The Mysterious Case of the Coat Tree and the Handsome Man

From TexasMonthly.com

I Have a Dream #10: The Audacity of Hotdogs

I'm in the kitchen of house where I grew up. Barack Obama is standing at the harvest-gold stove. He's wearing a frilly apron and is talking to an adviser who is leaning against our harvest-gold dishwasher. Another adviser is rooting through our harvest-gold refridgerator. The President-elect is boiling two hotdogs, one whole, one that has been cut meticulously into eight equal pieces. He's using an avacado-green sauce pan that I own to this day. I suggest that the hotdogs would be better if he grilled them. He looks at me thoughtfully, then tells me that using the grill is really too much trouble for just two hotdogs. I press him on the issue, explaining that we have a gas grill and it's really no trouble and that I always use the grill, even for just two hotdogs. Obama patiently and politely declines my offer, then gives a meaningful look at the adviser leaning on the dishwasher. She glares at me, says "The President will take it from here", then motions for me to go to the basement, which is cold and depressing.

Analysis: I continue to suffer from anxiety as I wait to be appointed Secretary of Housing and Urban Development.

Coping with Loss

From ITPT

I Have a Dream #9: Bagboy Beatdown Edition

I entered a grocery store on a rainy night (common setting for many of my most vivid dreams) to meet my mother inside, whom, I hoped, had already finished shopping and was already in a checkout lane. The store appeared to be the Hikes Point Kroger in Louisville, the main grocery for much of my childhood, prior to the remodeling that took place sometime in the early 1980s. I was an adult in the dream however. My mother’s age in the dream was indeterminate.

My mother was, in fact, in the process of unloading her cart onto the conveyor belt as I walked into the store. As I headed toward her to help her unload, I noticed the bag boy in the next aisle. He was approximately seventeen years old, chubby-cheeked, sloppily dressed, with a curly frat-fro. He was also red-faced from exertion because he had his feet hooked into the bag holder at the end of the checkout line and was hanging upside down from it, like a kid on a jungle gym.


Unable to do his job from that position, he instead heckled customers as they left the store. “Enjoy your foods, fatty,” he yelled at an older man. “Pepsi, pepsi, pepsico,” he chanted as a woman with two young children nervously walked past him. This behavior greatly angered me for some reason, so I reached down and delivered a sharp slap across his face and firmly said, “No.” Everyone in the store stopped and watched as bagboy laboriously tried to pull himself up and unhook his feet from the bag holder. After what seemed like minutes of trying, he finally managed to get loose and roll onto the floor. Trembling with rage as he stood up, he grabbed a can of cream corn (another puzzling recurring dream element for me) and reared back as if to throw it at me. I responded with, “Don’t you…”, as I prepared to throw what I had been holding all along, two helium filled, foil balloons that said “Get Well”. Bagboy found the prospect of getting popped with gift balloons unpleasant enough to stay his hand.

At this point, I demanded that the cashier call the store manager. The manager, who resembled a short Daniel Stern, escorted me to the gumball machines and asked me to explain what had happened. “He was hanging upside down,” was my only response. As I said this, I noticed that at least a dozen other patrons had crowded closely around us, all waiting to ask the manager grocery related questions. I looked at the silently staring crowd and said, “Do you mind?” while gently pushing them away. The store manager had changed into a pleasant-faced, portly woman. She gestured to the bagboy, who continued to glare at me in the distance, and explained, “Thing is, I’m taking him to a party tonight.” Somehow, this statement made me realize that the bagboy was a “special needs” person. And I had slapped his face in public.

As we left the store, my mother glared at me as if this wasn’t the first time I’d publicly shamed her in this manner.

I Realize It's a Game Company, But Really?

I share a desk with a portly slob who works from 4PM to 3AM. As part of my daily routine, when I arrive at 5AM, I dampen a few paper towels and thoroughly wipe down the desktop, removing the grease stains and dandruff (copious amounts, usually) accumulated from the last shift. This morning, I came in to find four, 1 oz. canisters of Play-Doh (Ages 2+, per the label) stacked on the desk divider wall and my desktop was covered in tiny Play-Doh crumbs. Play-Doh!?! It's like bread dough, but you know, for kids. Because kids love to play with baked goods, at all stages of preparation. The black Play-Doh crumbs (pink and red were the other colors used) and the dandruff together resembled salt and pepper spilled by a giant (approximate giant size = 13 feet tall). At least that's what I told myself to make the clean up a slightly less repellent task. On my former team, the guy sitting next to me began every day by turning his keyboard upside down and shaking out the accumulated dandruff, pubes and miscellaneous human body detritus. Every day was Christmas.

Ironically (see below), Play-Doh is made in China, so I've probably had my USDA recommended daily allotment of lead already.

"What Do You Do for a Living?"

My recently formulated, concise, true answer:
"I punish people who have purchased virtual gold from Chinamen."

Decology, Part 3: Austin Meals

From ITPT

I Have a Dream #8: No Longer Welcome Here Edition

In the dream, I am being visited by my good friends, the Shields family. We are at a restaurant, perhaps Trudy’s, and three and a half year old Leo Shields dumps a large plastic tumbler of ice water on my head and laughs at me. Neither parent is inclined to discipline Leo, so I begin to patiently, rationally lecture him. He continues to laugh and his parents continue to look helplessly at me.

The scene shifts and we are now in a version of my back patio. One year old Lorenzo Shields, who can walk in the dream, drops his pants and poops in a terra cotta flower pot next to my back door. Older brother Leo again points and laughs. Parent Shields continue to do nothing.

At this point, I look up at the second story of the house (this version of my house had a second floor) and notice that one of the windows has a small round hole in it. Several ferrets are going in and out of the hole in the window. I grab a garden hose, hoping that spraying them with water will scare them away. Instead, the water forces them all inside.

As anyone knows, ferret infestation greatly lowers property values. I will not be hosting the Shields family ever again.

















Culprit #1

















Culprit #2











Culprit #3

Decology, Part 2: Austin Music

From ITPT

Decology, Part 1

From ITPT

Looming Threat

From ITPT

What Else Is in the Fridge?

As before, all items were observed at least three different times.

Pickle Jar – Sixty four ounce jar. Brought to work and left for days with only two and a half lonely dill spears floating in brine.

Batman Lunchbox – Specifically, a Batman the Animated Series lunchbox, not that bullshit, compromise Christian Bale nonsense.

Spilled Coffee – Someone put an almost full Styrofoam cup of coffee on the top shelf of the fridge and someone else, probably in the act of opening the door, caused the coffee to spill and cover the entire top two shelves. This mess remained for almost two weeks, as employees avoided putting food items on the effected shelves and instead crammed items into the remaining, untainted spaces. Kitty Genovese, all over again.

Humongous Salad Bowl – A huge plastic bowl with a prepackaged bag of lettuce sitting in the bottom like a kid trapped in a well. To my disappoint, I have yet to be on hand when the owner debags his/her healthy lunch, drenches it with a Costco-sized bottle of ranch dressing, tosses it with a huge set of wooden salad tongs, sits down at a table, wraps an arm around the giant bowl and pulls it in close, and finally, grimly eats while casting envious glances at others walking in from the parking lot with Sonic bags. Or so I like to imagine, anyway.

And Then There Were…Still Several Dozen

From ITPT

Touch of Gringo

From ITPT

What’s in the Fridge?

After the runaway success of my other intermittent blog features like “I Have a Dream” and “Overheard/Seen at the Coffeehouse” (Pulitzer has added this as a new award category. I’ll probably win for the first three or four years, until the rest of the literary community catches up.), I’ve decided to add a new feature that chronicles what I encounter in the various refrigerators around the office of the gaming company where I am currently (and hopefully, only temporarily) employed.

Initially, the only refrigerator in the building was a sliding glass door beverage display case, usually found in gas stations and convenience marts. Therefore, lunch choices were on display for all to see. They’ve since added three standard kitchen refrigerators. Killjoys.

Here are items I’ve seen multiple times in the fridge:

Hot Pockets – Microwaves are the most computer-y of cooking appliances and Hot Pockets (and their generic knockoffs) are the quintessential lazy, microwavable food. I’ve seen the same guy burn the roof of his mouth with a boiling Hot Pocket three times in three and a half weeks.

Leftover Pizza – No surprise here. However, rather than bringing the two or three pieces remaining from last night’s dinner in foil or in a sealable container, my coworkers bring them in the original, large pizza box and jam it into any available crevice.

Arby’s – Gamers are a frugal lot when it comes to anything without a chip or software. I’ve long held the theory that Arby’s has never made a sale to a non-coupon-presenting customer. Therefore, everyone making an Arby’s purchase is buying 4 sandwiches for $5 or 5 sandwiches for $7, or some other bulk purchase. Sandwiches 3 through 6 get eaten for lunch the next day.

Frappuccinos – Specifically, venti Frappuccinos. More specifically, the whip-cream-caked, napkin-wrapped, dirty-straw-sporting cup, with only the last inch of drink remaining.

Keep in mind, I’ve seen each of the proceeding items at least three times.

However, my favorite fridge encounter so far was my discovery last week of an open bag of Funyuns, sitting all alone on the top shelf of a recently installed Amana. As every Funyun connoisseur knows (and I’m sure I work at the company with the highest percentage of employees who are Funyun connoisseurs in Austin, and maybe all of Central Texas), the deep-fried, onion-flavored chip is best enjoyed after opening the bag to let them breath, then chilling them to perfection.

So anyway, I’m still looking for another job.

I Have a Dream #7: Big, Floppy Contacts

This was not a single dream, but one I've had several times over the last few months. In the dream, I'm attempting to put in my contact lenses, which have grown enormous. They're about the size of silver dollars, bigger in fact, than my eyes and they constantly fold inside out and fall off my finger as I attempt to mold them to my eyes. Usually in the dream, I've lost my glasses and have no other way of seeing properly, enhancing my desperation.

The Worstest Bestest

From ITPT

Deep Eddyfication

From ITPT

Overheard/Seen at the Coffeehouse #2

Location:
Thunderbird

Seen:
The skinniest Japanese guy ever, with an afro (japfro?) that is perhaps a yard wide, reading My Talk Pretty One Day.

That Aint Workin’, Thats the Way You Do It

From ITPT

Overheard/Seen at the Coffeehouse #1

Original content on this blog?!? This will be an intermittent feature, hopefully ending almost as soon as it begins because of me getting a job. Hopefully.

Location:
Clementine

Seen:
A hipster in his late twenties is having a business meeting at the table adjacent to mine with a woman in her late sixties/early seventies. I can’t determine the nature of the business, though it appears the hipster is going to perform some sort of online marketing services for the woman. The woman is impeccably dressed and made up, the kind of woman who gets her hair “done”. The hipster is wearing a t-shirt embossed with this sentence: “I'm Getting Pretty Good At Masturbating”. Ah, professionalism. And somehow, I’m the one who’s unemployed.

Worst. Sequel. Ever.

From ITPT

It Is Always Said Of Me, That I Know How To Keep Cinco de Mayo Well

From ITPT

Conspiracy Theories with JFK

From ITPT

Aiming into the Wind

From ITPT