tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-94994702024-03-13T10:16:49.546-07:00Coffee and CigarettesThank god for both, or writers would have nothing.NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-14890328980445099222011-10-23T10:39:00.000-07:002011-10-23T10:41:43.471-07:00First music video. Enjoy. The music is mine; the video clips are from various public domain archives online.<br /><br /><object style="height: 390px; width: 640px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/g4UBwVFY8QA?version=3&feature=player_profilepage"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/g4UBwVFY8QA?version=3&feature=player_profilepage" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="360"></object>NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-4367739341705236982010-05-14T23:06:00.000-07:002010-05-15T08:13:04.170-07:00Nuts, Not Crazy, and a Childlike Grin<span style="font-size:130%;">(This is a very long story. It's well worth it.)<br /><br />Borderline schizophrenics shouldn't drink.<br /><br />Really. It seems obvious, but the difficulty here was in recognizing the signs of dementia, not in recognizing the moral ineptitude of giving alcohol to one who is overtly and clearly batshit crazy. I didn't see the signs, but to my credit, it was because of the fight - one which, had I not curtailed, would have inevitably driven my remaining customers away. I was bartending, and nothing makes people tab out quite like two women screaming at each other. That is, of course, provided they also refrain from hitting each other.<br /><br />The woman entered around 9:45. We close the doors at ten, and the bar closes precisely at whenever I feel like it, giving her, at the very least, a good hour of solid drinking time. I took little notice - she was sober, sat near her friends, and very insistent on paying up front. The remaining bartop consisted of a very vocal couple who were well at the end of their allotted beers, a friend of hers, and a friend of mine. He's the reason this story is funny, and not simply sad. He's also a rat bastard, but I'm getting ahead of myself.<br /><br />I mixed her a vodka tonic. The following conversation should have been my first clue, but, as I said, there was also the fight.<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"Thank you so much for letting me in - let me pay now for one more round, and I can avoid last call."<br /><br /><i>- Thank you, ma'am, but there's no need to worry - we'll be open for another hour at least. You've got plenty of time.</i></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"I just want to be able to have another drink before last call."<br /><br /><i> - No worries, ma'am. We're nowhere near closing - you don't have to rush yourself.</i><br /><br />"I just want to be able to have another drink before last call."<br /><br /><i> - I...I'm telling you, honestly, you don't have to rush. I'll pay you out if you wish, but we'll be open for a long time if you want another.</i><br /><br />"My husband hates me, and he doesn't think I'm pretty."<br /><br /><i> - Here you go.</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">(On an unrelated note, it's extremely difficult to type out long, awkward pauses in such a way that does them justice.)<br /><br />Sad as it is, the comment didn't give me pause - for a sudden and awkward personal statement, it was fairly tame in comparison to the mammoth conversation-stoppers I'd collected over the past two years. Nothing says "please stop talking to me" after "so, are you from around here?" like the words "yeah, I take a lot of steroids." And that conversation hadn't even reached the minute mark. The woman (we had dubbed her "Nuts") started talking to her friend, a woman I'll introduce below, and I went back to cleaning.<br /><br />Here the fight began. The vocal husband had stormed out, and his even vocalier (not a word, yes, but it summarizes what the woman sounded like after sufficient beer) wife began to accost the lady who was not crazy. I should introduce her here: Not Crazy Lady was not crazy. She wasn't - a fact upon which she insisted, with just enough force to make the rest of us curious enough to wonder, but not quite curious enough to ask. The insistence itself was odd enough to single her out, not because of content - lord knows most of the bar regulars had at one point proudly declared their sanity in loud, slurred tones - but because of placement. Nothing says "long, awkward pause" like "but I'm not crazy" after the words, "man, that movie was insane."<br /><br />Vocalier Wife accosted Not Crazy. Myself and the bar regulars could spot it a mile away, mostly because Vocalier was shouting across the room that she wanted to talk to the, as she put it, "woman of low birth,"* but also because we'd grown used to the smaller signs of drunken anger - angry gaze, angry step, angry attempt at whispering what by this point you're yelling across the room due to a drunken inability to control the volume of your voice. And, given that Vocalier had been known to start fights in local supermarkets and video stores, the odds of a fight starting in an area with alcohol were greatly improved. So it was with great relief that we saw Vocalier smile after two minutes of questioning - she knew Not Crazy. Not Crazy was cool. Not Crazy had watched her kids. She must have heard someone else call her husband a jackass.<br /><br />(It may have been me; I couldn't say. But in the name-caller's defense, "jackass" is a weak epithet for someone who starts throwing coasters at neighboring tables when he's drinking. And note that I qualify that statement with "when he's drinking" only because I assume he doesn't throw coasters all the time.)<br /><br />This was one of the night's pivot points - all might have gone well, and gone home, had Not Crazy displayed one of her signature moves - insisting that everyone think very, very well of her, to the point of endangering her physical safety. I think this was a side effect of her being Not Crazy. I'm familiar enough with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder to recognize the inability to stop a train of thought once it gets going - I've wasted hundreds of hours as a child stuck in the same thought-pattern, pacing around the basement and analyzing the same problem before my parents eventually wondered where I'd gone. You have to, as it were, derail the train. But Not Crazy put me to shame. Her train was a rocket, and at the mention of the word "jackass," Not Crazy promptly ran from her barstool, out into the parking lot, and stood directly in front of husband's revving motorcycle, moments before he took off. Anyone watching her make wild hand motions in front of his face would have assumed that, rather than trying to make him feel better, she was simply furious. And once he took off his helmet, it was clear he had the same assumption.<br /><br />My friend and I stayed inside - it seemed like the thing to do. Husband was screaming that he didn't care what anyone thought of him, Not Crazy was shouting that she thought he was a great guy, and my friend and I were trying not to laugh. If a fight drags on too long, however, it's usually my job to intervene, and after a few minutes I went to the door to call Not Crazy inside. Nuts had beaten me to the punch.<br /><br />She was holding the door open, screaming bloody hell at the top of her lungs, to the effect of "don't hurt her!" It was startling enough to make everyone stop and look, which, given her target audience, was no small feat. She was visibly shaking, angry as all hell, and shoved away my hand when I put it on her shoulder. Thankfully, I'm very much a passive person, and was able to back her into her barstool, all the while convincing her that Not Crazy was OK, and that in fact she was not being physically hurt.<br /><br />This was clue enough for me to cut her off, at least. She cursed at me once, then decided to let it go in favor of staring lustfully at my fellow staff members. Again, the following conversation should have given me a clue:<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"Do you think I'm pretty?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - ...but of course. So, Paul, what do you think of-</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"Do you want to date my daughter?"<br /><br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >- Sorry, ma'am, I'm married.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (God bless wedding rings!)<br /><br />"What about your co-worker? Do you think he would date my daughter?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - ...he's...dating someone.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"Really? You've met her?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - Yes, ma'am. She works here.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"Is she prettier than my daughter?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - I...perhaps not. I don't know.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"You want to meet my daughter, and then you can see? I live on 1600 Bonaught Way, yellow house."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - ...</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"Seriously, you could come over...I'm having a party! You can bring your friends, and they can see if my friends are cute. I live on 1600 Bonaught Way, ye-"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - No, no, I got it. Thanks for the invite.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"My husband hates me, and doesn't think I'm pretty."</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">(Once again, the thing about the awkward pauses and the limitations of print.)<br /><br />To be fair, the repetition of the "unloving husband" theme made me think she was just lonely, not simply nuts, and so I was grateful when she began to plan her annual Thanksgiving Day party with Not Crazy. I'd been waiting for the moment when this woman would finally start talking to her friends, and not to me. It gave me a chance to talk to the remaining person at the bar who made sense. He was sitting quietly, holding a tall pilsner of draft beer, with a giant, childlike grin on his face.<br /></span> <blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >- I'm sorry about all the drama, Paul. You want a beer on the house?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"What, are you kidding? This is better than cable."</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">I should mention the other conversation that occurred simultaneously with the one I had with Nuts. Not Crazy had come inside, ordered a round, and began to review her actions over the past two hours to see if anything she had done had insulted Husband. She started discussing it with Paul, who, true to his nature, said not a word, smiled, and nodded his head. I tuned out for a time as I talked with Nuts, but she was still going strong over 45 minutes later, repeating the same sequence of thought and looping it around on itself. "I didn't mean to call him a jackass...I don't even think I did! I like people! People are nice! I'm a nice person! Nice people don't say mean things about other people! I stood in front of the chopper and asked him if he had ever seen my face before...how could he think that someone he didn't even know would think he's a jackass? That doesn't make sense! If someone called him a jackass, it wasn't me. I didn't call him a jackass. Or, if I did, it was an accident...I didn't mean to call him a jackass...I don't even think I did! I like people! People are nice! I'm a nice person! Nice people don't say mean things about other people!"<br /><br />And so forth.<br /><br />I wouldn't have minded so much had she not insisted on punctuating her diatribe with questions like "do you think I'm a nice person?" and sat pointedly waiting for an answer. Nuts didn't help at all, reminding Not Crazy at regular intervals that she was a marvelous person, and that it was outrageous that someone thought she could call someone else a jackass. This had the unfortunate effect of starting Not Crazy over again. She grew louder, and the monologue grew longer, and I finally derailed her train of thought by offering to buy her a round if she would only talk about something else. Even then, it took a while.<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"Thanks for the wine. I really appreciate it. It's just that I don't like it when people think I'm a -"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - Ah ah...no. No more talking. Another subject.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"Oops. Sorry. I didn't mean to start thinking about that again...yeah...so, do...do you think I'm a nice person?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - That's it. Give me your wine.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"No, no! I'll be good. I will. I'm a good person."</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">This was the point when Nuts started planning her Thanksgiving Day party with Not Crazy, and when I went to talk to Paul. The evening progressed nicely for 20 wonderful minutes, until I announced last call, and Nuts started arguing with Not Crazy over who was going to drive the other home. Paul had a while to finish his beer, so I saw no need to interrupt the conversation, which had hit the characteristic Infinite Regression of Not Crazy's conversations. And then Nuts went to the bathroom, and Not Crazy looked at Paul and myself, and said the following:<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"Man, that woman's nuts. She's not going to stop insisting that she drive me home."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - Just tell her no. She's </span><span style="font-size:130%;">your </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >friend, anyway.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"No, she's not...I've never seen her before in my life."<br /><br />I paused, letting this sink in. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >- You've been talking to her for over an hour.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"I was just trying to be nice!"<br /><br />Again, the pause. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - You've been planning a Thanksgiving Party together!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"I didn't want to hurt her feelings!"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >- By telling her you didn't know her!?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"She would have been sad!"<br /></span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">It occurred to me that I am grossly underpaid for the type of work I do.<br /><br />It was now 11:00. I spent the next half hour drawing Not Crazy away from Nuts, something I was only able to accomplish after discovering that Nuts had been stealing large gulps of Not Crazy's wine when I wasn't looking. (She would have complained, but, as she said, she "wanted to be nice.") Nuts, as it turned out, had a quasi-violent side - she waited until Not Crazy was about to sip her drink, and then lunged a good three feet across the bar, snatched the glass, and tossed it back in the manner of a shot of whiskey. She didn't hesitate to shove. Nuts had also entered another round of "where is my husband" vs. "I just found this place, and I've been looking for hours!" while Not Crazy, sitting in a corner by herself, started another Infinite Regression of "I know she's a little nuts, but I just wanted her to feel better. I was just trying to be a good person...do you think I'm a good person?" Occasionally, Nuts would punctuate Not Crazy's monologue with an emphatic "yes!" and I would be forced to pry them apart again, in the manner of a camp counselor watching over young teenagers. No good can come of their meeting.<br /><br />Paul, except for when I spoke to him, still hadn't said a word. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.<br /><br />I had pieced together enough about Nuts by this time to understand that, at the very least, I couldn't let her drive home - she had already been sitting long enough to process nearly all the alcohol I had sold her, yet still she clearly shouldn't have been driving. There was no way, however, that I was going to tell her that while she was inside - she'd grown progressively more violent, and I really didn't feel like filling out a report about a broken window or thrown barstool. I opted for calling the cops, giving them her license plate, and making it clear to them that she had better be pulled over before she reached the highway. The police pulled her address and had a backup waiting at her home; sadly, I already knew where she lived.<br /><br />At 11:30 I informed everyone that I was closing up. I had already spent another round on Not Crazy in order to break her of the second Infinite Regression ("take this glass of wine on one condition - no more talking to her, and no more talking about how awesome you are...yes, yes, it's true. You're an incredibly nice person."). That, however, simply wasn't working - anytime Nuts spoke, which was every couple of seconds, Not Crazy couldn't resist acknowledging her, and they were off like a pair of racehorses. They had again begun arguing about who was going to drive the other home in a conversation reminiscent of newlyweds over the phone ("no, I'm going to drive </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >you </span><span style="font-size:130%;">home;" "no, I'm going to drive </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >YOU </span><span style="font-size:130%;">home;" "no, I'm going to drive </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >YOU </span><span style="font-size:130%;">home!").<br /><br />It was clear that Not Crazy couldn't be in the room. I pulled out my cellphone, called the restaurant, and informed Not Crazy that she had a call. When she picked up the phone, I made it very clear that she was not to go back into the bar. Given her tendency towards Infinite Regressions, I had to make myself clear several times. And shell out the money for a third round, on me, if she would stay put.<br /><br />Keeping Not Crazy in one place took a good five minutes ("yes, you're a good person, now </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >do not move</span><span style="font-size:130%;">"). Getting Nuts out of the building was much more difficult. I spent another five minutes explaining, several times over, that we were closed and that everyone had to leave. I had forgotten, however, that Paul was still sitting quietly in the corner.<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"What about him?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - Him? Oh...he's helping me shut down. He owes me a favor, so he's helping me clean.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"...oh." She bought it! I allowed myself an inner congratulatory nod. "Well, I need to drive Melissa home."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - No, ma'am, Melissa's left. She's gone home already.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"No, I need to drive her home."</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">Since you already know the pattern, I'll skip to the end. "My husband doesn't love me..." And this time I interrupted, lest the conversation start over.<br /></span><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"> - Ma'am, she's gone home - look at me, ma'am...ma'am, no, no, look at me, stop trying to go back there. She's gone home. You are not driving her home, do you understand? You are not driving her home. You are only driving yourself home. Only yourself. Am I making myself clear?</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">I had forced eye contact with her for a good minute. It must have worked - she paused, and a look of realization came over her face. And as she tilted her head slightly, in the manner of one revealing a profound secret, she repeated back to me:<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"...I'm not driving her home."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - No, ma'am.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />"...She's...she's driving herself home!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >- Yes, ma'am.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">"Oh my god...oh my god...it makes so much sense. Don't you see? She had this planned the whole time...the <span style="font-style: italic;">whole time!</span> She outsmarted us all...she outsmarted you! She had this planned the <span style="font-style: italic;">WHOLE TIME!</span>"<br /></span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">Yeah. I had nothing.<br /><br />She had gotten out of her barstool. She was pacing, back and forth, with this startling realization, and I took that opportunity to stand in front of her and step forward as she stepped back, so that she had nowhere to go but out the door.<br /><br />"She's so smart...she's so smart! She had this planned the whole time! You didn't even see it! Not one of us saw it! The whole time!" This continued as she stepped out into the entrance way, and then out the door. I stood in place just long enough to hear the click of the lock.<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - Boss! Alert the cops! She's on her way!</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">Paul, Not Crazy, and I waited a good five minutes until we were sure she was out of the parking lot. I had no desire to be interrupted by a loud knocking at the window. And, per her habit, Not Crazy started looping. It had been building in her as she waited by the phone, out of sight of the bar, and erupted forth, a violent tornado of words, all to the effect of "but I was trying to do the right thing." And given that I'd had to order her away, this particular Regression was very, very difficult to stop. Both she and Paul were on their last drink, but, as luck would have it, I was buying this one, too.<br /></span><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"> - So long as we move on to a new subject, you may have this last glass...ma'am...ma'am...ma'am...ma'am...ma'am...Melissa! Seriously, let it go.</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">Stretch that out over five minutes - five very, very concentrated minutes, in which I was doing nothing else but assuring her that yes, she had done the right thing by talking to Nuts, and that she shouldn't feel bad about herself. I felt bad for her, frankly - the more she talked about it, the worse she got: more emphatic, more upset, and more stutteringly repetitive. She calmed down only when she stopped talking. And after those five minutes, she seemed OK. And that's when I made the foolish mistake of leaving the bar to turn in my money to the manager. I shouldn't have left her alone. At least not alone with Paul.<br /><br />Paul's a good guy - I've seen him sacrifice evenings to chaperone people who didn't feel safe, buy rounds for friends and enemies, and help calm down angry drunks. He once stood up to an angry homeless man who was mumbling threats against those sitting around him. But tonight he was bored, and with Not Crazy silent, his entertainment had disappeared. And as I walked towards the office, down the hall, I heard him speak up for the first time all night:<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"Why in the world did you do that? You were really egging her on for a while there...did you have to be that nosy?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > - @#$%!</span></blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">I came back to the bar. Not Crazy was shouting and defending herself. And Paul was leaning back, a huge, childlike grin on his face. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. And I spent the next half hour calming her down and getting her out.<br /><br />Paul didn't say another word, except to laugh when I finally got her out the door. I didn't say anything, either.<br /><br />But I did flip him off.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* "bizzitch"</span>NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-75138742736301954142009-06-08T20:37:00.000-07:002010-05-14T23:00:30.023-07:00A Renewed Introduction<span style="font-size:130%;">Three months ago a friend of mine sent me a <a href="http://media.www.hillsdalecollegian.com/media/storage/paper1270/news/2009/03/26/Arts/The-Beat-3684052.shtml">link</a> to the <em>Hillsdale Collegian</em> about my old college house, The Beat.<br /><br />One week ago, while playing jazz for a wine club, I was informed by the owner that she finally was able to spell my name after searching for it online and being directed to a short blog post about only writing happily while drunk.<br /><br />Two and two together later, I found the old link, and after a few Gmail searches, found all the old passwords. I had had no idea this blog still existed - some seventy-odd posts still exist (now all drafts), most of them categorical examples of why single, bitter, shy, and prolific shouldn't exist in the same body.<br /><br />I've left my last post standing, and I'll filter out the less bitter posts and bring them back. Three to four years later, I've a wife, a child, a good deal more debt, and a good deal less bitterness. And, now that my wife has a new job which places me more in the position of homemaker than provider, I've more time to write the four years of entertaining stories I've collected.<br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br />-nate<br /><br />(I should mention I've quit smoking. But not coffee.)</span>NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-1150778050531061182006-06-19T21:31:00.000-07:002006-06-21T18:38:37.200-07:00Signing OffGiven that the only posts I sit down to write (then delete, nine times out of ten) are depressing and bitter, and that I can only seem to post happy thoughts when drunk, I'm going to discontinue blogging. (As if I were so into it before that I'd post more than, say, once a month).<br /><br />Later<br /><br />-nateNateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-1138511159101568392006-01-28T20:57:00.000-08:002010-08-23T21:22:53.012-07:00Chris Thile, Mike Marshall, and Oh My God<span style="font-size:120%;">I saw Chris Thile and Mike Marshall perform everything from Bulgarian bar dances to Bach tonight. It was a worthwhile two hours, to say the least.<br /><br />Thile is one of the most entertaining musicians to watch, if and often only for his facial expressions, which run from quizzical to happy to contorted to sticking his tongue in between pursed lips. The top question of the night was this:<br /><br />"Do you think he makes those faces when making love to a <i>person</i>" (as opposed to the mandolin)?<br /><br /><i>I don't know...is he single?</i><br /><br />"At present, yes."<br /><br /><i>I might know why.</i><br /><br />I've seen Chris before, but not Marshall, who spent half the night playing the guitar as well as he plays the mandolin - effortlessly. Musicians like these are always a sign of how far I have to go.<br /><br />In some ways, however, I've more than mastered being a musician. I'm thinking here of the verbal parrying that went on between Thile and the audience.<br /><br /><blockquote>Thile: "This song is one of our true collaborative efforts. By which I mean we didn't hit each other."<br /><br />Marshall: "No, in this one, we alternated choosing notes."<br /><br />Thile: "Damn you, man! Why did you choose the F? F is a sucky note. It's soulless, really. Not worthwhile at all."<br /><br />Marshall: "Ah, come on...where would D minor be without it?"<br /><br />Thile: "A lot happier."</blockquote><br />Eleven people laughed, including myself.<br /><blockquote>Thile: "We think we're funny, I'm sorry...too much time spent in a bus talking to each other."<br /><br />Marshall: "It gets really strange after a few hours. 'Dang! I love the sound of the suitcases vibrating off the engine!'"<br /><br />Thile: "Let's make a song out of that! I am the next Schoenberg!"</blockquote><br />Six people laughed, including me, and I thought to myself, <i>that joke would make more sense if he'd said "I am the next Philip Glass!"</i> And that's when I realized what a dork I was. Am.<br /><br />The more I read about Thile, the more I realize why he is where he is. He's a "hoss," as <a href="http://www.mandolincafe.net/cgi-bin/ikonboard.cgi?act=ST&f=12&t=17385">this website</a> attests. And though getting to where I want to be as a musician is quite difficult, being a hoss is quite easy - you simply take away anything you do that isn't hoss-like.<br /><br />I am therefore going to practice. Please go watch Thile. Or Marshall. Preferably both.</span><br /><br />(I should note that Chris and Mike played a cover of The Strokes - Juicebox - for the encore. Highly recommended.)NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-1108018300340110022005-02-09T21:49:00.001-08:002010-08-23T21:27:43.476-07:00Me and Mr. J.I listened to my gut last night while driving home from work an hour shy of midnight, a little voice that said, "Bring him some food and wait with him in the emergency room." I'm ever so glad that this time I followed my gut.<br /><br />J. had been rear-ended just a few days prior by a stressed and coffee-ridden woman who was trying to get home a tad faster than legally permissible (or, depending on who is telling the story, by a baby-eating spawn of Satan, most likely distracted while participating in a highly illegal act with a weasel). Either way, my friend had suffered severe whiplash, and the pounding in his head had grown strong enough to warrant his willful journey to the emergency room. And given that in the past fifteen years he'd taken more than one bullet, a broken neck, a broken back, and knee surgery <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">without </span>anaesthesia, the drummer boy had to be talented indeed.<br /><br />I had promised to bring him a set of spirited beverages the night before, but later rescinded after staying at work too late, and I promised to make good on my promise the next night. And I never break a promise, unless moving the promise's completion to an entirely different time constitutes a break.<br /><br />But I had fully intended to make good on this promise, when J. called and told me that we'd better postpone our spirited rendezvous. And just as I was turning off the highway, it occurred to me that J. was probably very hungry, and that he might like some company in the emergency room, and that there was no way in hell that I wanted to start my own homework anytime in the next few hours. I turned back on the highway and headed for the hospital.<br /><br />It was well worth the time and lack of sleep. J. and I were eating two spirited hamburger patties when the nurse walked in, carrying a rather large syringe meant to symbolize the effect of the medical bills on his uninsured wallet.<br /><br />After J. got it in the ass, the fun started.<br /><br />Ten minutes after the injection, J. began to grow light-headed. He put his schoolbook away and turned to philosophy, the first sign of his rapidly deteriorating cognizance.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Dude, we need to talk about God.</span> I can't do justice to the next hour of conversation, if only because talks about deity with someone who is high can't be reconstructed without seeing far less funny and far more stupid than they actually were. Lucky for me, we had far more time than an hour, since filling out his prescription required returning to his apartment for money and making another trip to a 24-hour pharmacy. After we had nailed down the intricacies of God himself (funny how lucid things become at 2:00 in the morning, or when you're high), we turned to the effects of J.'s injection itself, occasionally stopping to make small observations about our surroundings.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Man, I bet if someone could combine this stuff with alcohol, he could really take a beating and not care.</span> I threw him a quizzical look. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Think about it - you'd be all limp, and they could beat on you all night long.</span> He paused, thinking through the process. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">...Although you'd feel terrible in the morning. Maybe it's not such a good idea.</span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Hey, remind me to get toilet paper before we leave here. I don't want my housemates to have to use their hands. That's really gross.</span><br /><br />-Uh, there's some paper for you, J. Aisle 3.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Dude, ripples! Can't go wrong with those.</span> A long pause, then <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">I hope these don't change the shape of my butt. Those ripples, they...ah, what do I care?</span> I <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">can't see the damn thing.</span><br /><br />I had long since abandoned any attempt to talk to J., since keeping my mouth closed was the only way to stifle the increasingly frequent bursts of hysterical laughter that had long since been my only response to his entirely serious musings. And I didn't want him to stop talking, for the love of God.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">I just need some water...holy crap, this stuff isn't cold.</span> And then to the cashier, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Hey, do you guys have an automatic de-froster in your refrigerator? Because this stuff's hot as hell.</span> I could only wonder what the cashiers thought of my friend and I as he then walked unevenly to the register. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Man, whatever I'm on is really strong.</span><br /><br />The automatic doors gave a burgular-esque beeping every time we walked through them. <em>Sorry! That noise would get on my nerves in a hurry...hey! Sorry about the noise, bro! Don't want to annoy you with any of that!</em> I should probably note that the recipient of his yells was clear across the pharmacy.<br /><br /><em>Some people are jerks. They bump into you, and they act like it's your fault. But not me. And that's why I'm not going to hell.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>They did what</em>? "Well, this indian tribe, the Hottentots, had this manhood ritual where young men would smoke their first cigar while their mothers, uh, unmanned them by half. With their teeth." <em>Oh man!</em> And then, glorying in the majesty of his country, <em>Dude, that's what's great about America, nobody biting off anyone else's balls. We don't </em>do<em> shit like that here, man.</em><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">You know how to get home?</span> No, I'm no good with directions. I couldn't find my way out of a wet paper bag. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Are you - I'm sorry, I don't know any other way to ask this - are you directionally illiterate?</span> J., you're one of the few people I know who uses larger and larger words when less and less cognizant.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Cogneezant?</span> Nevermind.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Man, I hate that stupid weasel. And the lady too.</span><br /><br />Two hours later, his housemate and I walked him up the stairs to their apartment, flanking him to prevent a fall that would probably leave him feeling terrible in the morning, though he probably wouldn't have cared at that moment.<br /><br />Vicadin is powerful stuff.NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9499470.post-1106375795162084992005-01-21T22:06:00.000-08:002010-08-23T21:28:54.452-07:00Summer Jobs<span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >There are times, usually when waiting on five or six very impatient people, when I begin to miss my old job. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >That</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > was a marvelous line of work - driving around lower Minnesota for twelve hours a day delivering construction materials, and getting paid obscene amounts of money. I would probably have stayed on with the company had I not been overjoyed - marvelously overjoyed! - when I was told I'd been let go. It was on my birthday, actually, and I couldn't have asked for a better present.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >This is a good story. Stick with it.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I had decided to spend the summer at a friend's house in lower Minnesota (state motto: </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Like Fargo, but No Wood-Chippers</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >) before heading south to Texas (motto: </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Other States are Sissies</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >). My friend and I had recently graduated from a small liberal arts college in lower Michigan (motto: </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >At Least We're Not Upper Michigan</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >); and, like most graduates of the liberal arts, quickly found a job doing manual labor. At that point, though, manual labor was exactly what I wanted - given that I didn't know what else I wanted to do with myself, I figured that a year or so of working with my body might give me the opportunity to think about it.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >We were both hired as laborers for a company that did reconstruction work for insurance claims. Initially, the job was fantastic - I got to drive a rickety diesel truck with high metal seats and no air conditioning for hours at a time, sipping bad black coffee down long stretches of highway. Had my working conditions remained that way, I'd probably still be working there today. My downfall, however, was the phone.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The company phones were on a network - push someone's number and they would instantly be paged, walkie-talkie style, for quick and easy communication. In theory, the phones were a very good idea, given that at any time the company had a network of twenty or more people working with laborers in the field. In practice, I would gladly have killed the manufacturer, perhaps running him over with my diesel truck.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The following is, as best as I can remember it, one of the more egregious examples of the sadistic ease in communication these phones gave my scatterbrained boss:</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >5:45 AM - Arise with B.j. and consume two bowls of a delightfully scrumptous whole-grain cereal, in anticipation of a few hours of moving drywall later on that morning.<br /><br />6:15 - Cross the state line into Wisconsin (Motto: <span style="font-style: italic;">Go Away</span>). B.j. wonders aloud if the drywall truck we quickly pass is the one we are meant to unload.<br /><br />6:30 - Arrive at construction site, right on time, to find the site utterly deserted.<br /><br />6:45 - TheBoss shows up. Wonders aloud about the location of the drywall truck. I try to stay awake in the bitter cold.<br /><br />7:00 - Drywall truck arrives, right on time, at 7:00. They have their own unloading crew. Realizing we were never actually necessary, we depart for St. Paul.<br /><br />7:11 - B.j. wonders aloud how much money is wasted on excursions like these. We decide it doesn't matter, since our pay remains constant no matter what we do.<br /><br />7:21 - TheBoss rings me up on the network phone, asking if I locked the office as I closed it down the night before. I respond in the affirmative, and he patiently explains that some seven to ten people are waiting to get into the office, which he never locks.<br /><br />7:22 - I ask why they do not have a key. TheBoss tells me that he is the only one with a key. I wonder at the irony of a security measure that surprises everyone when it is actually implemented, and even more at the futility of having a security measure that is never used.<br /><br />7:24 - I wonder aloud to B.j. if I can expect a pay cut in proportion to the time and effort of the people I have kept out of the office as TheBoss and the key hurry back to St. Paul. He tells me not to worry.<br /><br />7:25 - TheBoss rings me up again, this time to sing one of his favorite country songs.<br /><br />8:49 - TheBoss tells B.j. to drop me off at another construction site, where he presumes I will be of use.<br /><br />8:55 - After carefully ascertaining that the site, which doesn't actually exist, is abandoned, I call B.j. and ask him to pick me up, verbally asserting my strong disapproval of TheBoss' organizational skills.<br /><br />9:01 - B.j. arrives, and begins to drive me to a site that actually exists, just a few blocks down the road. We both assume this is the site meant, since it is the only construction site on the street in question.<br /><br />9:03 - TheBoss calls us up and tells us that, in fact, the site we are heading to is not the site in question. My thoughts release several vicious curses into the air.<br /><br />9:04 - TheBoss gives us directions to the new site. He gives them one turn at a time.<br /><br />9:05 - TheBoss calls us and asks where we are. Ascertaining that we have, indeed, taken a right, he tells us to take another right a few blocks down.<br /><br />9:05 - Cursing, at TheBoss and the phone.<br /><br />9:06 - TheBoss tells us to take a left when we arrive at the street he mentioned just a minute before.<br /><br />9:07 - Cursing. We wonder aloud why either of us went to college.<br /><br />9:09 to 9:17 - Repeat steps 9:05 (both 9:05.1 and .2, and then .2 again) to 9:07.<br /><br />9:18 - TheBoss, after verifying that we are exactly where he has directed us, tells us to continue on the same street until we get to the construction site. I remark sarcastically to B.j. that I'm quite glad he didn't give us all those directions at once, because we'd surely be lost.<br /><br />9:19 - I realize that I have on numerous occasions gotten lost in the company trucks, many times with directions simpler than the ones given, and decide not to assert my directional intelligence beyond its feeble means.<br /><br />9:19 - TheBoss calls us back, asking how far along we are. We respond, "two blocks away."<br /><br />9:20 - TheBoss, after a long pause, tells us to turn around and return to the office. B.j. accurately predicts what will happen, as it has happened before: we will return, TheBoss will collect his thoughts while we are all in the same room, and he will send me to the very same site upon which we now descend, keeping B.j. in the office.<br /><br />9:21 - Call to pagan gods to rain down curses upon our nemesis.<br /><br />9:21 - I call TheBoss, asking him if he is <span style="font-style: italic;">sure</span> he wants me to return, as I am <span style="font-style: italic;">two blocks away</span> from a construction site that actually exists, where I can do actual, real, honest-to-God work, work that may be empirically demonstrated in the physical universe, as opposed to that done in TheBoss' brain. I refrain from putting the matter so starkly out loud.<br /><br />9:22 - TheBoss decides that it is a good idea to let me work at the construction site we have been spending over a half hour driving to. I find it odd that, for the first time, an appeal to pagan gods has been somewhat effective.<br /><br />9:25 - I begin work. I have already earned some 39 dollars doing absolutely nothing. I wonder why this does not make me happy.<br /><br />9:31 - My newfound co-workers discover that I was the fool who locked the office with the only key. I am relieved when they wonder aloud if this incident will finally convince TheBoss to make a copy of the coveted key. (No.)<br /><br /><span style="">Thus did my initial hesitation about the job grow to a secure dislike to a strong disappointment, then steadily into a heavy loathing, then to an utter hatred.<br /><br />I should mention that it was not my boss </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >per se</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > that made me loathe the job; it was only the fact that he could communicate with me at any time, a feature of the phones that no doubt was at one time thought quite useful, probably by its inventor, Satan, who doubtless wished to communicate quickly with his horde of unholy angels, or bring an otherwise peaceful race of men to spilling the blood of their brothers all over the nonexistent drywall of abandoned construction sites.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >That was really the only problem. Without the phones, that company would have operated more efficiently, in much the same way that ants, while foraging, work together for the good of the colony. With the phones, however, all directions were able to be routed through one central processing unit - TheBoss' brain, which, though quite impressive in comparison to the ants currently being used in this analogy, was far too inadequate to give helpful directions to everyone at once. Unhelpful directions were often substituted when the problem became overwhelming, usually between the hours of 6:00 AM and 11:30 PM.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The downside of the Information Age. Indeed.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></span>NateWazoohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08827084964034033551noreply@blogger.com3