Conversation about weather is one of the greatest building blocks of small talk. It's a cliche of the highest order. But the recent shitstorm here in the lovely Constitution State has transcended the normal inane chatter about weather and brought about something more:
It's ruining the goddamn fucking summer! Today is Friday. I'm supposed to be antsy in my pantsy about today. I should be dreaming about frolicking on the beach and grilling in my backyard. But I look out the window at this dismal gray world and I can only muster sounds of supreme disappointment. Ugh. Sigh. Bleh. Fuck. I don't care that I'm at work. I should be bursting at the seams to backflip out the door and enjoy the weekend, but I'm lethargic and just don't care about anything.
I seriously can't remember any stretch of bullshit weather having lasted this long in my lifetime. I mean, it's depressing enough that Michael Jackson just bit it yesterday and the Knicks missed out on Rubio and Curry, but now I have to sit here and contemplate how much more it can rain before I'm driven to suicide. The answer? Let's say 4 days.
Already a pessimist about many things, I'm now forced to add sunshine to the list. Occasionally in this god-awful month-long marathon of misery, the sun would peek its shiny little stupid face out from behind the clouds. The people around me...family members, friends, co-workers...might feel some enthusiasm, but I know. I know what's coming. In twenty minutes it'll be darker and nastier than before and then it'll pour. It's cruel; it's unmerciful.
A few times in the beginning I fell for the sun's teasing bullshit. But now I'm like your dog when you overuse that fake-tennis-ball throw. Sure, I hauled ass to the other side of the yard the first time, but each time after that I reacted a little less to the point where now I just lie down and stare depressingly. Why tease me? Sure I pissed on the carpet a couple times...metaphorically and literally...but do I really deserve this? The weather has shackled and beaten my spirits like Kunta Kinte.
So hey: it might be cliche to talk about the weather, but this is different. I'm this close to building a fucking ark. God, if you're really up there, do something about this shit. Because it's summer, and it should feel like it. I want to lie in the yard and crave iced tea and have barbecues and be able to leave my windows open without it raining on my pillows.
Seattle, I don't know how you do it.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The RIAA is evil
Take a look at this.
It's a CNN article about a 32 year old mother who was taken to court by the RIAA. The court ordered her to pay 1.9 million dollars as punishment for the 24 songs she illegally downloaded.
Holy fucking shit. 24 songs, 1.9 MILLION dollars? There's a quote at the end from an RIAA spokesperson who's all chipper and pleased with the outcome. What the fuck ever happened to "may the punishment fit the crime?" How in the hell are the RIAA lawyers so good they convinced everyone that the cost of illegally downloading one song is eighty-fucking-thousand dollars? This shit is out of hand.
At the same time, Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns (former Patriot, but he sucked and was upstaged by Wes Welker) just received a thirty day jail sentence for a crime he recently committed. Ah, a month in jail; that's nothing. He must not have done much of anything. Ha. Or so you think. He drove drunk and killed a pedestrian. Now, that's the result from criminal court, I'm sure he'll be handing a nice chunk of change over to the victim's family in the end, but this to me is troubling.
A run-of-the-mill everyday woman downloads 24 songs and she now owes the RIAA more than a lot of people make in a lifetime. A pro football player gets hammered and ends a person's life, and we're talking about when he can play football again. What the fuck? The point really isn't to bitch about Stallworth's case, just show the juxtaposition between the two cases for shock/comedic value.
There really isn't much more to say...the inner anger you're rightly feeling should suffice. Let's go to the RIAA headquarters and burn that mother down. Stealing music is wrong, but so is extorting millions of dollars from laymen for 24 dollars worth of music. If a song is worth $80,000, then call me Bill fucking Gates' daddy. 3,401 songs on my iTunes at 80k a pop comes to $272,080,000. Who knew I was sitting on such a fucking cash cow? That's it, I'm taking early retirement. See y'all in the Hamptons.
It's a CNN article about a 32 year old mother who was taken to court by the RIAA. The court ordered her to pay 1.9 million dollars as punishment for the 24 songs she illegally downloaded.
Holy fucking shit. 24 songs, 1.9 MILLION dollars? There's a quote at the end from an RIAA spokesperson who's all chipper and pleased with the outcome. What the fuck ever happened to "may the punishment fit the crime?" How in the hell are the RIAA lawyers so good they convinced everyone that the cost of illegally downloading one song is eighty-fucking-thousand dollars? This shit is out of hand.
At the same time, Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns (former Patriot, but he sucked and was upstaged by Wes Welker) just received a thirty day jail sentence for a crime he recently committed. Ah, a month in jail; that's nothing. He must not have done much of anything. Ha. Or so you think. He drove drunk and killed a pedestrian. Now, that's the result from criminal court, I'm sure he'll be handing a nice chunk of change over to the victim's family in the end, but this to me is troubling.
A run-of-the-mill everyday woman downloads 24 songs and she now owes the RIAA more than a lot of people make in a lifetime. A pro football player gets hammered and ends a person's life, and we're talking about when he can play football again. What the fuck? The point really isn't to bitch about Stallworth's case, just show the juxtaposition between the two cases for shock/comedic value.
There really isn't much more to say...the inner anger you're rightly feeling should suffice. Let's go to the RIAA headquarters and burn that mother down. Stealing music is wrong, but so is extorting millions of dollars from laymen for 24 dollars worth of music. If a song is worth $80,000, then call me Bill fucking Gates' daddy. 3,401 songs on my iTunes at 80k a pop comes to $272,080,000. Who knew I was sitting on such a fucking cash cow? That's it, I'm taking early retirement. See y'all in the Hamptons.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Why do I spill everything I eat on my lap?
Moments ago, while enjoying a delicious lemonade popsicle (box calls it a Fruit Bar. That makes me feel better about myself) I shifted my gaze from the computer screen to my customary attire of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I just wrote about the emotional rewards of wearing this outfit. I swear. (Note: I'm not wearing slippers at the moment. The thing happened where I can plainly see one and the other one is God-knows-where, likely in some bizarre location like three feet under my bed, or outside).
My t-shirt was unscathed, at least according to my cursory glance. But it's a black shirt...something could have easily gone unnoticed. I quickly ran my hand over the surface to feel for a wet spot before refusing to examine this garment any further. Then, my focus shifted to the sweatpants.
Sigh. A veritable Jackson Pollock of rogue condiments and dripping Fruit Bars. It remains to be seen whether the Fruit Bar drippings will remain visible upon drying, but I think I like my odds on this one. The lemony drops of tongue-numbing goodness lack the viscosity of the usual suspects such as ketchup, hot sauce, salsa, and ranch dressing.
This picture of my washboard abs should shed some light on the issue.
But one question remains: What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I eat like a normal person? I feel like the last kid to learn to tie his shoes. Is there some big secret that everyone else knows besides me? This epidemic of food spillage is causing catastrophic results. They include, but are not limited to:
1. Public ridicule
2. Premature washing of the pants
3. Premature washing of the shirt
4. The great debate as to whether or not to eat the piece of food that I dropped on myself
5. Permanent stains
Putting a napkin on my lap helps, but only slows the onslaught. The shirt is still fully exposed. It's like carrying a shield in battle. It's nice when you're deflecting blows to your arms and torso, but then someone stabs you in the face. The napkin and shield are both so often victims of poor strategic placement.
Indeed, my friends, it is a problem, but I do believe, one day, I will persevere. The ability to change and adapt is one of the things that makes us human. A stained garment is but a temporary affliction, and one which I will rise above.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a slipper to find.
My t-shirt was unscathed, at least according to my cursory glance. But it's a black shirt...something could have easily gone unnoticed. I quickly ran my hand over the surface to feel for a wet spot before refusing to examine this garment any further. Then, my focus shifted to the sweatpants.
Sigh. A veritable Jackson Pollock of rogue condiments and dripping Fruit Bars. It remains to be seen whether the Fruit Bar drippings will remain visible upon drying, but I think I like my odds on this one. The lemony drops of tongue-numbing goodness lack the viscosity of the usual suspects such as ketchup, hot sauce, salsa, and ranch dressing.
This picture of my washboard abs should shed some light on the issue.
But one question remains: What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I eat like a normal person? I feel like the last kid to learn to tie his shoes. Is there some big secret that everyone else knows besides me? This epidemic of food spillage is causing catastrophic results. They include, but are not limited to:
1. Public ridicule
2. Premature washing of the pants
3. Premature washing of the shirt
4. The great debate as to whether or not to eat the piece of food that I dropped on myself
5. Permanent stains
Putting a napkin on my lap helps, but only slows the onslaught. The shirt is still fully exposed. It's like carrying a shield in battle. It's nice when you're deflecting blows to your arms and torso, but then someone stabs you in the face. The napkin and shield are both so often victims of poor strategic placement.
Indeed, my friends, it is a problem, but I do believe, one day, I will persevere. The ability to change and adapt is one of the things that makes us human. A stained garment is but a temporary affliction, and one which I will rise above.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a slipper to find.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Why don't we have drinking songs?
It's been a while. I'm working now, and I'm spending 8 hours a day writing. Suffice to say, my current situation decreases the desirability of writing as an activity. You know, it's like being a chef and then coming home and deciding you're just going to whip up a souffle and some steak tartare just for the hell of it. Fuck that, you know that chef is headed right for the Stouffer's.
So, for a while at least, entries might be a little few and far between, but I promise I'll try super super hard when I write. Pinky swear.
Why don't we have drinking songs?
This is bullshit. Ireland has drinking songs, England has drinking songs, Germany has drinking songs (I think...), where are ours? Was this a Revolutionary War era thing? Did Americans, upon fleeing Europe, decide to drop drinking songs as a break from the homeland? Whatever the case, I motion to start some up. Drinking is jolly and social, you're bound to throw your arm around a pal or two. You're already in position. What's wrong with swinging a frothy mug full of beer back and forth in time with a frolicking song about drinking in the fuckin' U.S. of A?
Drinking songs are unique because they are the only songs in history besides Biz Markie's "Just a Friend" in which they have to be sung drastically out of tune to be sung properly. If you sound coherent, you need to consult your beer. Several times in a row. But that's the appeal of it all. It's all about having a good time. Just like Hungry Hungry Hippos.
The problem is, I think we've missed our window. The Irish and English drinking songs (obviously, the gold standard for drinking songs) are old fashioned and rustic. Americans wouldn't be able to come up with something comparable this late in the game. Any drinking song we came up with at this point would sound forced and embarrassingly bad. I'm sure it would involve synths and distorted pop vocals. Fuck this country.
I mean, imagine trying to write something like "Row, Row, Row your boat" these days. Dammit, a charming jingle like that wouldn't survive in this petulant musical climate. It's the fact that it's been around seemingly forever that gives it its charm. We know it's silly, we know it's bafflingly inane, but that's why it's great. Maybe we should all get drunk and sing that. Hmmm...
That's it. There is no resolution. Many of my complaining posts cover a possible solution to the problems of the world, but this is one in which I've pretty much got nothing. It's just unfortunate. I want a drinking song, and I'm not welcome in foreign ones because it's a national pride thing. So while the damn Europeans sway to and fro to the rousing anthems of their forefathers, I'll cringe as drunk girls screech "Don't Stop Believing" again, and again, and again.
Fuck you and the metric system, Europe!
So, for a while at least, entries might be a little few and far between, but I promise I'll try super super hard when I write. Pinky swear.
Why don't we have drinking songs?
This is bullshit. Ireland has drinking songs, England has drinking songs, Germany has drinking songs (I think...), where are ours? Was this a Revolutionary War era thing? Did Americans, upon fleeing Europe, decide to drop drinking songs as a break from the homeland? Whatever the case, I motion to start some up. Drinking is jolly and social, you're bound to throw your arm around a pal or two. You're already in position. What's wrong with swinging a frothy mug full of beer back and forth in time with a frolicking song about drinking in the fuckin' U.S. of A?
Drinking songs are unique because they are the only songs in history besides Biz Markie's "Just a Friend" in which they have to be sung drastically out of tune to be sung properly. If you sound coherent, you need to consult your beer. Several times in a row. But that's the appeal of it all. It's all about having a good time. Just like Hungry Hungry Hippos.
The problem is, I think we've missed our window. The Irish and English drinking songs (obviously, the gold standard for drinking songs) are old fashioned and rustic. Americans wouldn't be able to come up with something comparable this late in the game. Any drinking song we came up with at this point would sound forced and embarrassingly bad. I'm sure it would involve synths and distorted pop vocals. Fuck this country.
I mean, imagine trying to write something like "Row, Row, Row your boat" these days. Dammit, a charming jingle like that wouldn't survive in this petulant musical climate. It's the fact that it's been around seemingly forever that gives it its charm. We know it's silly, we know it's bafflingly inane, but that's why it's great. Maybe we should all get drunk and sing that. Hmmm...
That's it. There is no resolution. Many of my complaining posts cover a possible solution to the problems of the world, but this is one in which I've pretty much got nothing. It's just unfortunate. I want a drinking song, and I'm not welcome in foreign ones because it's a national pride thing. So while the damn Europeans sway to and fro to the rousing anthems of their forefathers, I'll cringe as drunk girls screech "Don't Stop Believing" again, and again, and again.
Fuck you and the metric system, Europe!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
How I know there is no God.
Calm down, this isn't an intense lesson in theology. This isn't a study of philosophical paradoxes. It isn't a denouncement of organized religion. Although, perhaps some day, I'll delve into that. Or maybe I already have. Check the archives.
I'm sitting here, at 8:19 pm, in familiar attire. In fact, on just about every weeknight, you'll find me in a similar manner: Wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Oh yeah, I'm talking about the holy trinity of clothing comfort. These articles of clothing are the undisputed champions of my wardrobe, although I will occasionally don a robe as it strikes my fancy.
It's not that I wear these clothes all day. I go out into the world in more respectable attire. Jeans, sneakers, polos, occasionally a button-down if I'm feeling crazy. But let's be honest: I really want to be in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. There are no exceptions. It's just that I'm a giant pussy and I conform to the all-important societal norm. I wear my jeans...and then I put sweatpants on when I get home. Sneakers are unceremoniously kicked off in favor of their more slippery counterpart. Any and all cumbersome apparel is promptly discarded as I prepare for something I like to call "lounge time." The hours for lounge time are currently 12pm to Close (i.e. sleep), although starting work next week will certainly alter this routine.
But why? Why don't I optimize my satisfaction in life and slum it up 24/7? Why don't I dress like your dad on Christmas morning every day for the rest of my life? Well, for one, slippers couldn't withstand the beating that everyday wearing requires, but more importantly, because I unfortunately care too much. I'd like to think that I didn't, but alas, I do.
Ever heard of Hedonism? According to Wikipedia, our dear friend and comrade, "Hedonism is a school of philosophy which argues that pleasure has an ultimate importance and is the most important pursuit of humanity."
If only. If only I was quite brazen enough not to give a single solitary F-word what people thought about me to the point where I could dress like I was retrieving a newspaper from the front stoop day in and day out.
It was at this point in my soul-searching that I made my ultimate revelation: that there is no God. Hence the title. Why are the best things in life the most socially undesirable? The best foods are burgers, pizza and wings. This is, like all my other opinions, indisputable. But wouldn't you know, they're fucking terrible for you and they'll give you a coronary. Why can't salad taste like wings? Why? I would be the healthiest person you ever met. I would. Why are the most comfortable clothes also the ones that'll make people give you the stink-eye? Hell, I know I don't look that bad right now; I own a mirror. But if I went out like this, well, you know the drill. My greatest gift in life would be the ability not to care; then I could live out the rest of my life in Hedonistic fashion, the only tradeoff being that I'd look like the Comic Book Guy and I'd likely smell like a week-old dumpster.
But really, aren't our inhibitions just an extension of Hedonism? If we're fat and raggedy, we won't have friends, and we won't get laid. That's quite a blow to the pleasure-seeking lifestyle, isn't it? So perhaps we're all Hedonistic in our own little way, striving to keep that delicate balance between the Freudian id and societal expectations. Like hitting a ball in tennis, we're constantly aiming for that sweet spot. I'm just as much a victim of the system as anyone. So until the day that societal tastes change to the point where people Colin Mochrie to Colin Farrell, I suppose I'll just have to deal with the fact that there is a 1.0 Pearson R correlation between "Things I'd like to do" and "Things that would make me look shitty."
Up yours, society. Pass the salad.
I'm sitting here, at 8:19 pm, in familiar attire. In fact, on just about every weeknight, you'll find me in a similar manner: Wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Oh yeah, I'm talking about the holy trinity of clothing comfort. These articles of clothing are the undisputed champions of my wardrobe, although I will occasionally don a robe as it strikes my fancy.
It's not that I wear these clothes all day. I go out into the world in more respectable attire. Jeans, sneakers, polos, occasionally a button-down if I'm feeling crazy. But let's be honest: I really want to be in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. There are no exceptions. It's just that I'm a giant pussy and I conform to the all-important societal norm. I wear my jeans...and then I put sweatpants on when I get home. Sneakers are unceremoniously kicked off in favor of their more slippery counterpart. Any and all cumbersome apparel is promptly discarded as I prepare for something I like to call "lounge time." The hours for lounge time are currently 12pm to Close (i.e. sleep), although starting work next week will certainly alter this routine.
But why? Why don't I optimize my satisfaction in life and slum it up 24/7? Why don't I dress like your dad on Christmas morning every day for the rest of my life? Well, for one, slippers couldn't withstand the beating that everyday wearing requires, but more importantly, because I unfortunately care too much. I'd like to think that I didn't, but alas, I do.
Ever heard of Hedonism? According to Wikipedia, our dear friend and comrade, "Hedonism is a school of philosophy which argues that pleasure has an ultimate importance and is the most important pursuit of humanity."
If only. If only I was quite brazen enough not to give a single solitary F-word what people thought about me to the point where I could dress like I was retrieving a newspaper from the front stoop day in and day out.
It was at this point in my soul-searching that I made my ultimate revelation: that there is no God. Hence the title. Why are the best things in life the most socially undesirable? The best foods are burgers, pizza and wings. This is, like all my other opinions, indisputable. But wouldn't you know, they're fucking terrible for you and they'll give you a coronary. Why can't salad taste like wings? Why? I would be the healthiest person you ever met. I would. Why are the most comfortable clothes also the ones that'll make people give you the stink-eye? Hell, I know I don't look that bad right now; I own a mirror. But if I went out like this, well, you know the drill. My greatest gift in life would be the ability not to care; then I could live out the rest of my life in Hedonistic fashion, the only tradeoff being that I'd look like the Comic Book Guy and I'd likely smell like a week-old dumpster.
But really, aren't our inhibitions just an extension of Hedonism? If we're fat and raggedy, we won't have friends, and we won't get laid. That's quite a blow to the pleasure-seeking lifestyle, isn't it? So perhaps we're all Hedonistic in our own little way, striving to keep that delicate balance between the Freudian id and societal expectations. Like hitting a ball in tennis, we're constantly aiming for that sweet spot. I'm just as much a victim of the system as anyone. So until the day that societal tastes change to the point where people Colin Mochrie to Colin Farrell, I suppose I'll just have to deal with the fact that there is a 1.0 Pearson R correlation between "Things I'd like to do" and "Things that would make me look shitty."
Up yours, society. Pass the salad.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Rime of the Ancient Refrigerator
Having been in a Short Story class (which I ironically chose over a Poetry class) this past week and change, I've been feeling literary, and that of course led me back here. Lacking both the energy or the space to craft a 15 page short story, I thought I would write a short poem, about something close to my heart: The Refrigerator Debacle in which I've found myself entangled this path month. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry. It'll all make sense soon enough. Here it is,
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT REFRIGERATOR
One day, about a month ago,
I tried to rid my fridge of frost,
but when I used that screwdriver,
I did not know what it would cost:
My very mind would soon be lost.
With my sharp tool I poked a hole
into the freezer's metal base.
Then from the ice a Freon leak
Shot noisily towards my face
and started stinking up the place.
The Internet gave me bad news:
My fridge was broken, useless, shot.
I knew I could not tell the truth,
I must instead create a plot,
Or else this fridge would cost a lot.
"I used a hair dryer to defrost
The ceiling of that freezer.
But then an ice chunk dropped so hard,
The floor was gouged like Caesar."
Yeah, that oughtta please her.
The office sent for maintenance,
To come install a new machine,
But when I tried to tell my tale,
They looked as if I'd said the Queen
was secretly a wolverine.
They sent the bill for a new fridge,
I can't believe they had the gall.
The old one was so Goddamned old
It could have been in Annie Hall
or greeting shoppers at the mall.
'Cause why should I be forced to buy
these greedy bastards a new fridge?
I'll pay the price for the old one,
It wouldn't even cost a smidge,
Because it's older than Brad Lidge.
The dumb bitch at the office sucks,
She won't back down a single cent.
It's either this or small claims court,
So now at last I must relent,
And pay these assholes half my rent.
So if your freezer needs a clean
Don't you forget I had to pay
Five hundred bucks that fateful morn
I thought I'd try to chip away
Some space to fit an ice cube tray.
So now I sit here with my check
which I must place into the mail,
and though it had no happy end,
I hope all you I did regale,
With my refrigerator tale.
Ryan Prescott, 2009.
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT REFRIGERATOR
One day, about a month ago,
I tried to rid my fridge of frost,
but when I used that screwdriver,
I did not know what it would cost:
My very mind would soon be lost.
With my sharp tool I poked a hole
into the freezer's metal base.
Then from the ice a Freon leak
Shot noisily towards my face
and started stinking up the place.
The Internet gave me bad news:
My fridge was broken, useless, shot.
I knew I could not tell the truth,
I must instead create a plot,
Or else this fridge would cost a lot.
"I used a hair dryer to defrost
The ceiling of that freezer.
But then an ice chunk dropped so hard,
The floor was gouged like Caesar."
Yeah, that oughtta please her.
The office sent for maintenance,
To come install a new machine,
But when I tried to tell my tale,
They looked as if I'd said the Queen
was secretly a wolverine.
They sent the bill for a new fridge,
I can't believe they had the gall.
The old one was so Goddamned old
It could have been in Annie Hall
or greeting shoppers at the mall.
'Cause why should I be forced to buy
these greedy bastards a new fridge?
I'll pay the price for the old one,
It wouldn't even cost a smidge,
Because it's older than Brad Lidge.
The dumb bitch at the office sucks,
She won't back down a single cent.
It's either this or small claims court,
So now at last I must relent,
And pay these assholes half my rent.
So if your freezer needs a clean
Don't you forget I had to pay
Five hundred bucks that fateful morn
I thought I'd try to chip away
Some space to fit an ice cube tray.
So now I sit here with my check
which I must place into the mail,
and though it had no happy end,
I hope all you I did regale,
With my refrigerator tale.
Ryan Prescott, 2009.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Useless Job #3
Hey everybody, it's my fiftieth post!
*Puts on a party hat, blows into a noisemaker, and in a sad, lonely display, contemplatively enjoys a slice of cake.*
To celebrate this reaching of the half-century mark, I shall do what you've all been dying for ever since my uncomfortably sincere Graduation entry: return to form. The Douche shall once again be Douchey. Graduation is an important and thought-provoking time, but I think we're all better served when I stick to hating things that are stupid; don't you? Exactly. So, in the words of my grandmother, let's get it crackalackin'.
USELESS JOB #3: STORE GREETER
I'm a social person. I like talking to people. I enjoy interaction. But one thing I don't like is interacting with people who are paid to interact with me (well, apart from hookers). That's why I hate dealing with Greeters. You know these people: they're the people in Walmart and Costco (I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of any right now) who stand 10 feet behind the door and say "hi" to you as you walk in. You avert your eyes and say "hi," or simply nod, and don't even break stride as you continue into the store. Your only thought is, "man, what a shitty job. I wonder what kind of life choices led that individual to becoming a professional Greeter."
The point, I presume, is to make these enormous meccas of retail seem more warm and inviting. I have so many problems with this baffling logic I don't even know where to begin. Do these companies really think that by having a 90-year-old man standing around in a vest, customers will think that they're in a mom-and-pop shop? With a chipper old man sweeping the old floorboards and his wife elbow-deep in dough baking apple pie? I think the minute you build a 3 mile parking lot and electronic sensor-operated doors that fling open as you approach the building, you've lost that quaint appeal you so badly desire. Sorry, but them's the breaks.
You know what's warm and inviting about small businesses? The fact that employees actually know you (e.g. Mo-Mo at Colony, Mama Emilia and her disappointingly Americanized son at Emilia's, the mafia-looking guy at the barbershop I go to) and a lot of time, you're being greeted by the owners themselves. No one going to Walmart has the illusion that the "SuperStore" is anything like the above mentioned establishments. Or that the CEO is going to swing by and give them a pat on the back just for coming to Walmart. They understand that they're dealing with a corporate giant and you're just adding to the bottom line.
You see, when the moms and pops of the world greet you, it's still for business reasons. They want you to feel good about being in their store so that you'll spend more money, come back more often, and all that other good stuff. But the difference is, that's something they're doing of their own volition. They don't HAVE to be congenial, they choose to be because it's probably a good idea. A greeter that doesn't greet you is no longer a greeter. He/She is, as of that moment, an ex-greeter. It's their job, it's totally disingenuous, and utterly transparent. I really dislike being pandered to, and I think the Greeter is a really feeble attempt to improve these corporations' public images. Sorry Walmart, but as long as you treat your employees like crap and crush union activity like Hitler's Blitzkrieg, your reputation's staying in the shitter.
You can see I've essentially left behind all the other companies with Greeters besides Walmart, but let's take Walmart as an example and extrapolate the lessons we learn from Walmart to all the other businesses, k?
Here's my question: Does Walmart really need a greeter? What the hell is the point? No one is going to Walmart for the greeter. Everyone ignores the greeter. No one is going to Walmart for the warm atmosphere. It's a cold, enormous warehouse full of shit. People are going to Walmart because their prices are unfathomably low, and that's the bottom line. We don't feel good about ripping the heart out of the American small business. We don't feel good about supporting a company with some super shady business practices; but we do it anyway. Hell, we already know Walmart is pretty fucked up, and that hasn't stopped us from going. Why not fire all the greeters all across the country and keep the revenue? With all the shit they've been accused of doing, some guy standing in the doorway saying "hi" to you is clearly not enough to change their image in the minds of the individual customer or the American people as a whole. We don't like what they do, but we still go, and that would remain true with or without the greeter. But hey, they're the richest company in the world; I guess they know what they're doing.
I'll close by saying this: Having greeters with Down Syndrome is possibly the single most underhanded move one of these companies can make. I spoke before about hating being pandered to, and this is about as blatant as it gets. They might as well put these people in T-shirts that say "See? We really do care!" There are people with Down Syndrome working in every dining hall on campus; they're capable of more than being sleazily used for political reasons like they are in these stores. Thank you, and that is all.
*Puts on a party hat, blows into a noisemaker, and in a sad, lonely display, contemplatively enjoys a slice of cake.*
To celebrate this reaching of the half-century mark, I shall do what you've all been dying for ever since my uncomfortably sincere Graduation entry: return to form. The Douche shall once again be Douchey. Graduation is an important and thought-provoking time, but I think we're all better served when I stick to hating things that are stupid; don't you? Exactly. So, in the words of my grandmother, let's get it crackalackin'.
USELESS JOB #3: STORE GREETER
I'm a social person. I like talking to people. I enjoy interaction. But one thing I don't like is interacting with people who are paid to interact with me (well, apart from hookers). That's why I hate dealing with Greeters. You know these people: they're the people in Walmart and Costco (I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of any right now) who stand 10 feet behind the door and say "hi" to you as you walk in. You avert your eyes and say "hi," or simply nod, and don't even break stride as you continue into the store. Your only thought is, "man, what a shitty job. I wonder what kind of life choices led that individual to becoming a professional Greeter."
The point, I presume, is to make these enormous meccas of retail seem more warm and inviting. I have so many problems with this baffling logic I don't even know where to begin. Do these companies really think that by having a 90-year-old man standing around in a vest, customers will think that they're in a mom-and-pop shop? With a chipper old man sweeping the old floorboards and his wife elbow-deep in dough baking apple pie? I think the minute you build a 3 mile parking lot and electronic sensor-operated doors that fling open as you approach the building, you've lost that quaint appeal you so badly desire. Sorry, but them's the breaks.
You know what's warm and inviting about small businesses? The fact that employees actually know you (e.g. Mo-Mo at Colony, Mama Emilia and her disappointingly Americanized son at Emilia's, the mafia-looking guy at the barbershop I go to) and a lot of time, you're being greeted by the owners themselves. No one going to Walmart has the illusion that the "SuperStore" is anything like the above mentioned establishments. Or that the CEO is going to swing by and give them a pat on the back just for coming to Walmart. They understand that they're dealing with a corporate giant and you're just adding to the bottom line.
You see, when the moms and pops of the world greet you, it's still for business reasons. They want you to feel good about being in their store so that you'll spend more money, come back more often, and all that other good stuff. But the difference is, that's something they're doing of their own volition. They don't HAVE to be congenial, they choose to be because it's probably a good idea. A greeter that doesn't greet you is no longer a greeter. He/She is, as of that moment, an ex-greeter. It's their job, it's totally disingenuous, and utterly transparent. I really dislike being pandered to, and I think the Greeter is a really feeble attempt to improve these corporations' public images. Sorry Walmart, but as long as you treat your employees like crap and crush union activity like Hitler's Blitzkrieg, your reputation's staying in the shitter.
You can see I've essentially left behind all the other companies with Greeters besides Walmart, but let's take Walmart as an example and extrapolate the lessons we learn from Walmart to all the other businesses, k?
Here's my question: Does Walmart really need a greeter? What the hell is the point? No one is going to Walmart for the greeter. Everyone ignores the greeter. No one is going to Walmart for the warm atmosphere. It's a cold, enormous warehouse full of shit. People are going to Walmart because their prices are unfathomably low, and that's the bottom line. We don't feel good about ripping the heart out of the American small business. We don't feel good about supporting a company with some super shady business practices; but we do it anyway. Hell, we already know Walmart is pretty fucked up, and that hasn't stopped us from going. Why not fire all the greeters all across the country and keep the revenue? With all the shit they've been accused of doing, some guy standing in the doorway saying "hi" to you is clearly not enough to change their image in the minds of the individual customer or the American people as a whole. We don't like what they do, but we still go, and that would remain true with or without the greeter. But hey, they're the richest company in the world; I guess they know what they're doing.
I'll close by saying this: Having greeters with Down Syndrome is possibly the single most underhanded move one of these companies can make. I spoke before about hating being pandered to, and this is about as blatant as it gets. They might as well put these people in T-shirts that say "See? We really do care!" There are people with Down Syndrome working in every dining hall on campus; they're capable of more than being sleazily used for political reasons like they are in these stores. Thank you, and that is all.
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