out late at night, or something Dirty needs to be done it’s my job (you’ll notice the capital “D” implying it’s level of filth).

A week or so ago, when the rain was comign down pretty hard, Milca heard a noise from above the stove. She said it sounded like a scampering. Milca’s mom passed it off as merely the rain, but Milca was sure that it was some sort of critter, perhaps a bug or rodent. The scampering was short-lived, so it wasn’t dwelled on.

Yesterday I woke up, went upstairs and was greeted in the kitchen by Milca who asked, “Do you smell that?”

My nose up in the air I answer, “Kinda.”

“Come over here and smell,” she said, leading me to the stove, pointing to the vent.

“It smells like shit.”

“You have a man job to do.”

So she lays down paper over the stove to protect it from whatever nastiness might fall on it. The protective covering was removed, and was covered in gobs of grease, which slowly started to drip onto the paper. It was just slow enough that you couldn’t help but say “EEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWW!!”

With the cover off I could see the vent, and could also remove it. Noting that most of the inner workings were covered in this nasty layer of grease, and remembering that something once scampered in there I requested latex gloves, which were on hand. I was able to unplug the vent, but before I loosened the bolts Milca noticed feathers sticking out of one side. Here we go.

I had Milca put on gloves to hold the vent while I loosened the bolts and took off the vent entirely, at which point I told her to get out of the kitchen. Whatever was going to happen, I wanted it to happen to only me. For the rest of the post anything in brackets is what I saw. Everything else is what they heard.

[I got the vent down onto the paper, and saw the little body of a bird.]

“Don’t come in here.”

[I had the gloves on, so grabbing it wasn’t going to gross me out.]

“Awww… Ahh… Ughh…”

[I put the bird on the paper, then peered in to the vent to make sure that I got all of it out. There were a few puffs of feathers still in there.]

“Aww, man…”

[That’s when I looked back at the bird, almost as though my peripheral vision was telling me that something was amiss. Magots.]

“Aww, Jesus. Don’t come in here. Ugh… Egh…”

[Realizing that there were magots in the bird that were wriggling and attempting to get out of said bird, I grabbed the bird and put it in a paper bag that I would not be looking in if I could avoid it.]

Milca was outside doing some art work at this point so she wouldn’t have to hear my running commentary, which I was trying to keep to a minimum, except for the outbursts because of new surprises

[I looked into the vent realizing that I not only had to worry about leftover bird pieces, but rogue magots that were still in there. Sure enough, there they were. Not filling it, of course, but about 6-12 of them in the vent itself, which I could not reach with my gloved hands. I needed to get in there with something that I could throw away. Milca’s mom doesn’t want the dogs to eat off of our plates even if the plate is going to be cleaned, so I was pretty sure that she wouldn’t want anything that was going to stay in the kitchen to go in that vent.]

“Are there any disposable chop sticks?”

“Yes, hold on,” Milca’s mom replies. She shielded her eyes from what was happening, got to the drawer, pulled out the chopsticks and got them seperated for me.

“Thank you, now get out of here.” I told her, using a tone that was not so much a command as much as an extremely strong suggestion. At any rate, she busted out of that kitchen rather quickly.

[I was reminded rather strongly of that scene in The Lost Boys when the rice turns into magots. “Magots, Michael.” Fuck you, Kiefer. I could hear your creepy voice as I picked the magots one by one out of the vent, and it gave me chills. I got them all onto the paper, picked the last bits of feathers that I could reach, then put all the feathers, magots, chop sticks, and everything else that wasn’t grease in the paper bag with the bird.]

I ran to the trash outside, then back to the kitchen to get the vent and clean it. I took it outside where Milca was, layed the vent out on more paper, then went to the garage for some good old WD-40. When I came back, the vent had already started dripping grease on the paper, as it was on it’s side, allowing the grease to escape. While I was searching for the WD-40 I had started telling the story of what I just had to deal with, which is when she noticed that a couple magots had stowed away in the grease.

I sprayed the hell out of the insides of the vent, wiping what I could with steel wool, and gave the outside a good cleaning. Meanwhile, Milca’s mom was in the kitchen cleaning the inside of the covering. She was having a hard time, as it was govered in at least 4mm of the grime. Once I had the vent cleaned as good as I could get it, I put it back in, closed it up, washed my hands, and showered, as I felt really, really dirty.

Man Jobs suck ass.

I mentioned it in brief here, but I thought it deserved it’s own post.

Tuesday night I had to close the store and the building. This is part of the routine, really, except that if there’s a meeting or something then I leave the building open. One of the other people in the building, a sweet little Armenian woman, has been working late because she’s working on getting her credential to teach and has to stay here late to do her work.

I had two clerks working that night, so getting the store cleaned and closed wasn’t tough at all. We got the store done, and were ready to leave. One of the clerks, a girl I’ve known for years, had to leave early by like five minutes. She consistently works her ass off, so that’s not a problem at all. The other clerk, a jerk ass that won’t say goodnight after I say it to him when we’re walking to our cars after closing, kept working for a bit, but then left just about 2 minutes before I did, and about 3 minutes before the sweet Armenian lady. I set the alarm, went out the door and closed it behind me. That’s when it happened.

The building I work in is at the base of a mountain, downhill from the street. When you are leaving, driving up the driveway is kinda steep, but not that bad. Mr Jerk Ass peels out of the parking lot fairly often, even in dry weather. He was in the parking lot, peeled out, drove by the front of the building where I was standing, then turned into the driveway to go to the street. It was that turn, see, along with him driving like a bat out of hell, along with the fact that the driveway was wet from the recent rain, along with the fact that 6 months of oil and other car ejaculate had surfaced because of said rain, that cause his back end to fish tail out, turning him to face the building rather than the street. When the wheels caught, he drove off the driveway into the shrubbery. There was a crunching sound as he drove into the railing of one of the building’s least used patios. CRUNCH.

When he peeled, the first thought in my mind was that he was going to hit something, and this was 75 feet away from where he crashed, and before his Jeep started moving. When I saw him going off the driveway I shouted the obligatory “Oh Shit!!” and yelled to see if he was okay after he hit the rail. He immediately shut off his engine, and was fine. He told me that his foot had slipped off the clutch and he had lost control of his speed. I, of course, didn’t believe him, but kept that to myself. He was fine, wasn’t hurt, and had called his mom. I called our boss so that whoever needed to know that the building had sustained damage was informed. After they and Jerk Ass’s mom arrived, I busted the fuck out.

The next morning the Jeep was in the parking lot, looking like it had been fucked by a forest. When I got inside Pi was here. He had heard Jerk Ass’s story, and didn’t ask for mine, but I gave it anyway. It seems that even without my info, Pi didn’t believe him anyway. This might have a lot to do with the fact that Jerk Ass’s story had changed. Now he was saying that his foot slipped from the brake to the gas. I was convinced, this guy is truly a Jerk Ass, which is why his knew alias is capitalized.

Now the people upstairs are deciding if they want the insurance to take care of it or him. He has to repair his car, so if he doesn’t have to pay for the building’s repairs I won’t be too upset.

Fucking Jerk Ass.

I love Calvin & Hobbes. I grew up reading the comics, have owned several of the books, and still flip through them, even though I’ve read them no fewer than 6 times already. When I went to DC with Odyssey of the Mind, I bought a Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt, and wore the hell out of it. I won’t anymore, because I found out that Bill Watterson won’t endorse any merchandise for Calvin and Hobbes (read the section called “Merchandising.”

This may be old news for some, but every time I see one of those stickers with Calvin pissing on some logo, or Calvin and some girl (Susie?) on their knees praying to a cross, it gets me riled up again.

Granted, I would like to buy a Calvin action figure, and a Hobbes to boot… and a Spaceman Spiff… and I’d like a Hobbes stuffed animal that looks like his doll self… okay, so I’d spend more money than I have on the merch, but it’s not available. The trade off here is that my childhood will never be bastardized (cartoon/movie/etc.), and the books are still available with the entirety of the series within them.

Never buy those imposter stickers. Scowl at those that have them on their cars. Or, if you’re feeling daring, you could urinate on their car… just like Calvin would?

I despise chain restaurants. Correction, I hate most chain restaurants. As I typed that first sentence I was reminded of the almighty California Pizza Kitchen which has yet to disappoint. The chains I hate are those clone restaurants that are all gimic, poor food, and little to no service. I just ate at Applebee’s.

From that introduction you can probably deduce that this review will not be a positive one. I suppose I should justify those criticisms I made. Applebee’s gimic is to clutter the walls with celebrity photos and posters. They’re not autographed, nor has that celebrity eaten there. I realized this when I was looking at a picture, and a poster no less than 3 feet away from the picture, of Marilyn Monroe. Are they implying that if I like Meg Ryan or Sammy Davis, Jr that I’m going to have a good time at their establishment?

The food was really bad. Denny’s bad. Consumable if you’re drunk at 1am, or if you’ve been living on the playa for a week, but not what you’d want to eat regularly, or even often. I ordered something that was mediocre, which means bad.

The waiter offered me the obligatory appetizers, but I was only able to hear the first one, as he said the rest of them all in one fluid sound that wasn’t english. He likely says the same thing over and over every time and just rushes through it. If I was able to hear about some delectable treat, I might order it, which means the bill is larger, which means the tip is larger. You lose, dude. Drinks were wrong, Milca’s veggie burger’s cheese wasn’t melted, let alone warm, and he gave me attitude as he gave me the bill.

What I’m really getting at here is that chain stores are not only destroying private businesses but the quality of the services rendered. If a family restaurant has been around for years, it is typicaly good. Chain restaurants open and close in the blink of an eye. They are each run independently, and really don’t reflect on their brethren restaurants. You might find a Johnny Rockets you really like, then go to another one in another town that really sucks. Different manager, different staff, different restaurant. Similar menus, signs, and costumes mean nothing.

Eat at small privately run restaurants, like the Diner on Main in Alhambra. I wish I had done that, now all I have to look forward to is shitting this terrible Applebee’s food tomorrow.