Uncle Hersch says hello

October 31, 2004

There’s no real point to this post other than to bitch and moan and give some insight into the process of being hired at Cracker Barrel, since I know there are throngs of you who have been aspiring to work there all of your lives. Fair warning.

All work sucks, of course, but I just filled out paperwork for 6 hours. 6 fucking hours. I’m supposed to be a dishwasher, people. There was no washing of dishes. There was merely paperwork and scant talk of dishwashing. I was orientated with everything but the actual dishes. And the washing.

Had I known such an extensive list of chemicals were to be introduced to me, and that I would have to sign my social security number 50 god damn times, and if I knew I’d have to watch 3 videos about Uncle Herschel, some old guy who really seemed to have no definitive link to Cracker Barrel other than that he used to hang around in their stores in his over-alls while telling odd stories, I might have waited for another job to come along. But as things stand now, after putting that many hours into paperwork, all you can really do is go back in there and see how shitty the rest of the job is before you quit. I think you owe yourself that much.

I love how I was introduced to the group I spent the day with, though. I got there at 3 pm because I was late finding my passport (an option as identification) and once I got in and found someone to ask about the orientation I’m sure I must have been 5 minutes late or so. I walked through the busy kitchen in my crappy blue Oxford shirt and navy blue pants, looking like a convict out of Shawshank Redemption, and I eventually reached the door. The door was locked. So I pulled once, twice, and then thrice, and then I narrated to myself, “Am I retarded?” before making an awkward little laugh. I sent the people inside strange looks through the window in the door and they just stared back at me. I guess I was sort of frantic about it, actually. My spastic pulling and giggling must have alarmed them that the weirdo had showed up — THAT guy — and they weren’t yet prepared for him. All they could do was stare in amazement. I mean, I figured the door was just stuck or something, and I was being dumb… because things like that happen on your first day, at least to me. Something always goes wrong.

The manager insinuated that I should just leave, because I was late and the door was now locked. She looked at me through the window and then finally opened the door after I had finished with my jack assery. All to teach me a lesson, of course! After all, it’s not enough that it’s your first day of work in years and that you’re already incredibly worried about being late.

I replied that I had to get my passport and she responded with something like “Why, are you traveling somewhere?” Yes, I could have brought my social security card, but I couldn’t find it. So sue me. Or um…lock me out of the class and make fun of me. Whatever. Anyhow, I managed to utter something about it being required before trailing off sheepishly and just giving up. I didn’t get the joke at the moment because my face was reddening and everyone was looking at the dipshit who couldn’t open a door and who couldn’t get to his first day on-the-job on time. I sat down at the table where 4 others were already seated, shifted around nervously, and focused on the walls of the little room. Fabulous start.

After that I managed to destroy some of the paperwork I was supposed to fill out. I guess the perforation machine in dumbfuckville wasn’t working the day they made those booklets, because I was forced to tear the pages out myself, which resulted in me ripping them in half. The girls across the table tried to help me (“it helps if you turn it over and pull”), but it was all to no avail. Much laughter was had, of course. It was at this point that I was thinking to myself that maybe I should pretend I’m mentally disabled, so I would actually have an excuse for being such a dildo.

And on a final note, apparently the outstanding group of waitresses and waiters being orientated (6 in total) had concluded by the end of the day that I was clinically depressed. Why, I don’t know. Aside from the girl in the group who flat out told everyone I was “depressive” there was the manager who joked about disgruntled employees shooting up the Cracker Barrel and how there was a support line to call if you were feeling down.. and she said all of this to me. That was kind of awkward.

I just love first impressions and how I manage to butcher them every time. I suppose my darty eyes, sweaty palms, and fidgeting just gave it all away. Oh, and that when asked to describe my life, I used the word “useless.” I was joking, of course. “I’m pretty useless, I was told to cut my hair and get a job.” But I guess nobody got that one…. Yep. Good day, good day.

I did get $5.50 an hour, though.

It was a good day

October 26, 2004

It’s time for white boys in the suburbs to drink 40’s and pretend to be black men while listening to NWA.

Yes, today I went to Wal-Mart and the local, shitty, video game store to find myself a copy of the long awaited Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Neither stores had the game on time, because both of them suck balls. But I got it eventually. Behind me in line was an Air-Force pilot who had pre-ordered, and next to me was what I’d guess to be a 13 year old kid, frantically tearing open the package where he stood. We all laughed, but we all understood. Grand Theft Auto is important. It’s important to society.

Keep the crack off the street, brothers. PEACE.

Why pop music sucks

October 24, 2004

Or to go even further, why commercialized music sucks. This is why I get scared when my favorite bands make it big. Because a lot of the time, they’re forced to cater to a crowd that enjoys music made by people like Ashlee Simpson. And Ashlee Simpson does things like THIS:

She has also apparently mastered the art of “stupid dancing,” (as opposed to say, dirty dancing?) which had me laughing really, really hard. Now, if anyone had a question as to if people like this are ruining music, well there’s your fucking answer. If you can’t sing live, then you can’t sing. You suck. That’s something you cannot blame on your band. Your sister is an idiot with a crappy tv show, and you make bad music. Stop making bad music. Ashlee? Ashlee Simpson. Listen to me. Dear god, I beg of you, listen to me: STOP MAKING SHITTY MUSIC.

End of story. I doubt something like that will have any effect on the legion of mall walking teeny boppers that adore her and all of the other “artists” that they shouldn’t be listening to, but hey, at least it was comedic.

Some funny clips featuring [spoofs of Anti-Kerry attack ads]
Check out the 1st and 3rd especially

There’s also a very good article up at Rolling Stone again about a guy who “infiltrates” a republican volunteer group in Orlando: [Bush Like Me]

It’s kind of scary, but what do you expect?

Hate to make another post related to politics, but this is just unblievable to me.

Courtesy of PBS:

In an unusual move, the Sinclair Broadcast Group, the largest independent operator of television stations in the United States, has ordered all 62 of its stations to preempt regular programming next week to air a documentary that is harshly critical of Sen. John Kerry’s anti-war activities in the early 1970s.

I don’t care about technicalities here…whether or not it’s a “contribution” to the Bush campaign, or if the FCC can play a part. What disgusts me is that this is a group which controls a large portion of the media in the USA (think along the lines of FOX, ABC, CBS, NBC affiliates) and they’re using that to broadcast their political beliefs. Not only that, but they’re presenting their opinions as news, a lot like Fox. That’s right, conservatives are literally hijacking channels to talk shit about Kerry.

What the hell is going on?

It probably won’t help at all, but petition Sinclair online at:

The gay debates

October 16, 2004

For whatever reason, Bush & Cheney are upset that their opponents had the gall to bring up Cheney’s gay daughter in the debates. While I think Kerry/Edwards did a horrible job at sneaking that subject into the debate (as Jon Stewart said: You love your GAY DAUGHTER GAY DAUGHTER GAY DAUGHTER), I don’t know why anybody is angry.

Let me get this straight: you can drag everything about your personal & family life into your politics except when it’s something that could damage you? It’s ok to cater to the religious right by continuously bringing up just how devoted a Christian you are, and it’s ok to drone on and on about “not messin’ with Texas,” and it’s ok to bring up those strong family values of yours, but if there’s a gay daughter somewhere in the mix, it’s time to turn the cameras off?

Why am I not surprised…

Just a quick update to point out the photo gallery I finally completed. It’s got pictures from the trip I took to Ireland a few days ago, and hopefully it’ll have some others at some point: [Link]

As for Ireland, I guess I’ll write something about it later. For now all I can say is I really didn’t think to take more photos (not that there was much else to take pictures of). What with jet lag and everything else happening I just wasn’t thinking straight, and to be honest, once you walk up and down Doolin x amount of times, photographic evidence isn’t something you bother to think about. I mean, it would be really hard to forget the place..for better or worse ;). All in all, most of what I saw of Ireland was absolutely beautiful and I’m happy I finally went and looked at it with my own eyes.

Long live the Sanfords

October 2, 2004

I have come to the conclusion that Sanford and Son is the best TV show ever made. I know that’s a dangerous position to take in these turbulent times, but I stand by my word. You just can’t beat Sanford and Son. Sure, there’s not much in the way of competition. There’s no more saturday morning cartoons and now there’s the never-ending barrage of the “reality” shows. Note to the tv people: I watch TV to escape reality, not bathe in its existence. Get me as far away from it as you can. Give me the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles who have nothing to worry about but pizza and shredder’s minions. Give me Quantam Leap where Doctor Sam Fucking Beckett travels through time and dresses up like a woman, enriching lives. Give me SANFORD AND SON.

Now there’s something. An old black man and his son living in a house adjacent to a junk yard in the 70s. For starters, old black men are generally bad asses. I often hope that in my next life i will be born an old black man. I’ll grow a beard and sip on the hard liquor. I will have a cane as well, which will accompany me onto my front porch, where I will sit in a rocking chair and crack the wise. What a fine life it will be.

Sanford and Son just has something. It’s the color — that faded 70s film. It’s the setting. The house is a mess and nothing ever changes. And only the BIG things matter to mr sanford, and even then, because sanford is who he is, he knows how to handle any situation. With finesse. With SASS. Nothing is too complicated for him.

Not even when an old friend comes forward with allegations that he is actually the biological father of Fred’s son, Lamont, does Fred flinch. He simply looks to the sky and says “Do you hear that Elizabeth? I’m coming to join you honey!” You see, Fred G. Sanford knows grief and this makes him wise. In the end, he was willing to love his son anyway, and he told him that. And Lamont agreed that Fred might not be his father, but he’d always be his dad. A tear was shed.

It didn’t matter of course, because Fred’s friend didn’t sleep with Elizabeth – he accidently slept with sanford’s sister in law instead. Yes, Sanford’s son was really his son. Everyone had a good laugh and everything was cool. But there was a lesson. And the lesson learned was: have sex with the lights on. And “family is family no matter what.” Whatever.

Either way, the show comes on at 3am on Tv Land and I advise you to watch it. If all else fails, and you some day find yourself lying intoxicated, bloated and nude on your bed, staring at the glowing box interrupting your slumber early into the morning hours, remember to flip on over to good ol’ TV LAND. Sanford and Son are there for you.

RIP Mr. Foxx