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August 16th, 2009
Last night I went to the clubhouse with Jack and his boyfriend John.
We are posted in my favorite room, the video bar, which is like a gay sports bar that plays music videos instead of football.
The Ting Tings are playng when the bar tender plops these small red drinks in front of us.
I shoot the bartender a look like “What the heck?” and he says,
Bartender: “These are from the guy across the bar.”
Jack is amused. I panic.
I panic as if the bartender just placed Saddam’s lost WMDs in front of us.
Jack: “Drink up!”
Me: “No! We need to send these back. NOW.”
Jack: “What? It’s a nice gesture. Stop being so stuck up.”
Me: “NO NO NO! When you accept a drink from a guy he will think that he owns you. He will think that it is okay for him to come over and harass us for the rest of the night, like a dog pissing on his favorite lamp post. And I will NOT be that creep’s lamp post tonight! No urine on this leg!”
I shove my drink away. Jack drinks his.
Sure enough, twenty minutes later, I feel an arm reach from behind me, into my shirt, and I feel a crusty old-man-hand clutch onto my chest like I’m Anna Nicole.
The Creep is latched onto me, and he’s squeezing his cheek against mine, as if he’s wiping his sweat off.
I am in a gross, drunk, choke hold.
Jack is amused. I’m livid, but I slap on a fake “wtf” smile because I don’t want to cause a scene in front of Cute-Guy-in-Corner.
After a few seconds of sheer terror The Creep slithers away. Jack and John are laughing at me. I’m bug-eyed and roaring.
And of course Cute-Guy-in-Corner saw the entire assault, and is laughing at me too.
So I’m standing there perturbed, and suddenly I hear all this shouting behind me. Had The Creep returned so soon?
I turn around just in time to get out of the way of a Hot Mess who falls into the side of the bar. He catches my bitchy glare and decides to BELCH loudly, in my ear!
I mean, girlfriend just let it rip. This was one of those ground shaking trucker burps.
The bartenders are shocked. Half the bar is glaring, the other half is laughing. The night is officially messy.
It was as if someone sent out a mass text to all the crazies and informed them of my presence: Hello, hello, Jansen is in the building. Proceed to harass. One at a time!
I realize that The Creep who bought us the drinks has placed himself under the music video screen that I’m watching. This way he can pretend that I’m looking and smiling at him when I’m really just watching Beyonce.
I realize this too late however, and The Creep comes back around the bar and wipes his sweat on me again.
He then slithers away.
Jack, John, and Cute-Guy-in-Corner are all amused. The two cowboy hat-wearing lesbians sitting next to me are also laughing. I glare at them and they look away.
I then turn to Jack:
Me: “This is officially some bullshit. If he comes back one more again I’m pulling a Brooke Valentine.”
Jack: “I love the drammy.”
Me: “This is why I don’t talk to people in bars. Minneapolis is full of The Crazy.”
The Creep waits about an hour before making his final move. This time I was prepared. I notice his arm reaching from behind me and grab it before he can latch onto my chest again. I then turn around and glare. He sees 10 types of crazy in my eyes and says he will leave me alone.
Jack is laughing.
Me: “This is why you never let anyone buy you a drink.”
Jack: “Oh this needs to happen more often. I’m quite amused.”
Me: “Glad to be tonight’s entertainment. I accept all major credit cards.”
May 10th, 2009
I think that thing they call spring is here.
The grass started turning green a month ago, but the trees have remained leafless – until this week. Sometime overnight all the trees decided to blossom.
It’s as if the mayor pressed some secret spring button.1
I feel like I’m in some parallel Paula Dean Garden universe. I got so used to winter that I forgot that there are other seasons…
Harley and I spent the week exploring the extensive park system in the neighborhood. The amount of parks, lakes, and nature trails surrounding downtown is ridiculous.
I suspect I moved back to Germany and no one has told me yet, especially when I look at the Fachwerk houses in the neighborhood:
I need to stop bringing coffee on these walks. The same thing happens every time: I start the walk with a cup of coffee and when we are 4 or 5 miles from home I realize “oh shit, I need to pee.”
This is of course the point when Harley gets tired and is all, “wait, why are we rushing all of the sudden?”
He then decides that every tree, squirrel, and gardener is worth inspection.
My bladder starts crying…and disaster strikes.2
And don’t be fooled by the “Minnesota Nice” stereotype – even Minnesotans will give you filthy looks when you’re raging down the street, screaming “GOD DAMN DA COFF-FAAAY!!!” while grabbing your crotch and dragging a 100lb dog…
There have been plenty of times this week when I’ve wanted to scream upon getting home. Harley has started trashing the apartment.
I tweeted about the destruction and was directed by @Karpul to this article on the Humane Society Website. The topic? Dog Separation Anxiety. The gist? He’s destroying the apartment because he misses me and loves me.
Now before you say “awe” remember I am not seeing love when I’m cleaning up shredded novels marinating in puddles of piss.
No. That ain’t love.
And of course the article says scolding the dog will ONLY MAKE IT WORSE!
Well… crap!
You mean I come home to a destroyed, pee-soaked apartment and I can’t bitch at anyone? This is supremely unfair.
And the most ridiculous thing is that Harley didn’t start this chaos until recently. I guess that means he didn’t like me enough before…
In order to help him adjust, I decided to study at Dunn Brothers today. I left Harley a pork bone and hoped for the best. Of course he completely demolished the kitchen – broke dishes, dragged the trash everywhere, and then pissed all over the front door.
And no, he did not need to pee – we had gone on a two hour walk this morning. Minneapolis is perfumed with this dog’s pee. It was pure spite…or according to the humane society, yellow love…
One redeeming thing about Harley is his “don’t mess with me or I’ll eat you” size. He even keeps Meth Molly away.
However, Harley’s size did fail to keep the crazy away this week – we were walking in Uptown (on Lyndale) when I saw this sketchtastic guy sitting at a bus stop across the street.
He was bald, pasty-white, emaciated, and had no eye brows ala Alexander Litvinenko (or Powder) and of course STARING RIGHT AT ME.
So I smiled politely and directed Harley down the street. Of course a few blocks later I see that powder had crossed the street and was storming down the sidewalk right behind us! I have seen waaay too many zombie movies for this to be okay. Seriously, this guy looked like the last day of chemo…or day 28…
So I took a sharp turn and literally RAN down the block as much as I could before he made it to the corner. What the hay…
The sprint worked, but I ran into the creep at another bus stop on Hennepin. He glared at me from across the street. I wondered if Harley would catch whatever that guy had if Harley decided to eat him…
In addition to running from zombies and cleaning up pee, I took my first final exam this week. The subject was Property, and it was not as horrible as everyone expected. My only grief is that there were NO future interests/estates problems! Not a single one!
All that time spent on learning the vesting categories? A waste.
The $20 I spent on the supplemental future interest book? An utter waste…especially since I barely looked at the book…
Tomorrow is my Criminal Law Final, and Friday is Corporations. Crimlaw is strangely pleasant to study…which is odd given how incredibly dull that class was…
I’ve also spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about “what kind of law I want to practice” and decided that it’s a silly question. I am not so limited in my interests that I wouldn’t be perfectly content practicing in most fields. I know that seems sacrilegious to say, but I don’t think I’m the only person who likes law enough to be happy in most fields…
Heck, I think most students at my school would be open to most areas of law. And most of us feel silly when lawyers (and parents, and friends) ask us what field we want to practice in, since the first year of law school gives us no clue of what private practice is actually like.3
There are a few former Business School kids and future public defenders who know exactly what they want to do (to the exclusion of all other opportunities) but most of us have no idea…
The real question is what type of firm will hire me? I love my school, but I’m aware of its limitations. UMN is reputable enough that nearly everyone will pass the bar, but not so prestigious that everyone will have a job upon graduation.
I have decided that the answer is not to claw my way into the top 5% since even biglaw has its problems.
The point (for me at least) isn’t to get a prestigious job just because that’s what everyone else is doing. My goal is to have a career that allows me to do challenging work and pay off my student loans before I’m 40.
…oh, and a job that allows me to afford dog training…since I’m sick of this yellow love business.
1 I’m pretty sure it’s between the “easy” button and the Taco Bell button.
2 And I can’t tie him up and run into a coffee shop or something because I always feel like a horrible dog owner doing that… plus I’m sure there’s some sort of ordinance against that.
3 I think that’s why next year’s 1Ls will be required to take a “work of the lawyer” course.
March 23rd, 2009
I go to Ikea this morning to get a plant for my cubicle and I get gravely confused: it’s 10am on a Sunday and Ikea is packed. Am I missing something?
I notice that every third person had the same metal kitchen pot. Am I forgetting another holiday? Did Obama declare “Make the AIG executives into a tasty gumbo” day or something? I thought the pots were strange, but as the hefty guy in business clothes buying a potted plant, I decide not to judge…
I get to the checkout line and almost drop my plant. The line is horrifying. Like Black Friday at Wal-Mart “did someone just get trampled?” horrifying.
I resist the urge to leave my plant on the nearest piece of sleek Swedish furniture and run.
I get in line and just stare at the mass of people. Why why why? I came extra early just to avoid THIS VERY SITUATION.
And what is up with all these cooking pots? Half the people in line are clutching big, silver cooking pots. Did I enter the Swedish-designed twilight zone or something? Am I on tape?
To support my twilight zone theory is the fact that I’m actually standing in the self-checkout line. I hate the self-checkout line. I avoid the self checkout because it makes me feel stupid in an entirely new way every time.
As I wait, the store speakerphone comes on:
Ms. Chipper: “Good Morning Ikea Customers! Thank you for attending our special event. ALL OF OUR WHATISCALLED COOKING POTS ARE SOLD OUT. I repeat. WE ARE SOLD OUT OF ALL OF THE WHATISCALLED POTS. Thank you for shopping with Ikea. Please come to our next special event. And remember, AGAIN, WE ARE SOLD OUT OF THE POTS.”
Oooh, so that’s why everyone has a pot! Fancy!
The line shortens, and I anxiously hope that I get the checkout station furthest from the line… so of course when my turn comes, I get the checkout station right in front of the line! Hm. What is this? An opportunity to bedazzle angry shoppers with my self-checkout ineptitude? YESSS…
I approach the self-checkout station, muttering under my breath, and start to fumble my potted plant.
I almost drop the plant.
Then I almost drop my wallet.
Then I almost drop the scanner.
I pick up the scanner and discover that my plant pot won’t scan. I’m swiping my plant pot like a declined debit card and it still won’t scan. Crap, crap crap!
The couple in front of the line stares me down and frowns. Sweat collects on my forehead.
I key in the number of my pot and then try to scan my plant.
It doesn’t work.
The people in line grunt. I can’t find the key-code on the plant. Crap. The “how to find your key-code” diagram doesn’t help. Ahh…
The line glares.
My deodorant breaks down.
I turn to find the customer service guy and hear screaming: the Ikea customer service guy is fighting with an African lady at the station behind me:
Lady: “WAIT, WHAT IS GOING ON?”
(The Ikea guy snatches her cooking pot and walks it to another register)
Lady: “Where are you going? Why did you take my pot for?”
Ikea guy (coming back): “You’re only allowed to have one pot per customer. You have two!”
Lady: “I’m holding it for my sister.”
Ikea guy: “You were trying to buy it.”
Lady: “NO I WASN’T! I was holding it for my sister. She’s on her way.”
Random mullet guy in line: “She gotta be in the store herself woman!”
Lady: “What did you say? THIS IS RIDICULOUS! She is on her way!”
Ugh. Fail.
I ignore the hot mess going on behind me and try to scan the plant again. I was just grateful that the line wasn’t glaring at me anymore. I’m trying to scan the stupid plant before the fight stops but plant won’t scan…
The Ikea guy finishes arguing with African lady just before Mullet dude incited a riot. Ikea guy walks over to me, and asks if I need help.
Me (Trying hard not to sound pathetic): “It won’t scan.”
Ikea guy: “Yeah it will. See.”
Ikea guy picks up the scanner and my plant scans on HIS FIRST TRY.
Of flipping course.
I quickly pay the machine and scurry out of the store. As I left, I could hear the African lady resume her bitching concerns about “her sister’s” cooking pot…
The plant looks great, but next time I’m standing in the normal checkout line.
January 8th, 2009
Oh, Law School Discussion…how I’ve missed thee. I know I’ve written about gunners before but can we just acknowledge this ridiculousness? The topic of the thread is: “How To Respond To People Calling You a Gunner?”
Gunner: Last semester I amply and vastly participated in class and I could decipher my classmates’ opinion of said participation. How best to respond to these (to put it generously) rather immature individuals?
The first response (by “Stole Your Nose!“) was rather good: Continue reading “More gunner drammy” »
December 25th, 2008
It’s a Miami Christmas: there’s the constant sound of singing and gunfire from across the river. (People in Little Havana shoot into the air to celebrate.)
My mother’s cell phone rings. I think she’s at the apartment next door, so I go outside to bring it to her.
I open the door and my mother and two neighbors come running up the stairs.
Mom: “Go inside and lock the door!”
There’s yelling from downstairs.
Me: “Whut what? What’s going on? Do we need the cops?”
Neighbor: “No, not yet…”
Yet. Great. I close the door and then hear a neighbor screaming outside: “Don’t you touch my wife!”
A few minutes later I hear my mother pounding on the back door.
Mom: “Why is the door locked?!”
Me: “Uh, you told me to lock the door…”
Mom: “Oh. Right. I meant the front door.”
Me: “What is this chaos outside?”
Mom: “We were all at Geraldo’s house and Jose was acting stupid… I think it’s because he wasn’t invited or something.”
She grabs a few diet cokes and goes back out the back door.
I return to my novel, and try to ignore the drunken conversation (and occasional screaming) from outside. We’ll see if things pop off…
**** Update
Mom comes back in and says:
Mom: “I’m about to call the police on his ass! Jose told me: ‘punch me in the face, I need to feel pain.’ See a few days ago he met this girl…”
Apparently Jose is running around asking all the neighbors to punch him ‘so he can feel pain’ because this girl he went on a date with ditched him for another man… special.
August 26th, 2008
Today was a marathon, and not my housemate’s day.
A housemate and I wanted to get four things done today: buy books, get a locker, activate our student IDs for the law library, and a buy student bus pass.
Simple right?
Well, the library cards are only activated at orientation, so that taken off the agenda.
I was able to get books, a locker, and my bus pass. No problem.
My housemate wasn’t so lucky – she tried to charge the books ($780!) to her student account, and her student ID was declined.
Bookstore clerk: “The computer says you’re not registered.”
Hm. Orientation is Wednesday. All of the other 1L’s are registered… That’s a problem.
So we go to the law admissions office and they send us to the law school registrar. The registrar tells my housemate she is registered, but that she must have a hold on her record.
Apparently international students have a hold on their records until they attend a special orientation.
So we are sent to the international admissions office. We wait and are eventually told, “Hm. That shouldn’t be a problem, but we put a temporary release on your stop. Go to the student card office to see if it worked.”
On the way to student card office we stop at the bank because my housemate’s name is spelled wrong on her debit card. The nice cashier orders a new debit card and tells my housemate that she can use her misprinted card until the new one arrives. Great. Peace out.
We walk across the river to the student card office, wait in a 15 person line, and are told by a woman who shouts everything TO GO TO THE STUDENT SERVICES OFFICE.
Thanks. We get to the STUDENT SERVICES OFFICE, take a number, wait. The student assisting us smirks and tells my housemate that she, in fact, isn’t registered.
My housemate calls the law school like “wtf mate?” and the law school registrar tells her that she was supposed to call them and inform them that the stop was removed.
My housemate: “But doesn’t your computer system tell you that my stop was removed?”
The registrar: “Yes, but you’re supposed to call us to tell us it was removed. Call us back in 15 minutes.”
Fine.
So my housemate decides to use her debit card to pay for the books. Who needs a student account anyway!? So we cross the river again, go to the law school bookstore, grab all of the books again, and she pays with her card.
Which doesn’t work.
Crap.
My housemate: “OH! I forgot to activate it.”
She goes outside and calls the activation number.
Electronic voice on phone: “Your card is invalid. You suck at life. Goodbye.”
So we leave the books at the bookstore again and go back to the bank.
“Nice” teller: “Oh, I accidentally deactivated your card. Oops.”
The Nice-yet-newly-annoying teller hands back to the now-useless card, and we go to the student services office next door to see if my housemate is finally registered. Yes. She is. Yay.
Student Services lady: But your registration isn’t going to show up for the bookstore for 24-hours. So you can’t get your books today. Hah. Sucks.
Crap.
So housemate decides she’s going to pay cash. You can’t mess up cash. She goes back to the nice-yet-incompetent bank teller and asks for $800.
Teller: “Trying to buy books?”
Housemate: “Yep.”
Teller: “You know you can charge it to your student account right?”
Housemate: “Well, actually, I can’t. I just registered today.”
Teller: “Oh, and your card doesn’t work. Sucks. Well, here’s the cash, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7, and 800! Have a great day!”
So we return to the bookstore, get the books for a THIRD time, and my housemate pays drug dealer style, in crisp $100 bills. Cash money!
She then goes upstairs, gets a locker, and we go downstairs to shove the heavy books into said locker.
But course the combo doesn’t work. Housemate is two seconds from wigging out. We both try 10 times and then housemate storms upstairs and gets a new locker, which works.
Our entire adventure took about three hours.
We were both hungry so we walked downtown to Taco Bell. At Taco Bell my housemate checked her receipt from the bank and said, “Crap!”
Me: “What happened now?”
Housemate: “The teller gave me $800 but the receipt said she debited $900.”
Me: “Hah. How are you going to prove that she didn’t give you the extra $100?”
Housemate: “My word is going to have to do because this is some bullshit.”
We finish the Bell, bus back to campus, and my housemate goes back to the now-thoroughy-annoying teller, who thankfully remembered her. The teller was nice and apologetic because this was her second fuckup with one customer in a single day. They ended up giving my housemate the extra $100 instead of crediting it to her account.
We then went to the undergrad bookstore, (across the Mississippi river again) and raided it. We both bought speakers, U of M clothes, and I bought a lot of art supplies. A room opened up in the house so I no longer have a roommate. I’m using the extra space as art studio space. Har.
My housemate’s bad luck didn’t end at school. We went to dinner with two other housemates at the local pan-Asian restaurant and they forgot to enter her order.
So the three of us (dudes) politely waited for her food to come.
Housemate: “Cmon guys, EAT! Your food is getting cold.”
We smiled politely and ignored the request. Pfft. We aren’t going to be rude and chow when the only girl at the table is foodless.
After 10 minutes she started eating rice so we would eat our food.
Her meal came about 5 minutes later.
Heh. Today just wasn’t her day but at least she went through the circus today, and not during orientation.
July 24th, 2008
I’m in Miami for one last summer. Guess where I spend most of my time? The law library.
I’m not doing any intense prep for law school.. Although I have read a few law-related books, I’m not frantically outlining horn books or briefing cases for practice. No, I’m not that boy.
I spend most of my time reading novels.
Yes, in the law library.
This may seem bizarre to people not from Miami, but the crystal blue skies and beautiful beaches are only travel brochure fodder.
Do not be fooled. The reality of Miami is heat, humidity, and mosquitoes.
I’m working at my undergrad university (U Miami) this summer. UMiami has a scenic campus,but I can’t read outside because of the raging hordes of mosquitoes.
I’m not exaggerating. Raging hordes. Seriously. These are Genghis Khan-level mosquitoes – I have to reapply the bug spray every 20 minutes to prevent severe blood loss. And those mild bug sprays don’t work. I have to buy OFF! Deep Woods, which smells faintly of rot.
One of my coworkers was bit so badly yesterday that she resembled a smallpox victim.
And reading at the beach? No go. Miami Beach is miserably crowded with tourists, joggers, winos, coke dealers, and etc. It’s also expensive. The parking garages charge $15 if you are over 4 hours. Gas on the beach? $4.41 for regular. No, mam.
I generally go to Virginia Key, which is an island/nature reserve off the coast of downtown Miami. Virginia Key is only a $1.50 toll and $3 entrance fee the park/beach.
The problem with Virginia Key is that it’s a nature reserve so you have to deal with, well, nature. Which includes hordes of mosquitoes from the mangrove swamp.
The mangrove swamp in question…
There are also looming predatory birds (including vultures) and the occasional dead shark,
For those who thought I was kidding…
Oh, and the locals (fishermen + bratty children). So, for summer reading the beach is out.
This is why my summer reading ritual consists of a stop at Starbucks and the law library.
And the Miami law library is a bit intense.
Books, tabs, highlighters, and a freakly, strained quiet that makes me nervous to blink.
Coughing? Out of the question. I’ll choke it down until I can creep off to the bathroom or stairwell to hack.
The worst part isn’t the quiet but the faces of the law students. The expressions are variations of miserable, angry, or sickly.
Yesterday, the ‘angry’ variety was dominant.
A couple left their belongings unattended on a table. The table was part of cluster surrounded by study carrels. They left their laptops, books, papers, everything.
There were a lot of people around, so theft seemed unlikely, but these people were gone for a while.
And then it happened: a cellphone buried somewhere in the pile of crap on that table went off.
Annoying ringtone.
Full blast.
EVVVVVVERRY BODY IN THE CLUB GETTING TIPSY!
Tension, gasps, and it rings again, EVVVVVVERRY BODY IN THE CLUB GETTING TIPSY!
And then there was that moment typically only seen on National Geographic; You know, the moment when the zebras realize something is amiss… the scamper of a predator, a cracked twig, a dart, something, and then all the zebras freeze in a collective wide-eyed “oh shit” moment before deciding what to do.
Well, about half of us had the “oh shit” zebra stare down. The phone kept going off.
EVVVVVVERRY BODY IN THE CLUB GETTING TIPSY! EVVVVVVERRY BODY…
Then the Jackals came out.
Heads popped of the study carrels. People shot hateful glares at the unattended table. The phone wasn’t visible because it was somewhere under the papers and books, but it rang, and rang, …and then finally stopped.
But of course the person called back.
EVVVVVVERRY BODY, EVVVVVVERRY BODY, EVVVVVVERRY BODY IN THE CLUB GETTING TIPSY!
The Jackals slammed their books, sucked their teeth, and walked single file to the bathroom. Some muttered dark threats under their breath. One guy just twitched and said “Fuck! Shit! Fuck!”
The phone stopped and the happy couple returned. Guy and girl. With Subway bags. They seemed glad that their stuff hadn’t been swiped. There were so many people around. It’s safe. Go on, take as many half-hour subway breaks as you want…The no food policy in the library? Whatever. It’s about as important as that whole silence your cellphone jig…
The hilarity ensued when the 5-6 jackals returned to the study area and shot hateful, hateful looks at the couple. The couple probably thought it was because they were eating.
No, not probably – definitely, because they exchanged a look and then LEFT AGAIN with their food, supposedly to eat it outside.
And yes, they forgot their phone…because 5 minutes later… EVVVVVVERRY BODY, EVVVVVVERRY BODY…
I left after that because I was pretty sure the twitcher was going to cut someone.
20,000 mosquitoes would be less stressful than these law students.
July 10th, 2008
1pm lunch rush at Taco Bell: About a dozen people waited inside the restaurant lobby for their orders. They rolled their eyes, sucked their teeth, and eventually started bitching aloud about the wait.
Taco Bells are designed so you can see the kitchen if you’re inside, so I don’t understand why people bitched about the wait when they could see the frantic pace of the workers. You try to make that many orders at once. I worked as a cook at WingZone a few summers ago, so maybe I’m more sympathetic…I don’t know.
I think bitching about a wait at lunch rush is like getting on a highway at 5pm and whining about the traffic. What do you expect?
There was another problem: the guy who brought the orders out didn’t speak English. He called out the numbers in Spanish, which, becuase we are in Miami wasn’t really a problem. The rule of thumb is to remember who is in line before you to figure out if you’re next. Seriously. It’s not that hard.
A nurse who was also waiting for her food decided to help the Kitchen Guy and called out the numbers in English when no one responded to his Spanish calls. This worked for a while.
But then came the Hick’s order.
The Kitchen Guy called out the number several times and eventually the nurse called it out in English. The Hick, a 6-foot tall, unshaven guy with the mandatory ponytail, dirty work clothes, and trucker hat, stormed to the counter and screamed, “WE ARE IN AMERICA. SPEAK ENGLISH!”
About six of us were crammed together near the soda fountain. It was a crowded, awkward space, and the Hick broke the unspoken golden rule of crowded, awkward spaces: thou shant cause drama.
We all held our breaths and mouthed “woah.”
The Hick stormed off with his tacos. Kitchen Guy looked perturbed, but he didn’t really speak enough English to really understand anything beyond that he was just bitched at. This was a good thing because Kitchen Guy looked like he could unleash all sorts of crazy.
Looks were exchanged. We all looked sympathetically at the poor unilingual Kitchen Guy, and everyone stopped their bitching about the wait, and glared at the Hick, who was still bitching at his booth.
Yes Miami is technically in America, but it’s a different kind of America than what The Hick and people like him envision: Miami is 69% Hispanic, 57.7% immigrant (foreign-born), and English is not the primary language of 76.2% of the households. Yes Kitchen Guy can do better. But at the end of the day he is Kitchen Guy, and English is not a requirement for that job.
If you want to demand that people (especially unskilled, min. wage workers) speak English then move to The Provence like everyone else.
June 3rd, 2008
Miamians are famous for our driving.
And I’m a Miami driver: I moved to Miami when I was sixteen, had a few fender benders, a run-in with a drunk driver, and more than a several (traffic related) run-ins with the police.
So very few things surprise me.
Well, that’s what I thought until tonight’s Taco Bell run.
Traffic around campus was a disaster. A graduation had just finished at the Bank United Center, which is right in front of my dorm. Cops directed traffic and traffic moved smoothly until the Suburban in front of me stopped to pick up a graduate.
The bald cop directing traffic screamed, “CMON! You must be kidding me! MOVE IT!”
The Suburban took its sweet time and then rolled up to the cop. The driver then proceeded to throw a mini bitchfit at the cop before speeding off.
I was shocked.
Rule #1 of urban police interaction: you do not tell off a cop. Never, ever, ever. I once got a speeding ticket while going 5 miles under the speed limit. Did I tell off the cop? No. Pissing a cop off never ends well for the one without the badge. Ever. Well, unless you have diplomatic immunity or something crazy.
Later on US-1: I approached a red light in the middle lane and had cars on either side of me. To my left was an old man in a Minicooper and to my right was Mr. Hotshit in a white beamer – windows down, cigarette in mouth, dramatic house music blaring.
I wondered why Mr. Hotshit was accelerating towards a yellow light that none of us could make.
Well, Mr. Hotshit ends up making a screeching right turn onto Le Jeune road, then cuts across Le Jeune (a 4-lane road), into the gas station, zooms past the gas pumps, and then turns to go back on US-1.
The guy in the Minicooper and I watched this with our mouths open.
“Well shit,” Minicooper man said, “he could’ve just ran the light if he was going to do all that.”
We both started to laugh when we realized that Mr. Hotshit overestimated the curve and was sort of stuck in the gas station exit.
Hotshit kept trying to back his way out of the curve but couldn’t figure it out.
I think Hotshit may have mis-shifted and killed his engine too… well, whatever Hotshit did, he couldn’t figure the curve out before the light turned and we drove past him – still laughing.
I got to Taco Bell and said, “Hells to the nah.”
There were 9 cars in the line at Taco Bell and more than a dozen cars at the McDonald’s across the street. The gas station on the corner listed regular gas at $4.05 and there was no way-in-hell I’m going to let my old-as-hell car burn $4.05-per-gallon gas in a 9-car line.
No mam.
I hit it to the Taco Bell on Coral Way. The Coral Way Taco Bell is awkwardly placed between high-rises and therefore usually deserted at night.
And of course, there was no line…Although by the time I paid five cars had filed in behind me. They probably spurned the lines down the road as well.
The driving fun wasn’t over,
On the way back to campus there was a white Range Rover in the lane next to me on Ponce. The rover had a salt-and-pepper driver with the prerequisite giggling blond.
Well, I don’t know what the blond was doing, but it better have been good – the Ranger Rover almost sideswiped me and the Taurus in front of me.
Despite our honks, the Rover only began to stick to his own lane when he saw the cops directing traffic in front of campus.
Pfft.
I don’t know what caused tonight’s traffic drama.
I blame the Taco Bell line.
June 1st, 2008
I decided in the gym this morning that I had to get new workout shoes. My Wal-Mart brand track shoes were already falling apart and a good two seconds from embarrassing.
I went to DSW and snagged some Adidas running shoes for around $40.
And while I was in my savings bliss, I decided to go to Payless. Payless has recently stepped its game up. I bought a pair of plaid slips for $15. Vöt.
The shoe deals put me in a good mood, so I decided to take the trek to The Falls to get my phone fixed. The Sprint store was as awkward as I expected to be. The sales reps (rather rudely) ignored the bloated and flushed man from the Redlands who roamed about looking mighty confused.
Bored customers milled about everywhere waiting for their phone repairs. Everyone looked at me like I was the new guy walking in the bar on a slow night.
Redlands roamed the store for about fifteen minutes before he was told “to get service you need to be on the wait list.” He left a few minutes later, cursing.
The Sprint repairman saw my phone and said, “Yeah …uh, no.” After he finished laughing, he asked how I managed to do so much damage.
I told him about my skateboarding mishap. He laughed some more and told me to come back in 40 minutes but made no promises.
I went to The Falls mall across the street, and, to my horror, realized that there was no book store in the mall, or the entire area. How does this happen? Something is horribly wrong down there.
So I ended up at the mall’s Starbucks, which may be the worst designed Starbuck ever.
Seriously. In all of history.
Design Fail: The store is long and narrow. There is less than three feet space between the store window and the counter. The door, of course, is in the middle of this awkward space and opens immediately to the cash register.
If there are multiple customers, the line veers off to the side so you have to squeeze past people to get in the end of the line. The beverage area is equally claustrophobic and people picking up beverages end up trapped in the corner by the people waiting for their drinks.
You have to work your way back through the line (like the a moviegoer with a bladder problem) to get out of the store.
The point is, it’s an awkward, crowded space.
So of course the loud, dopey lady in front of me causes scene. She’s accompanied by an overlarge bearded guy in with ratty tennis shoes who looks like he likes anime and vintage Pacman.
Dopey lady’s Starbucks employee card doesn’t work. She tells the cashier that she “HASN’T BEEN ON THE SCHEDULE FOR A FEW WEEKS!”
She’s loud and has the lispy tone of someone with a learning disorder. Everyone in the line exchanges the glance that acknowledges someone is violating crowded space etiquette.
If you’re in a small, crowded shop – you do not 1) hold up the line, and 2) fail to regulate the level of your voice.
We all know this.
This exchange goes on for a while. The manager finally comes and tells dopey lady that her employee ID isn’t valid and that she should check with her Starbucks to see if she’s still employed.
The drink maker, who hasn’t been paying attention calls her drink, and then screams, “DOES ANYONE HAVE A CINNAMON DOLCE LATTE?” as if the store is more than 20 feet long.
The manager at the register shouts back (even though they are about 3 feet apart) “Yes, she’s still at the register!”
The man behind me laughs.
Dopey lady doesn’t get it, but she eventually pays.
So dopey lady and overly large guy are completely in the way when I get my drink. They are both hunched over the sugars and napkins and so consumed with fixing their drinks that they don’t care about the rest of us waiting.
I was mesmerized how fervently the were stirring their drinks. They were working their drinks as if they were beating eggs.
Like, they looked intent and excited to be stirring their drinks. They kept adding a little milk, tasting, adding sugar, tasting, and so forth… it was intense and painful to watch.
So I exchange smirks with a blond middle-aged woman (who was with laughing man) when SMACK-SPLASH, dopey lady spills her latte. She screams out, “OH NO!” and shuffles to the finished-drink-stand while flailing her arms,“Excuse me! EXCUUUSE ME! I SPILLED A DRINK! Can I have another?”
The sixteen year old behind the counter rolls her eyes and fixes another latte. I reach over the foamy latte muddle, get my two packets of Splenda (that I had been waiting five minutes for now), and left the starbucks.
As I was squeezing out of the door I heard laughing man go at it again.
Hmmf.
I eventually got my phone back. They fixed it. No charge. Holler at warranties.
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