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America: home of the free, land of the... shameless salesmen? The thought struck me as I sat in front of the television for my daily dose of Jon Stewart. To put it more accurately, the thought struck during the commercials between Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.
The commercial started out well enough, I suppose. A booming masculine voice explodes from the television whilst an American flag waves proudly, declaring, "On August 15th, get ready to root for America...."
Alright, informed reader, what is this a commercial for? A blow-out sale at your local car dealership? Season tickets at the Yankee Stadium?
No.
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Two.
Now, in my mind, it could have just easily said "cottage cheese", because the two things cottage cheese and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 have in common is that they are both equally unconcerned about the U.S. of A., and secondly, they are both the by-product of something that's turned sour. What does America care if pants continue to travel from person to person? Do you see giant posters of Uncle Sam standing sans trousers and proclaiming, "I WANT YOU TO WEAR PANTS!"? Are these advertising firms really trying to be patriotic, or are they merely trying to cash in on some good ole' misplaced American "patriotism"?
My bet is on the latter.
It is a sad state of affairs when "patriotism" can just as easily be replaced by "marketing opportunity". This bold-faced-sales-pitch-with-a-flag mentality seems to have seeped itself into the very heart of America. Even my beloved Batman sequel, The Dark Knight, had a moment of American bravado when a gun failed to kill Harvey Dent, the prosecutor in a mob case, apparently because it wasn't "bought American".
Those lazy China-men.
Of course, who can forget Alan Jackson's "Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)", where Jackson single-handedly proves that what it truly means to be an American is to get a Grammy nomination from a tragedy that claimed nearly 3,000 lives.
Go team.
Anymore, nothing is safe from the touch of the gung-ho American advertiser. It won't be long before Colgate Total fights more terrorists than Crest, or Kraft cheese slices are made with 50% more American. Churches will gain or lose members based on the weekly quota of "God Bless America"s. Politicians will be elected based on who can say "AH-MARE-ICK-AH" with more sincerity. School papers will look like that scene from The Shining, only with "God Bless America Land That I Love" replacing "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy". Our cars will have state-mandated American bumper sticker pieces of flare. Clothing will only come in four colors: red, white, blue, and European pansy. Gangs will no longer fight over "turf", but for bragging rights over who loves America the most. Instead of saying, "Have you tried the veal? It's simply divine..." we'll say, "Have you tried the veal? It's simply American..."
But hey, it's all good-- at least that chick from Gilmore Girls still has work.
NOTE: It has been brought to my attention that one of the stars of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants happens to be named "America", thus the commercial in question was a wordplay. HOWEVER, the principle behind the post was postable, so I'll leave it as is for the moment. The fact that America does, in fact, happen to be in the movie doesn't negate the pretentious air we Americans assume, and thus, are inundated with 24/7 via billboards, commercials, songs, literature, etc. So, laugh at my leaping before I looked, but enjoy the rest.
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| Before I begin this blog post, I wish to write a letter to the Xanga team. This is just a draft, but tell me what you think:
Dear Xanga,
I remember those nights when we would stay up, just staring at each other while I tried to think of something witty and charming to say. And, when inspiration finally came, it was wonderful, it was great. You reacted wonderfully, posting my thoughts for the world to see with oh-so-much ease. People would read it. People would enjoy it. Ours was a relationship to be shared with the world. Now, you violate that realtionship with all these private messages from people telling me how great their site is, or how this-and-that site is so much better to blog on than you. Who are these people? In this table for two, you've invited all your little buddies along, and let me tell you, they're a bunch of losers. Please get rid of these people. Please. Oh, and bring back my old Xanga--the one I first fell in love with.
Love,
Adam
Anyway, now onto my post: CREEPIEST. CUSTOMER. EVER.
I was working at Blockbuster earlier today when an older gentlemen (ok... not that old, probably 40 or so, and not so much a gentleman either) approaches me and asks, "Mumblejumblemrumble, man?"
I ask, "Excuse me?"
"I say-as, 'can I use yo bafroom, man?'"
"Sure, just one second."
I finish ringing up a customer and grab the bathroom keys. Now, to describe the way this bathroom works: there is a door in the corner of the building with a sign reading, "Unisex: Ask Sales Associate For Keys". Beyond this door is a hallway, decorated by a few boxes, two doors, and a water fountain. The first door is the Employee bathroom (i.e., storage) and the second door is the customer bathroom. All three of these doors have automatic locking doors that require different keys to access. So when a customer asks to "use yo' bafroom, man", it's actually a bit like allowing someone to use the restroom at Fort Knox. It is often uncomfortable when unlocking the door for a customer to use the restroom, as many don't know why you're leading them into this creepy looking hallway. Usually, I feel as though the customer thinks that I'm trying to take advantage of them or something. But with this guy... well, he flips this scenerio around and makes me feel as if I am about to be assaulted.
We enter the hallway, the door clicks ominously shut behind us, and he asks, "Youmrudlejurdlegarble, man?"
I ask, "Excuse me?"
"I say-ad, 'ya eva had a wild girlfrien, man?"
"..."
"I say-as, 'ya eva had a wild girlfrien, man?"
...back away slowly... grip the keys between your knuckles...where's my whistle?
"No... no, I haven't."
"Oh, she wild."
"Really."
Why won't the keys make it inside the keyhole? Get me out of here!
"Yeah. She wild."
The final door creeps open. "Cool."
He enters, laughing to himself and talking to himself in that mumble-jumble way of his.
I run out the door and tell my boss that I just had the creepiest encounter of my Blockbuster career. He thinks I'm just messing with him, but no, I tell him, this guy is the real deal.
Presently he exits the bathroom and gets in line, where his girlfriend (I was, er, lead to assume) was checking out. He stands in the checkout lane, shirt untucked and his belt undone and hanging limply below his Hawaiian shirt while holding one hand closed in a shadow-puppet-duck manner just under his nose. It's sopping wet with what I hope is the water from the faucet when he (hopefully) washed his hands.
He begins to sniff his shadow-duck-puppet hand.
It was then that I noticed his other hand was completely dry.
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| Nick and I are heading to my abode when I decide to take the opportunity to call home and tell my mother about future plans falling through. I do not get mother. Instead I get Alex.
"Hey, Alex. Is mom there?"
"No, she left for Baton Rouge."
"Oh. Ok."
"Hey, what time do you work?"
"Five."
"How are you getting to work? I'm leaving at one o'clock and there aren't any other cars."
"I don't know."
"Can Nick take you?"
"He has an interview at five."
"Well, he'll have to drop you off early."
"I don't think so. I'll find out something."
"Ok."
"Talk to you later."
Click.
I then proceed to call mom.
"Hey, mom."
"Hey, honey. Hey, how are you getting to work today? Alex has work at one."
"Yeah, I know. I just got off the phone with him."
"Oh, ok."
I proceed to relay the information I had been attempting to relay since my conversation with Alex. By the time I get done, we have arrived at my house. I grab my bags and head in. Upon entering the house, I see grandmother, whom we have a conversation with.
"Hey, Adam."
"Hey, Grandma."
"Did you hear about Alex? How are you going to get to work?"
"It'll be fine. I'll figure something out."
Nick and I finish the conversation with my grandmother and go to play a little Xbox360 before I have to get ready for work. He wins. Again.
The phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Adam? This is dad."
"Oh, hey, dad. What's going on?"
"Nothing much. Did you know Alex is going to work at one? How are you going to get to work?"
"..."
"Adam?"
"It. Will. Be. Fine."
"Oh... Ok..."
We exchange pleasantries, then hang up. Nick and I resume our zombie-stare at the television screen. A few moments pass and I continue losing. Again.
Presently, Nick says, "Hey, how are you getting to work?"
"Shut up, Nick."
Nick left shortly thereafter. When he had gone, I set about getting myself ready for work. Seeing no other recourse, I decide to walk to work, as it's only a fifteen to twenty minute walk.
Three minutes into the walk and I realize how stuffy and humid it is outside. I feel like I'm swimming through a very hot pool, filled entirely with sweat. The wind blows my hair in every direction, and I imagine the whole effect of a sweaty, wild looking Blockbuster man walking down the street would intimidate just about anyone.
But lo and behold, I arrive at work. Upon entering the cool air conditioning, I exhale and take in the beautiful bliss that is central air.
I open my eyes and see that Mark and Andrew are staring at me quizzicly.
I stare at them staring at me.
Finally, Mark asks, "How'd you get here?"
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| Reflections On Holding Doors Open For People Who Have No Intention of Walking Through Them
I wish people were born with blinkers--
Turn signals to indicate what one intends to do,
Then I would be able to more accurately predict,
Intentions,
Directions and
Subtle inflections
But then, I think, that would just be one more thing,
For people to forget to do, and, by their forgetting,
Naturally lead others to assume a set of particular,
Intentions,
Directions and
Subtle inflections
What a pompous fool that would make me,
To assume one intends to continue a particular course,
And to take as my right to be informed of every,
Intention,
Direction and
Subtle inflection
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| So beggars can be choosers... Last night I arrive in Memphis on my way to visit a friend. She picks me up at the train station, along with her folks. I get in the car, and about ten minutes later, the (expected) question pops up, "So, are you hungry?"
I say, "Well, yes. Actually, I'm starving--the prices in the train were unbelievable."
They ask where I'd like to eat, and I say anywhere. My friend ventures, hey, how about Taco Bell? Naturally, I agree, so we find ourselves at the drive-thru. No sooner had we arrived when a beggar walked up to the car and asked for two dollars. Well, actually what he asked for was "two dollas", which, I guess, is something like a peso and a dollar. Not being Mexican-American, we didn't have these "dollas" he was speaking of, so we offered to get him something at Taco Bell (sseing as how they took our American currency). So, we ask him, "What do you want?"
His response?
"Nah, man. I don't like Taco Bell."
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