10.4.2015 (first posted 2002)
My dad told me a story
about a job interview he once had. He said it was going well, as a
friend of his was the HR director and was conducting the interview, and
the other stuffed shirts in attendance seemed at friendly and slightly
less formal than the situation suggested. My pop was a corporate labor
lawyer and he was interviewing at Chicago’s biggest fireworks
manufacturer’s headquarters. This outfit produced the popular Martian
Starbursts, the Incandescent Swarms and the crowd-favorite Flaming Ass
Ponys, and while it was very successful, its factorys were rife with
worker’s comp cases. They needed someone with a lot of experience and my
dad had a ton. The interview was coming to a close, or perhaps it was
over and some smalltalk-pleasantries were being exchanged, hands were
being shaken and such, when, quite naturally my dad said the word
"fuck." His HR-pal went white and someone ripped the needle across the
record; s c r e e c h i n g the post-interview gab session to a halt.
I
stopped my dad’s account of the situation and asked him the context of
his usage. He’s got an interesting way with words at times and he said
something like: "Well I didn’t goddamn say I wanted to fuck the old
guy’s wife or anything. Not even, 'I’ll git them slacker-fucks for ya.'
No. It was 'Fuck yes, I think the Bears look bad.' Not my problem the
guy’s some Christian anti-abusive-language ... um ... 'fuck'" I had to
laugh. Then he said he's glad he got the info about the undocumented No
Swearing policy. Had he been hired he'd have had to quit. He said
something like, "I wouldn't work a day in a place where you couldn't say
fuck." I agreed. Shame about all them fireworks, though.
Tonight - Homestead
Whole bunch of new folks on the list tonight. Work mates. They say fuck every other word. Thank fucking Christ. The venue has lots of booze and a killer juke. Bring yr friends. I know I will. The cell will be on. See you there! bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Batter Up!! (REDUX)
10.3.2015 (originally posted this week in 2005)
I seen some pretty neat things while away in Greece and had time to reflect on things over there different from things here in the USA. As I have copious notes on this subject and will share some with you today, I know you all hate to read and many of you can't read at all so for those few who care (if that's the right word), I've picked and will limit this to three things.
1. Americans in America are retarded. (Note: Americans abroad as you all well know have and deserve the reputation as being utter retards - loud, obnoxious fools with no manners, big mouths and shitty taste. I'm talking here of Americans at home.) Americans in America are retarded because they drive huge fucking cars and don't have any use at all for that much machine. Really! I didn't see any Suburbans, Escapes, Exploders, Escalades ... uh ... any Lux'ry Japanese SUVs, Korean or German SUVs. What these people got by with were scooters, motorcycles and ittybitty little cars that can circle the islands they live on a hundred times on a tank of gas. Even downtown big city Athens, nothing but two-wheelers and tiny cars. We can't even buy a midget car if we wanted cuz thar ain't any demand. I spell that RETARD.
2. Americans in America are retarded. They are because they are afraid of titties. No titties on the beaches, none on TV and, oh yeh! the former Attorney General of the country had the exposed titties on the STATUE of Lady Justice in the Dept. of Justice building covered up. What is the problem here? Tits are fucking great. And if you go over to Europe and see 'em all over the place you might wonder what the big deal is back home and come to the same conclusion I did: RETARDED.
3. (This is the observation that hit me the hardest) Frito-Lay makes a shitload of different flavored tater chips! My god I had no idea! Sea salt flavor. Garlic-salt flavor. Celery-salt. White pepper. Red pepper. Black pepper. Black pepper with sea salt. Ketchup flavor. Mustard flavor. Tarragon-mustard flavor. Oregano. Olive oil and oregano. Pickle. Cabbage. Cheese. Sizzlin' Bacon flavor. Mushroom and spring onion flavor. God damn the variety makes Kettle Chips' catalog look like child's play. And then there's the most compelling flavor of all ... the flavor that at once made me laugh and cry, made me salivate and gag, made me dance and flee: Prawn flavor. I gave in and scored some, and as I wasn't too peckish, I snagged a can of local brew and called it dinner:
Tonight - Gino & Carlo (North Beach)
Get your Eye-talian on!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I seen some pretty neat things while away in Greece and had time to reflect on things over there different from things here in the USA. As I have copious notes on this subject and will share some with you today, I know you all hate to read and many of you can't read at all so for those few who care (if that's the right word), I've picked and will limit this to three things.
1. Americans in America are retarded. (Note: Americans abroad as you all well know have and deserve the reputation as being utter retards - loud, obnoxious fools with no manners, big mouths and shitty taste. I'm talking here of Americans at home.) Americans in America are retarded because they drive huge fucking cars and don't have any use at all for that much machine. Really! I didn't see any Suburbans, Escapes, Exploders, Escalades ... uh ... any Lux'ry Japanese SUVs, Korean or German SUVs. What these people got by with were scooters, motorcycles and ittybitty little cars that can circle the islands they live on a hundred times on a tank of gas. Even downtown big city Athens, nothing but two-wheelers and tiny cars. We can't even buy a midget car if we wanted cuz thar ain't any demand. I spell that RETARD.
2. Americans in America are retarded. They are because they are afraid of titties. No titties on the beaches, none on TV and, oh yeh! the former Attorney General of the country had the exposed titties on the STATUE of Lady Justice in the Dept. of Justice building covered up. What is the problem here? Tits are fucking great. And if you go over to Europe and see 'em all over the place you might wonder what the big deal is back home and come to the same conclusion I did: RETARDED.
3. (This is the observation that hit me the hardest) Frito-Lay makes a shitload of different flavored tater chips! My god I had no idea! Sea salt flavor. Garlic-salt flavor. Celery-salt. White pepper. Red pepper. Black pepper. Black pepper with sea salt. Ketchup flavor. Mustard flavor. Tarragon-mustard flavor. Oregano. Olive oil and oregano. Pickle. Cabbage. Cheese. Sizzlin' Bacon flavor. Mushroom and spring onion flavor. God damn the variety makes Kettle Chips' catalog look like child's play. And then there's the most compelling flavor of all ... the flavor that at once made me laugh and cry, made me salivate and gag, made me dance and flee: Prawn flavor. I gave in and scored some, and as I wasn't too peckish, I snagged a can of local brew and called it dinner:
Tonight - Gino & Carlo (North Beach)
Get your Eye-talian on!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Who can you trust?
10.3..2015
Some of you might remember when I reported that the gardeners, or yardmen, or "goon squad" (as I now refer to them) of my little rented house harvested the chiles from my jalapeño plant. They were there one minute and gone the next. Of course they denied doing it, but the list of suspects started and ended with them.
The chile caper happened some time ago, but the goon squad is here every Monday, so they have weekly chances to lie, cheat and steal. And they took one this past Monday.
I heard the truck arrive and they goons unload, start-up, and start pushing their mowers, blowers and whackers around. I heard them go in the back and I heard the truck leave. They will often use their bigger equipment first then leave a man to mop up or do some hand trimming while they take the mowers and such to another client's location. I looked around for any guy left over, didn't see one, and figured they didn't leave anyone this time.
Soon after all this, I began to hear a faint "chuk, chuk, chuk" sound. I peered out the window in the front, nothing. I checked the side, also nothing. I gave up and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Then I heard it again, and zeroed its location. I looked out through the shutters and saw a guy, fully in the bushes at the front of the house, gently hacking at the base of the large bird-of-paradise plant that's there. "Chuk, chuk, chuk." I watched as he removed a good third of the bush, gently lay it on its side, then backfill the hole he just made. Then he took the bird and put it in his bin and dragged it and his shovel to the corner, presumably the pick-up spot. That's when I moved.
I went outside and found he spoke no English. I pointed and said, "¿que pasa?" He said it's basura. I didn't buy that it was trash (if it was trash, he'd put it in our green yard refuse bin). I said, bring it to the back. He did. I took it from him and closed the gate.
I reported this to my landlord and he said the guy was probably taking it to another client and would charge them for it. He wasn't happy about it but was glad that I didn't let it happen.
I dug out the hole in the back yard where the tree was before it fell and I now have a nearly-stolen bird of paradise in it.
Thief thwarted!
Tonight - Black Sands Brewery. (by request)
Note that they close at midnight, but Toronado is just a block or so away for you night owls.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Some of you might remember when I reported that the gardeners, or yardmen, or "goon squad" (as I now refer to them) of my little rented house harvested the chiles from my jalapeño plant. They were there one minute and gone the next. Of course they denied doing it, but the list of suspects started and ended with them.
The chile caper happened some time ago, but the goon squad is here every Monday, so they have weekly chances to lie, cheat and steal. And they took one this past Monday.
I heard the truck arrive and they goons unload, start-up, and start pushing their mowers, blowers and whackers around. I heard them go in the back and I heard the truck leave. They will often use their bigger equipment first then leave a man to mop up or do some hand trimming while they take the mowers and such to another client's location. I looked around for any guy left over, didn't see one, and figured they didn't leave anyone this time.
Soon after all this, I began to hear a faint "chuk, chuk, chuk" sound. I peered out the window in the front, nothing. I checked the side, also nothing. I gave up and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Then I heard it again, and zeroed its location. I looked out through the shutters and saw a guy, fully in the bushes at the front of the house, gently hacking at the base of the large bird-of-paradise plant that's there. "Chuk, chuk, chuk." I watched as he removed a good third of the bush, gently lay it on its side, then backfill the hole he just made. Then he took the bird and put it in his bin and dragged it and his shovel to the corner, presumably the pick-up spot. That's when I moved.
I went outside and found he spoke no English. I pointed and said, "¿que pasa?" He said it's basura. I didn't buy that it was trash (if it was trash, he'd put it in our green yard refuse bin). I said, bring it to the back. He did. I took it from him and closed the gate.
I reported this to my landlord and he said the guy was probably taking it to another client and would charge them for it. He wasn't happy about it but was glad that I didn't let it happen.
I dug out the hole in the back yard where the tree was before it fell and I now have a nearly-stolen bird of paradise in it.
Thief thwarted!
Tonight - Black Sands Brewery. (by request)
Note that they close at midnight, but Toronado is just a block or so away for you night owls.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 08, 2015
Laid (REDUX)
10.2.2015 (originally posted this week 2001)
I wish I was born in a donut factory. That way I would have eaten so many I’d certainly be sick of them by now. I ain’t, though. I’m not at all sick of donuts. I could eat donuts from now till doomsday. I was sittin’ on the bus the other day and passed one “HappyDonutChineseDinner” after the other and that got me to thinking about the almighty Donut.
If yer one of the two dopes that reads alla way through this mess each and every week you might remember a short time ago when I pledged my love and devotion to the brownie. There was a sad tale about a brownie that went missing? Anyone remember? Yeh, well, if you read that and remembered it while you were reading the previous paragraph you might be thinking about a conflict of interest. Like, “Oh, what a fickle Robot: One moment it’s the brownie, then it’s the donut. What’s next? The Bugle filled with Rooster sauce? The Number 11? Another story about fuckin’ nachos instead about my fucking belly-dance troupe? What, Robot, is the junk food of choice? And why write about that crap anyway? Some other worthy subjects come to mind immediately: Beer, scissors, buttons, sleeves that are too long, pencil cacti, webcams, quilts, lighters, booty calls, saying “oof” in the middle of the night, film festivals, iron on’s, morning wood, and asparagus-pee-stench.” (All this begs the question, did anyone read the previous paragraph in the first place?) Robot answers his self-perceived critics: Donut is worthy subject matter. Read on and see the influence Donut has had over the years …
When I was a child I saw some after-school special that had this donut machine going shit-crazy-nuts and spitting out enough donuts to fill one room, then another, then the whole building, eventually flooding the world with donuts. That scared the shit outta me, but also inspired me to vow not to ever let that happen. With ample supplies of hot black coffee and ice-cold milk I would lead a group of volunteer 2nd and 3rd graders against the rampaging toroidal carbohydrate units!
When I was a 7th-grader, I had a knack for diagramming sentences. You remember that shit? Here’s a refresher:
I ate a bunch of donuts and gained about a million pounds.
I could diagram sentences like there was no tomorrow. Sadly for my best friend Phil and a lot of other 7th-graders, they were not so lucky. The kick to the nuts was that we had to diagram sentences from the first day of school to the last day of school and every day in between. Phil and the rest of the poor bastards had salvation, though: Tasty Pastry. Oh my gawd the glazed donuts from Tasty Pastry bakery were the best on the planet! They came in these wax paper bags and would kinda get squished and stomped in kids’ backpacks on the way to school. Why were they bringing donuts to school? Let’s just say that for a Tasty Pastry glazed I might let Phil have a look at my paper. Them donuts were legal tender.
My pal in high school who was to become the rock god known as Bob Log III had a cool old car with this bitchin hood ornament. I looked like a jet plane with a long nose-section and fuselage sticking out (kinda phallic-like) and the wings of the jet incorporated in the hood. My friend Danny put a donut on the hood ornament with the plane nose going right through the hole. Ha! Bobby liked it so much he left it until some bird ate it.
Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti brought a mess of donuts (from the Sanitary Bakery no less) in to work the morning his co-workers needed them most. The jelly-filled and long johns soothed anxious ex-employees.
Booze from this joint is sure to soothe too:
Tonight - Hi Dive
The ships are in!! Come on out and buy an able-bodied seaman a drink!
(note parking meters enforced until 9pm)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I wish I was born in a donut factory. That way I would have eaten so many I’d certainly be sick of them by now. I ain’t, though. I’m not at all sick of donuts. I could eat donuts from now till doomsday. I was sittin’ on the bus the other day and passed one “HappyDonutChineseDinner” after the other and that got me to thinking about the almighty Donut.
If yer one of the two dopes that reads alla way through this mess each and every week you might remember a short time ago when I pledged my love and devotion to the brownie. There was a sad tale about a brownie that went missing? Anyone remember? Yeh, well, if you read that and remembered it while you were reading the previous paragraph you might be thinking about a conflict of interest. Like, “Oh, what a fickle Robot: One moment it’s the brownie, then it’s the donut. What’s next? The Bugle filled with Rooster sauce? The Number 11? Another story about fuckin’ nachos instead about my fucking belly-dance troupe? What, Robot, is the junk food of choice? And why write about that crap anyway? Some other worthy subjects come to mind immediately: Beer, scissors, buttons, sleeves that are too long, pencil cacti, webcams, quilts, lighters, booty calls, saying “oof” in the middle of the night, film festivals, iron on’s, morning wood, and asparagus-pee-stench.” (All this begs the question, did anyone read the previous paragraph in the first place?) Robot answers his self-perceived critics: Donut is worthy subject matter. Read on and see the influence Donut has had over the years …
When I was a child I saw some after-school special that had this donut machine going shit-crazy-nuts and spitting out enough donuts to fill one room, then another, then the whole building, eventually flooding the world with donuts. That scared the shit outta me, but also inspired me to vow not to ever let that happen. With ample supplies of hot black coffee and ice-cold milk I would lead a group of volunteer 2nd and 3rd graders against the rampaging toroidal carbohydrate units!
When I was a 7th-grader, I had a knack for diagramming sentences. You remember that shit? Here’s a refresher:
I ate a bunch of donuts and gained about a million pounds.
I could diagram sentences like there was no tomorrow. Sadly for my best friend Phil and a lot of other 7th-graders, they were not so lucky. The kick to the nuts was that we had to diagram sentences from the first day of school to the last day of school and every day in between. Phil and the rest of the poor bastards had salvation, though: Tasty Pastry. Oh my gawd the glazed donuts from Tasty Pastry bakery were the best on the planet! They came in these wax paper bags and would kinda get squished and stomped in kids’ backpacks on the way to school. Why were they bringing donuts to school? Let’s just say that for a Tasty Pastry glazed I might let Phil have a look at my paper. Them donuts were legal tender.
My pal in high school who was to become the rock god known as Bob Log III had a cool old car with this bitchin hood ornament. I looked like a jet plane with a long nose-section and fuselage sticking out (kinda phallic-like) and the wings of the jet incorporated in the hood. My friend Danny put a donut on the hood ornament with the plane nose going right through the hole. Ha! Bobby liked it so much he left it until some bird ate it.
Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti brought a mess of donuts (from the Sanitary Bakery no less) in to work the morning his co-workers needed them most. The jelly-filled and long johns soothed anxious ex-employees.
Booze from this joint is sure to soothe too:
Tonight - Hi Dive
The ships are in!! Come on out and buy an able-bodied seaman a drink!
(note parking meters enforced until 9pm)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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