HEX RAY VISION.

Bah! So I skipped work yesterday. So what? The real drama always goes down when I'm not around to witness it, anyway. Such as my boss getting his license plate stolen while his truck was parked behind the bakery. Or my co-worker Summer announcing that she's actively trying to have a baby.

Summer, better known to my friends as "Girl Who Refuses Treatment For Scabies," is a scant 21-years of piss and vinegar. She recently missed a week of work because she woke up in jail after a ten-hour rolling blackout. Seems she likes to get punchy when she's had a few too many... Unfortunately for her, "a few too many" often translates to "a beer and a half." While shooting pool at a local bar last month, she flew into an unprovoked rage and attempted to fight every person in the room. Later that night, she screamed and battered her boyfriend until he fled into their bedroom, locking himself inside. It was at this point that her boyfriend decided that he would rather die than be locked in a relationship, so he took a fucking SAMURAI SWORD and sliced his wrists open with it.

You may be wondering, what keeps this loving couple together? What is it that sees them through these times of hardship? Summer seems to believe that her boyfriend is a "necromancer" that cast a spell over her heart. If so, this would explain why she works two jobs to keep a roof over their heads while he sits around and smokes dope all day. It might also explain why she shelled out the cash to buy him a car. At the very least, it should explain why she has become deeply involved in the little cult that surrounds his favorite band, THE INSANE CLOWN POSSE.

Sigh... I wish I could give her parenting skills a vote of confidence, I really do. But there's a little matter of SCABIES to think about. She refuses to take care of the problem, outside of wrapping her furniture in plastic and spraying her body with RAID. She says, "I won't pay a doctor $140 for some kinda medicine when I don't even know any of the ingredients." But she'll hose her fucking body down with RAID? That's gotta be good for the kid, right? When I told her that she could pass the condition on to her baby ("baby scabies," heh heh), she looked me square in the eyes and asked, "Really? How?"

I didn't mean for this entry to turn into a huge rant. I like Summer, I really do. I just think she's a fucking idiot. And with all the crack smokers and gun slingers that pass in and out of her apartment every day, I really wonder why she thinks MOTHERHOOD is the right decision. Especially when she's got Narco cops pounding down her door and arresting her friends every five minutes. And the scabies thing. I just don't know. I could be wrong, but somehow I doubt it.

Sigh... So, it's official. Nick Carrol is installing a fucking BURGER PRESS behind the bar at the Jacpot Saloon. Because, apparently, the only think that can save our beloved watering hole from it's current financial nosedive is to make the entire place smell like a fucking GREASE TRAP.

For those who haven't had the pleasure, this is what the bar at the Jackpot looks like:



Lots of polished wood and pressed tin, not to mention the red velvet wallpaper plastered behind the row of highend whiskey bottles. Not exactly the kind of situation you want to introduced EVAPORATED CATTLE FAT into, right? WRONG! Because, despite what every employee, patron, and random passerby have said, Nick Carrol knows what's best for everyone. In this case, "what's best" equates to "irritated bartenders handling raw hamburger while pouring drinks for you." It just doesn't make any SENSE, you see...

I swore a long time ago that my days of line-cooking were over. After spending my entire working life as a short-order monkey, I've finally pushed my food service days behind me... Except for baking, which doesn't really count. After all, as skajester put it, assembling bread is more in line with MANUFACTURING work. Yeah.

I guess what I'm saying is, I'm probably out the door the moment Nick fires that grill up. And I've got several vegetarian co-workers who will probably follow me into the street, just because they don't want to smell like dead animal whenever they come home from work... Personally, I'm used to smelling like the ass end of a stove top at the end of the day. I just don't like the idea of being tied to a sinking ship as it goes down.

Sigh... Why wasn't I blessed with my DREAM JOB? Why can't I be a tough-but-tender ne'r-do-well with rebellious gleam in my eye? Why can't I be a troubled young dance instructor at some high class resort in the Catskill Mountains? Why? Why?

I brought "Forbidden Zone" and "The Undertaker and His Pals" to show at the bar tonight. I just got done carving the jack-o-lantern, it's sitting at the end of the bar under a flurry of orange and black streamers. And I'm standing here, ready to pour drinks, wearing a rubber Dracula mask and a big black sombrero.

And who's here to enjoy it? NO ONE, that's who. I've been on the clock for approxomately five hours now and have yet to serve a single person, other than myself.

Sigh... At least I've got Herve Villachez to keep me company, right?

Okay, okay, after posting a page and-a-half rant about how much I hate my job at the bar, I actually ended up working a pretty decent shift last night.  The Double played, they were good in a Manchester-y sort of way, and my friend's band The Roman Numerals opened for them.  The crowd was thin, so a bunch of us walked down to the New Pornographers show and passed out handbills to the kids as they were leaving... As a result, the Jackpot was packed to the gills, and I made some fat $$$$$$$.

Seriously, it was the amazing handbills that brought everyone down.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that NEKO CASE showed up for a few drinks.  I swear.

Also, someone from The Pitch Weekly came down specifically to hand me her card.  They need reviewers, I guess, and a couple of people who work there have been reading my blog for years.  They offer insurance to their freelance writers, which is nice, and since the New Times recycles reviews for their other publications, I'd have the chance to get my name in print all over the country.  Oh, and they let you swear as much as you want, which is a huge bonus.  Motherfuck yeah.

 

Dig this:

This guy I work with joined a cult two weeks ago. For the sake of anonymity, we'll refer to him as "Bob" here... "Bob" has some pretty intense marital problems, and he's one of those fellas that always seems to be searching for his Inner Self. He's been into drugs, Christianity, tantric sex, and voodoo. He's done some espionage work for the government, toured in a rock band, and bent metal forks with the sheer force of his mind. Hell, he even tried settling down for the straight life with a wife and kids. None of it worked out. Needless to say, "Bob" is a man plagued by self-doubt.

So, one day "Bob" hears about this men's empowerment group and decides to give it a whirl. He fills out a twelve-volume questionnaire, detailing the innermost secrets of his existence, sends them a check for two thousand dollars, and reserves himself a spot at the next group retreat. The next day, he comes in to work and tells us all about it.

He said, "It's just a bunch of men who meet a couple of times a year, at a campsite out in the forest. They have some activities for us, these exercises that we do together to help us better understand what it means to be a man in today's world. They're all a pretty tight-knit group of guys, from what I understand."

WHAT I SAID: "Hmm.. That sounds interesting, 'Bob.' Hope you find what you need down there."

WHAT I THOUGHT: "Hmm... Sounds like a bunch of naked men beating on drums and trying to get in touch with their inner animal... Might this possibly be a cult?"

"Bob" left for the weekend and returned the following Monday, refreshed. He was bursting at the seams to fill us in on all the details, but something was holding him back. I pressed him for details, and he hesitated.

Then, he said, "It was a life-changing experience, but I don't want to cheapen it by going into details... I'd rather let the teachings show through in my actions."

It wasn't until later that he confessed that the whole thing was a big SECRET, that there were certain rituals involved with this "Men's Group" that he was forbidden to speak of.

"It's all very therapeutic," he said. "We all learned a lot about each other." He then dropped the names of several prominent local business owners who were also members of the group.

WHAT I SAID: "Wow, 'Bob,' I had no idea so many people were involved... It's good to know you have such a support network here in the community."

WHAT I THOUGHT: "Wow, a secret society comprised of some of Lawrence's biggest movers and shakers? Esoteric rituals that cost thousands of dollars to learn about? Starting to sound a bit CULT-y, if you ask me..."

Over the weekend, "Bob" divulged even more juicy details.

"We had our graduation ceremony last night. Some of the group leaders from ALL OVER THE WORLD were there... The head of our group came out in a HOODED COWL and gave each of us a BLESSING. It was really just a chance for our families to come out, meet the rest of the guys, and... you know, kind of let them know that IT'S NOT A CULT or anything."

He also told me that his involvement with this group was about to advance to the next level. "I'm through with the first stage of lessons. I'm going back again next year, as soon as I can get some money together, so I can learn how to pass what I've learned on to new members."

WHAT I SAID: "Gee, 'Bob,' it's great to see you so involved with something like this, and I'm glad that you're willing to pass that knowledge on to others who might need it."

WHAT I THOUGHT: "Um... Anytime you're involved with a group that has to call a special meeting to prove that they're NOT a cult, it probably means that they ARE a cult. And you're giving them more money. Good luck, SUCKER!"

I wish, I WISH I could say that it all ended there... But alas, it hasn't. You see, he's already managed to recruit another of my co-workers to accompany him this spring. First stage, PROGRAMMING. Second stage, RECRUITMENT. Third stage, PAYING THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS TO HAVE ANAL SEX WITH BANKERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WOODS. Fourth stage, FULL SCALE GLOBAL DOMINATION?

Sigh... At least the cosmos balanced itself out this weekend. EXTREME CHRISTIAN FASHION vanished from the Earth in the middle of the night. It was as if the hand of God reached down and scraped that atrocity from the face of Lawrence. My black little heart did a quick two-step as I walked past the vacant storefront this morning. Everything is right with the world.

TONIGHT: Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings at the Bottleneck. This follows a weekend of hot action from THE MAKERS. Does life get any better than this?