Not the first time the football team ran train on her...

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Around 1:15 a.m. on Sunday, I suffered a similar degree of spine-crushing humiliation when, in the midst of a self-aggrandizing tirade about my superlative jukebox picks, the speakers began to blare "Danger Zone", the Kenny Loggins sonic abortion from the "Top Gun" soundtrack. Apparently, the random mix CD containing my third to last pick had been replaced, but the corresponding card had not. Now, if I weren't a douchebag, it would amount to a mild degree of frustration, but since I spent the entirety of every other pick (14 songs!!) verbally fellating myself, making sure every fucktard on a bar stool knew who was responsible for the night's soundtrack, it was a special kind of humiliation when Kenny Loggins began to do what Kenny Loggins does (i.e., suck dick). It was like if Shawn Michaels walked out to the ring, and this music started playing. I'm just going to assume that had this played in it's rightful spot, I would've been involved in an orgy of some sort. Fucking Kenny Loggins.

Daniel the Irish Elevator Inspector

No matter where I end up on my travels, one of the things I'll miss most about the Midwest is meeting people who could be the subject of a Tom Waits song. I was laying on the couch at work, reading Howard Zinn, when interruped by a knock at the front door. I unlocked it and spoke to the man, who informed me he was here for the annual elevator inspection. Apparently, I have the intellect of an inbred farm hand, because I didn't even know elevator inspector was an occupation.

Mrs. Bucci, third grade teacher/figurehead of Career Day, consider your mail bomb en route.

Anyhoo, pleasantries, formalities, banter, and souffle recipes were exchanged, and the inspector, Daniel, began to perform his duties, while intermittently engaging in a sort of self-depracating informative monologue. Apparently, he was once an elevator repairman, and after a long, storied career, he hung up his hat (helmet? mask? I still don't know shit about elevators), and retired... at least, retired for a spell; until his wife's retirement rolled around, and he realized that spending all day together would surely lead to a manslaughter charge. My Grandfather did the same thing, but instead of becoming an elevator inspector, he bought a full set of encyclopedias from a door-to-door sales man, locked himself in his study, and read each volume for 8 hours a day until he was a pretentious know-it-all like his grandson (though in his case, it was at least certified by the good people at Britannica).



After trying out a few of his time-tested one-liners on me ("I always say my retirement was like a pregnancy... IT ONLY LASTED NINE MONTHS" *guffaw, chortle, snort, hiccup*) he explained his elevator findings to me, the surrogate authority figure. Apparently, the shelving that was installed into the ancient manual elevator wasn't up to code. However, "Jerry let you pass last year, so apparently it didn't bother him too much. I don't want to be that guy, and I'm sure you don't want me to be that guy, so just sign here."

[shakespeare]Ah, sweet apathy, oft has your charmed glance given thy erections of sloth, and smirks of whimsy.[/shakespeare]

Once my signature was procured, I attempted to volley with my only piece of elevator-centric banter ("doesn't the Zuelke Building downtown still have manual elevators... WITH OPERATORS!") only to be rebuffed ("ah, a common misconception. actually, they installed electrical motors two years ago, but left the original plating, so as to retain the vintage appearance. Inspected them last week, as a matter of fact.") Suffice to say, my game was weak.

I thanked him for letting us slide on the shelving (presumably a common occurrance, his only alternative to militant, rule-abiding fascism), and waved as he walked to his Chrysler Concord, envisioning a elevator inspectors meeting in some Ramada banquet room, where he and Jerry laugh over bourbon, thinking about the sleepy-eyed post-grad that tried in vain to talk elevators. And beating their wives.

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In honor of our Irish friend, here's some jams by the Pogues.



The Pogues - Body of an American

A Pogues B-Side from the golden era ("Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash", ya heard?), now notable for being the song from the Wire they play every time they have an Irish Funeral for a cop (i.e., get falling down hammered after dude gets capped)




The Pogues - Sally Maclennane

If you don't like this song, your St. Patrick's Day Privileges are revoked. Oh, and thanks to a Catholic holy day on Monday the 17th of March, the Church has invoked their authority to move St. Patrick's day for the first time since 1940, to the far more alcohol coma-friendly Saturday March 15th. Get Familiar, Seamus

EDIT: Apparently, only the actual holy St. Patrick's Day changes, the secular calendar always celebrates on the 17th. It's a shame Brent pointed this out, because it really takes the sting out of "Get Familiar, Seamus". Alas, I'll have to look for a future post in which I can cram a traditional Irish name for no reason.
*tear drops down cheek*



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Bonus Beat: Bruce Springsteen, Live in '85, Performing a Phenomenal Version of "The River". Only tangentially related (nobody speaks to the common man like "The Boss"), but as appropriate a place to stick this as any. Plus, sadly, many of you have yet to be converted. Peep Game.

Not Red Dot, Feather!

As many of you know, my stop-gap occupation at the moment consists of supervising the handicapped through various odd jobs. Due to the nature of the company that owns me (No Chicken George), there's a handful of other ventures operating under the same umbrella that occasionally need to borrow labor from one of the other ventures, in order to reach their objectives. None of the above explanation is terribly interesting, but it's also helpful to aid one in understanding just how I spent Monday's work day playing cribbage and eating pizza at "The Center". "The Center" is kind of like "The Max", from Saved by the Bell, except for Zach Morris and Kelly Kapowski have been replaced by about two dozen mentally ill people from Appleton, Wisconsin. So I'm stumbling through my first day as social director for the deranged, getting acclimated to my surroundings, and I strike up a conversation with one of the members, a 6'4" Indian guy I'll call "Godfrey". Motherfucker was straight out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", wearing a Canadian Tuxedo that really set off his aviator sunglasses and his neck brace, presumably making me, the mouthy honky, Jack Nicholson. Seeming relatively funny, and not particularly dangerous, I gravitate to the man, and accept graciously when he challenges me to a game of cribbage. Hours pass, laughs are had, chips are eaten, iced tea is drank. As the day ends, one of the other members asks why he wasn't on the bus today.

Godfrey: "I ran out of passes."
Random: "Oh, did you forget to call in for new ones two days in advance?"
Godfrey: "Nope, called in on Thursday."
Random: "Then why weren't you on the bus?"
Godfrey: "No mail delivery today. Columbus Day. (Takes long drink of coffee). I just keep getting fucked by that guy. (Walks out door)."

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That anecdote was brought to you by the Cleveland Indians, your future American League Champions.

To justify you all reading my long awaited return blog post, here's a comedy bit from Doug Benson, a man far more hilarious than I.