July 4th is a time for celebration for the country and for me it's a time to iron out my own hypocrisy. For years (possibly decades, I lost count) now I have claimed I do not enjoy fireworks. I will never completely understand the significance of chemicals reacting in the sky as a symbol of freedom or independence, but maybe that's the point. We are now free to try to blow off our on fingers (all 10 of 'em!) at least once a year. This is what Thomas Jefferson lived for (along with making sweet sweet love to slaves, of course).
But, I guess being dragged to a field in the middle of a town as a youth and watching embers fall down around me, permanently turned me off to the idea of fireworks being cool. I have not been excited for them since I can remember and this year was no different. I was headed to the beach for the 4th for some debauchery that had the possibility of bordering on illegal. I had giant plans to cook some meth, experience my first hooker and possibly drink some wine and then I realized I would be spending the weekend with my parents and not Zach Galifianakis' character from the Hangover.
As I was preparing to leave (packing over 38 pounds of laundry into my fany Nissan Sentra) I told my roomate that I was going to to beach and not excited about fireworks anyway. Fast forward to the next night.
It's July 4th and after close to 24 consecutive hours of watching my parents watch their computer screens I decided I needed to be inspired (or at least jarred awake by loud noises and shiny things). I ripped out the iPhone to try to figure out where the town fireworks would be. Good news! Only ....an hour away! That's right, a beach town in the middle of summer decided that no one would want to see fireworks in person (and even considers any fireworks on the island illegal. Jefferson would not be pleased. Unless he was slave-banging when he heard the news, of course).
Internet research assured me that if I was "inventive" enough I would be able to find fireworks displays around. I decided to do the most inventive thing I could - I stepped outside. And I heard them! Dear lord, I heard the glorious sound of popping and sizzling skin! I looked into the sky and saw nothing. I walked in a circle that was approximately 3 feet in circumfrence to see if I could scout them. I couldn't. I couldn't get any more inventive than this.
The noise kept getting louder, and instead of getting more excited I started to fear for my life about what a bunch of rednecks with illegal fireworks could do in a wooded area (although waking up to a flaming tree falling through the roof would ignite the senses.) I returned to the depths of the couch and flicked on NBC, hoping to at least catch the NYC fireworks. The cable box said it was on, but the fireworks display being put forward disagreed. IMMENSELY DISAGREED. It sounded like they were just playing a radio station as the mayor shot off single color bottle rockets over the ocean.
5 minutes went by and it ended in an unspectacular fashion. I was disappointed until the mayor came on the TV and said that Wilmington, NC had the best fireworks in the nation (he was high), and then I learned that NYC's fireworks were next although the mayor claimed, "There is no way they are gonna have better fireworks then us! Yee haw!"
The broadcast fades. Music provided by WHQR Radio Wilmington. I knew it. Within 5 seconds the NYC fireworks were on and they immediately outshone the Wilmington fireworks. I watched for 15 minutes before deciding that fireworks, legitimately weren't for me and maybe I suffered from the "you only want what you can't have disease."
Later on in the evening CBS decided to have Craig Ferguson (a good ole fashioned American who just happens to have a Scottish accent) host the Boston fireworks with guest performance by the corpse of Neil Diamond! (Official CBS name). My parents raved about how good he used to be, but by that point I was already deaf from his shriek. He then played a song (which I cant recall) that climaxed with an unfurling of the American flag while a drunken crowd roared.
This part of the performance was so over the top that I couldn't contain myself from laughing out loud. This caused a slight smack from my father (who is patriotic), but I don't understand why drunken Americans cheering drunkenly at a cliche is patriotic. But maybe my opinion doesn't matter, I didn't take time off from making slave babies to create America, I'm just the fireworks hypocrite.
By: givemethepen | Thursday, July 16, 2009 at 11:03 PM | | 
Everything is more complicated than you think. You see only a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make: you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for 20 years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved.
And the truth is I'm so angry and the truth is I'm so fucking sad, and the truth is I've been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I'm ok, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine.
Well, fuck everybody.
By: givemethepen | at 7:00 PM | |
So, in contrast to the Barrel (CB's as I like to now call it, so I can sound appropriately like a trucker), I went to a little "Meat and Two" in Greensboro called Hable's Hearth. I'll be honest, it doesn't sound delicious as my mind automatically connects olde English words like "hearth" with "cholera" and "your ox couldn't forde the river." Needless to say Brandon and I were hungry and so we departed work to visit Hable's Hearth on a Tuesday or possibly a Wednesday.
Brandon had only heard of this place through a friend and I'm pretty sure that friend had never actually eaten there, so we have no point of reference for this meat and two (Side note: A meat and two is a restaurant where you choose 1 meat and two vegetables. The menu incorrectly listed Mac and Cheese and possibly Grits as vegetables.) I was also made aware that this place was in the basement of some other type of store on a street that I rarely visit and parking was sketchy at best. We found the place and then got out of the car and instantly realized this place had no windows and I guarantee you've probably never been in a restaurant with no windows, because you would remember it, you feel like you are eating at grandma's and that you won't be escaping until you clean your plate and fix here 1977 microwave. Good times.
Once we walk in, we are immediately greeted by a sign that says "THIS IS A FAMILY RESTAURANT, DONT CURSE, DONT BE RUDE. TIP." Or something like that. This automatically made me feel like smashing the windows they didn't have. I am greeted by a waitress that seats us immediately at a booth where the seats were definitely rescued from a school cafeteria, it was that shitty plastic that sticks to your legs but is somehow also still ice cold, great for any temperature occasion! (This is not suprising considering, the seats cannot tell what the weather is like outside and I guess they just try to do their best to make you feel hot and cold all at once. And yes I'm hung up on the no windows thing. I think it's just weird to basically eat in someone's basement unless the food is free.)
The rest of the dining room is what my parents basement looked like in 1987. Wood panelling, miscolored shag carpet and a retractable screen door that apparently seperated the giant smoking section from the small 7 table non-smoking section. The "kitchen" was in the dining room and was seperated by dated interlocking wood fencing so you could see the workers not spit (or spit) into your food.
We order quickly and we both get the special "Chicken Dumplings, 1 Side, 1 Drink for 6.00 even (with tax)". Sounded like a deal. The waiter then gave us cornbread and inferred that it was unlimited (I would test this.) Less than 3 minutes later the food came out on plastic plates that I ate off of as a child (half because it was the 80's and half because I was a child and I was given plastic so I wouldn't smash it.) Apparently this restaurant doesn't trust it's clientele to not have a civil war flashback and start smashing.
The food didn't look great (possibly because it was obviously pre-prepared) but it tasted pretty good. There is nothing like eating a combination of Chicken, Dumplings and cornbread off of plastic. Brandon and I couldn't decide between mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, so we each got one and divided it in half. I tried the sweet potatoes first and they were pretty good but tasted like they had been doused in cinnamon or some other ingredient that screamed "AUTUMN RECIPE." The mashed potatoes were decent at best and Brandon and I both agreed that while it wasn't great, it was worth the $6.
After finishing my meal, I ordered two more free cornbreads (they weren't that good, but they were FREE) and polished them off while Brandon and I debated who "Hable" was. I decided that it was a last name because Hable as a first name just seems too dumb and the only name close is to it is Hazel and you might be retarded if you are aiming for Hazel and you get Hable. Brandon spewed some argument about another first name that rhymes with Hable that I can't remember (Mable?), and was convinced it could be a first name. So as we checked out, Brandon noticed a sign that indicated Hable was the last name and I was victorious.
I can not declare a winner in the Faux Southern dining vs Real southern dining because both were not places I'd jump to go back to. If it was about money I'd go Hable's because it was dirt cheap and sometimes I like to cower in spaces with no natural light. The atmosphere in both? Nothing short of atrocious and the food was pretty close to equal as the mad scientists at CB's know how to make your eyes feel like they want to fuck a skillet.
By: givemethepen | Saturday, March 21, 2009 at 9:21 PM | |
Recently, I had the chance to experience two contrasting styles of Southern dining. Being a New Jersey transplant, I try to avoid any sort of Southern leaning life experiences, but with the blog running short on topics I took a bullet or 2 for the team and decided to try a Cracker Barrel (which I'm sure REAL southerners would scoff at while trailer park southerners get their best shoes on when they go out for the big Sunday dinner at CB) and a "Meat-N-Two" (doesn't this already sound delicious?)
I went to the Cracker Barrel with Amelia in the middle of the afternoon on a random Wednesday or Thursday (who can remember? I was so giddy for the experience). Now, in all honesty, I have been to a Cracker Barrel once before, but it was at least 8 years ago when my mind wasn't fully capable of realizing the complete retardation this restaurant represents. We get to Cracker Barrel and we have to swim through a sea of rocking chairs that probably sit about 5 feet high (they may or may not have been built for Paul Bunyan and his ox, Blue) and two Cracker Barrel employees who decided to do some paperwork outside (although what actually happened was one decided to do paperwork outside then called upon the second to physically stop the papers from blowing away.)
Once inside you have to make your way through a gift shop/general store. Now this is something I can't really comprehend, who really needs to commerate a trip to a restaurant (which is a chain and can be found in every city from Virginia to Florida) by buying Cracker Barrel paraphenalia and other weird southern knick knacks. The rocking chairs are included in the things you can purchase (only $189!!!). Again, these chairs are at least 5 feet and will only fit in the bed of a pick up truck, this will tell you all you need to know about Cracker Barrel clientele - They assume that you will be bringing a pick up truck with you today. Good times.
We are seating in the non smoking section, which bears a terrible similarity to the smoking section in that it smells just like...the smoking section. A quick glance to my left and I discover that the only seperating these two sections is a half wall with a wooden fence like structure (specifically designed for letting smoke through, I think). Our waitress (Ashley?) comes up and she is nice enough until I realize that she has a 2 star apron. What is a 2 star apron, you ask? Well apparently CB decided that they would rank their waitresses and then let you know which ones are shitty. The thinking went something like this "Oh hey new customer, this is your waitress Ashley. We could have given you a 4 star, or even a 3 star, but we want you to know that you are getting a two star waitress. See, we've even embroidered it on her apron, kind of like a shoutout to Hitler. Here at Cracker Barrel we will give you our 3rd best quality waitress and hate Jews, like the true southerners we are."
It was ordering time - we both decided on some sort of "Skillet Special" - hers was broccoli cheese, maybe some chicken? and bread crumbs in lieu of rice. Could you eat that many bread crumbs? Did you know bread crumbs could be substituted for rice? WE'RE YOU AWARE OF IT? I had the mushroom, rice, chicken combo. Both orders came quick and were somewhat delicious although I felt like I had just ingested a tube of slow digesting glue.
While waiting on the food I notice a card on the table saying that Cracker Barrel had collecte unique American merchandise and hung it on the walls (this is completely original, no matter what TGIFridays, Applebee's Chili's, or any local bar says or hangs on the wall. CB WANTS YOU TO REMEMBER THIS.) They also say that you can look around and check it all out. I was hoping no one would do this because it would be weird to be eating and have someone leaning over your table to look at Louis Armstrong's saxaphone reed or an old KKK picture while you are shoveling down corn bread that had no sweetness at all. Cracker Barrel gets a B on Food and a C on creepiness.
Part 2 Tomorrow.
By: givemethepen | Thursday, March 12, 2009 at 8:50 PM | |
Monday -
Guitar Center - I hate guitar center. Let me start by saying this. I hate dealing with musicians who think they are better than you (and they are better than me, but then again I don't play a genre of music referred to as "Cock Rock"). I went to Guitar Center 3 times in the last 2 weeks and here is how they went:
Time 1: I went to Guitar Center to buy a small amp so that I could start to pretend to play in a band. I had already tested the amp I wanted during a previous excursion, and so I went in head up and bright eyed, hoping to look like someone who had had no idea what a "guitar" was and desperately needed help being stripped of his cash. This did not work, as I waited for a solid 10 minutes as Guitar Center employees (you can tell because they probably have a pony tail, some sort of facial hair, and a plethora of tattoos,) walked by, completely disregarding me. I should've tried my normal tactic when faced with this situation at retail outlets, raise both my hands real high and hope someone helps (I decided against this, because the image of someone putting both hands in the air might inspire a flame out loser to start playing "Freebird")
Eventually, I went up to the counter to ask the fine young man if he could help me get a guitar. He then muttered "maybe" and gave me an extended talk on a warranty. After taking 5 minutes to find someone to cover the front, then 5 minutes to get the amp, he came back and rung me up. Well, if you don't count the 10 more minutes it took for a manager to respond to the constant page of "need customer service at the front desk." (Apparently washed up musicians still trying to "make it" aren't reliable or speedy in anyway. Who knew?) Finally, I check out, warranty in hand, which coincidentally leads to time 2.
Time 2: The same day I bought the amp it broke. A knob fell off as I was carrying it in and amazingly, all the knobs on an amp are important. So I went back a few days later to return it, thanks to my nifty warranty. Before you can enter the store with an item, you have to check it in, to make sure you aren't stealing it and pretending to bring it back. So I walk into the store and wait. And then another guy with a return comes. We wait. A third cowboy joins the party and we all wait. The store had just opened so it wasn't busy (there was maybe 2 other customers in the store.) As I stood there, I noticed 1 customer being helped by 2 employees and these employees would occasionally stare in my direction, not make direct eye contact and go back to helping this guy figure out which axe will make his cock seem longest.
Eventually a guy said he would help me, but he had to help the customer that was already being helped by someone else first. Eventually the manager waddled over and called everyone to the front. They exchanged the amp with no problem from there. They didn't even check the box and so I wished that I had poured cement in there instead of an amp.
Time 3: I went to ask the fine fellows if they had a guitar pedal that I needed.
Me: "Hey, do you have this guitar pedal?"
DBag: "No."
Me: " ...Can I order it?"
DBag: "We don't have it."
Didn't even check inventory. Just looked at me, and then my said shirt and said he knew someone who worked at my company, and gave me a name that I didn't know and asked if I knew him. I wish I could've said "Hey, do you know Mark at Guitar Center in Freehold, NJ?"
Thursday:
I ordered a guitar pedal on eBay. I won it for dirt cheap, well below what others were going for, which in turn left me with this message in my inbox:
"Yo, you got this dirt cheep. IM PISSED. Whatever."
So I had high hopes that the package would contain said pedal and perhaps some feces. So I was anxious to get it, of course. I tracked it and knew it would be coming on Thursday and so I got to my apartment complex at 5:58, the office closes at 6. As I pull up, I see the sign on the door that says "see you at 9 tomorrow." I am pissed, but I get out and see one of the ladies inside. I knock on the door and make the international symbol for "package" (which is basically holding your hands 6 inches away from each other like you are about to eat a loaf of bread like a child from a Dickens' novel). She said no (even though the package was within 4 steps of her current position. I said, "It's not 6 yet." She looked at me and did the most stereotypical thing a middle aged black woman could have done "YES IT IS," with some fierce head movement for emphasis. I got back in my car, slammed the door and then proceeded to lay on the horn all the way back to my apartment. That'll show her.
Saturday:
I always knew I lived in the bad part of town. Whenever I tell anyone what road I live off, they cringe slightly, and for some reason never want to make the trek over. Today, I officially found out why. I was googling my apartment complex and found a review page with the first review headline "DO NOT LIVE HERE UNLESS YOU WANT TO GET STABBED OR DO HEROIN."
I had to click, before I even read the post, the reviewer gave a link to the Greensboro police report website and said "type in the complex address and watch the reports pile up." I did, I set the date range from Jan 1, 2009 to today. Can you guess the number of incidents in those 45 days? Would you guess over 100? You'd be correct. In fact there were too many to list. I started clicking and found that almost all of them were break ins. I am shocked and awed that my shit hasn't been stolen yet. At more than 2 break ins per day, it's only a matter of time before a "hoodlum" as the review said, collects my things, disperses them throughout the Greensboro area pawn shops and buys himself some shiny rims.
The review said to count myself lucky if this hand't happened to me yet. So, as of tomorrow I will be looking for a new place to live (this isn't the only reason, as I've found I can live for at least $300/month cheaper in areas that are significantly less shady). Let's hope I don't get robbed in the meantime.
By: givemethepen | Sunday, February 15, 2009 at 12:18 AM | |
