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Q: Ever Seen The Wienermobile?

A: Once, in the parking lot of an Albany area Chipotle. I was driving by, on my way to an event or meeting of some apparent importance, because I convinced myself not to stop. I’ll check it out on the way back, I reasoned.

Well guess what? That Wienermobile ghosted me. ‘Twas nowhere in sight upon my return. Just one of many defeats I suffered in the hands of New York’s capital city. Albany, I got a war with you.

They don’t serve wieners at Chipotle, do they? Seems like a ballsy move for the Wienermobile. Just showing up in some unaffiliated restaurant’s parking lot. Maybe the driver was simply picking up his lunch. A little south o’ the border nosh. Hey, I’ll never know. I thought I had to be somewhere.

#regret

Windy Apple Beef Squashed

My feud with Chicago is over. I had a grand time during my mostly “hey, why the hell not?” visit this week, taking in various sights (like the staircase from The Untouchables, seen above) and local delicacies (Dinkel’s cranks out a must-taste Woolworth sandwich). My jimmies were hardly rustled at all.

Like MacArthur I shall return. Three trips out there and I still haven’t seen the house from “Family Matters!” Or that big weird mirror thing!

Overheard In New York

[EXT. A PIER ON MANHATTAN’S WEST SIDE, OVERLOOKING THE HUDSON RIVER – SUNSET]

HER: [NERVOUS] I have to tell you something.

HIM: Okay.

HER: You know [GAME SHOW HOST]? I dated his son.

HIM: Really? That’s pretty cool. Honestly. Was he nice?

HER: I mean, I say “dated,” but it was really a one night stand.

HIM: Oh, okay. You know, that’s cool too.

[BEAT]

HER: I don’t want you to think I’m crazy or weird because of it. Or a slut.

HIM: [LAUGHING] Why would I think that? That’s just…life.

HER: Okay.

HIM: It doesn’t change my opinion of you.

HER: Okay.

HIM: You wanna get some fried chicken?

HER: Yeah.

Other Highlights From My Six Months As A Perkins Bus Boy

…In addition to fishing unused jelly packets out of the trash to rinse off and put back on the dining room tables (previously referenced in this post); what a feeling it is to watch an oblivious diner fiddle with a little plastic bin of grape jelly you rescued just fifteen minutes prior from a muggy grave of chewed hash browns and sausage upchuck.

– the dish washer who was obsessed with Dream Theater and tried to convert me every night

– the dish washer who was obsessed with Canibus and was constantly complaining about ringtone rappers

– the regular customer who always brought his own tiny briefcase of specialized condiments

– the other bus boy who exclusively addressed me as “James Bond Jr.”

– my employee evaluation; the only negative bit was “needs to smile more”

– the day I wore Converse to work instead of my regulation grease-proof boots to prove some kind of point (i.e. I won’t CONFORM to YOUR WORLD, oppressors); I slid around on the kitchen floor the entire night

– the Billy Drago-esque manager who raced Kawasaki motorcycles in his spare time and who could never walk out the back door without taking a deep breath, looking up at the clouds, and saying, “What a beautiful day to die!” (he was later fired for sexual harassment)

– being scheduled weekday mornings and having jack shit to bus

– being scheduled on Sundays and feeling like I was in trench warfare

– never being too mad about the servers not sharing their tips because they all had families to support and I was just some bozo in college

– the in-store satellite radio playing the craziest post-grunge (deep cuts from Green Day’s Nimrod, the 1999 Alice in Chains “reunion” song, etc)

– getting pied in the face on my last day of work by one of the servers (it was a hearty apple pie and I had pieces of fruit caught in my hair for hours)

– running into the lead manager at a nearby Waffle House several weeks after I quit; she told me I was a great employee and that I could come back any time (this was very nice to hear)

I’ve not set foot in that Perkins or any other since hanging up my bus tub.

Another Time I Wasn’t Murdered

In 2004 a co-worker invited me to a party at his house to “celebrate” the season premiere of “The O.C.” You remember that show. In all the early commercials, the main kid gets roughed up and one of the bullies says something about 8 Mile. Either “This isn’t the 8 Mile, punk!” or “You’re not living in The 8 Mile, punk!” or “God, stop watching 8 Mile every day, it’s rotting your goddamn brain, punk!” I don’t remember exactly.

Never one to refuse an opportunity for social interaction and free finger foods, I agreed to attend this little soirée. I don’t remember what time I showed up but nobody was there when I did except the co-worker who invited me. There was an awkward pause after I stepped in the door.

“Where is everybody?”

“I lied. There is no party. I thought if I just invited you over to watch ‘The O.C.’ you wouldn’t come.”

He had me there. It was around this time I noticed the floors were concrete. I looked around for a small drain. The kind blood might seep down.

“Look, if you buy me Chinese food, I won’t call the cops.”

My co-worker agreed and I’m happy to report I did not get murdered or molested during the subsequent “O.C.” viewing (although the program itself almost put me in a coma). I think this guy meant exactly what he said: he thought I’d like “The O.C.” and wanted to hang out but didn’t want to seem weird (despite fabricating a party). We’ve stayed pals, he’s a good dude.

Yes, this all really happened.

Blood-Laden Slugs

I remember
when I was a kid
they made an oatmeal
with packets of sugary red goo
you could squeeze
on your oatmeal
to make
a smiley face

it always looked
like blood-laden slugs
tasted like it too

happy national oatmeal month

속옷 양말 자유(감사합니다)

Christ’s Mass
twenty-fourteen
always remember
THE INTERVIEW
where were you
when you found out
Seth Rogen
=
freedom

underwear
socks
freedom

enjoy this box
of novelty cereal
you can
because
Seth Rogen

no nukes
4 Christ’s Mass
no flukes
freedom

Rogen/Franco 2016

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