Did you ever try to smile at some people...

Did you ever try to smile at some people
And all they ever seem to do is stare

- Gram Parsons

I walk a lot, especially now that I’m “in between gigs.” My regular route is populated by fellow strollers, joggers, bicyclists, sight seers and folks just hangin' out in their cars smoking legalized medicinal marijuana.  I don’t like using headphones. I just enjoy the scenery and like hearing the sounds of everyday life.  I also feel it is good manners to acknowledge those who pass by. Usually a half smile or nod works well. What makes me use the sad-face typing symbol, :-( ,  is that few people reciprocate the gesture.

I wonder why? Not only do many fail to return a common “hey,” but some actually look at me like I’m a psychopath. This usually causes me to check my zipper, and it has always been up – no cow gets outta the barn on my watch! So what gives?

As I walk along in unrecognized silence, I have time to contemplate. Since my zipper is up and I don’t have feces smeared on my clothes it must be something else.  Were they abducted by a disgruntled ice cream man when they were little? Are they germophobic? Are they foreign? What causes these people to be so cold?

I don’t want to get all “come on people now, smile on your brother” on you, but is a little friendliness too much to ask?  Oh well.  I will continue with my semi-greetings as I encounter strangers. As for you reading this, hopefully you will do the same.  

I’m going for a walk – time for my daily shunning.

Rookie Drinkers

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!  Hardly. I mean, congrats to that guy who got rid of all the snakes in Ireland (even though history shows that the “snakes” were actually pagans). However, in the good ol’ U.S. of A., St. Patty’s Day means drinking til you puke shenanigans amongst the rookie drinkers. You know the rookie drinkers, right? They’re the folks who go out and get obliterated four times a year – New Year’s Eve, Halloween, 4^th of July and St. Patrick’s Day.

Rookie drinkers muscle in front of you at the bar and order some kind of fancy pants cocktail that requires a Bunsen burner, raw sugar cane and a tungsten mug – causing the bartender to spend 20 minutes making it when all you wanted was a beer. Oh yeah, then they pay with a credit card taking another five minutes for the transaction.

Rookie drinkers think they’re being socially conscious by taking a cab to the bar.  That’s alright, but then they have to catch a cab home later. That’s them in the middle of Garnet Ave. at 2am with their cell phone in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other trying to shout down a cab. I guess it’s easier to get a cab when you get hit by one.

Rookie drinkers travel in herds, usually segregated by sex.  If you encounter a herd in a small establishment it can be hard to get through or around them. I have found that if you use their most common vocalizations, they will part slightly to let you pass. The female herds respond to “Oh my God!” while the males will budge for “Dude, no way!”

If you choose to go out for a beverage on a day reserved for rookie drinkers I have a few rules to help you manage.

1. Go someplace usually not known for serving drinks – a few suggestions include Chuck E. Cheese, the food court at the mall or the Elk’s Lodge.
2. Wear camouflaged clothing to help you blend in with the herd. This usually means a little black dress for women and a hoodie with a sideways baseball cap for men (don’t forget to leave all stickers and sales tags on the hat).
3. Bring along a can of rookie repellant for emergencies. I recommend any style of Axe body spray.  You can use it to mark your territory if there’s a booth you want, or to spray directly on a rookie if there’s a breach in personal space. 
4.  Just get some beer from Rite Aid and stay home. 

So yeah, Happy St. Patrick’s Day. May the spirit of ol’ Pat be with you if you choose to venture out on March 17^th. As for me, I’ll see you at the bar on March 18^th. There’s usually an incredible discount on green Budweiser.

Caution: Idiot Mother Driving

Do you live by a school? I do. I have to pass by two of them before I can go anywhere. And I tell ya, before I get in my car and leave my house, I throw a little holy water on my bumpers because of it. It’s not the schools themselves or the kids that are the problem – it’s those damn mothers that are dropping/picking up the kids. What happened to these women to make them so oblivious to anything around them when they drive?  They swerve all over the street without any warning, swilling frapachinos and applying eyeliner while their backpack toting offspring are falling out the still-open car doors. And it’s not good enough to drive a normal sized car and pull this crap, noooo… They need the biggest, stupidest enormo-tank their golf playin’, $200 jeans wearin’, microbrew beer drinkin’ husbands can afford! Holy crap, is it really necessary to drive a ten passenger Escalade when all you’re hauling is a 40 pound, ten year old girl with a Hello Kitty lunch box?  And here’s my favorite move – I love when they swing out in front of me, stop, throw open their tank door and run after their kid shouting, “Sunflower, you forgot your diorama!” as popsicle sticks, construction paper and glitter is exploding everywhere. For crying out loud woman, the world does not stop just because you are driving your child somewhere. 

I have a kid. I know what it’s like to drive him to school.  Here’s how it goes for me: I tell him to put his seat belt on and pipe down. I pay attention to the road and avoid the SUV Armageddon at the crosswalk.  I glide up to the curb, tell him to get out and have a nice day. Then I glide out, without cutting anyone off or running over the other knucklehead mom who thinks it’s cute to ride her kids to school on a triple seat bicycle. Come on women, get in the game!

By the way, I would like to take this opportunity to thank my Mom for making me walk to school. 

I Don’t Care About Your Dog

I was trying to find a cheap pair of shoes at the stupid mall the other day and could’ve sworn I was at the Humane Society.  It seemed like every other person had a dog with them – dogs in sweaters, dogs in cutesy carry bags, dogs in special doggy strollers, dogs peeing on the Victoria’s Secret panty pyramid. Now I understand the special bond between human and canine – I’ve owned a few dogs in my life. However as Waylon Jennings once said, “Don’t ya’ll think this dog bit’s done got out of hand?”  Well, he didn’t say that exactly, but the spirit was there. 

Dogs have moved from the backyard to… well… everywhere!  They even had a banner at the damn swap meet proclaiming “We Are Dog Friendly!” Dogs are top news.  I was watching the news the other morning and they were describing a traffic accident – “A man and his two children were taken to the hospital and treated for minor injuries. Their dog escaped without injury.”  Really?  I don’t care about the damn dog.  Hell, I don’t really care about the accident either.

What has happened that has caused society to vault dogs into pampered child status?  Is it the ever present fashion-pooch in the clutches of every pseudo TV celebutard?  Is it folks without children projecting their need to be a parent onto an animal? Or is it that people have finally caved in with guilt after watching that sad puppy/kitty infomercial with Sarah McLachlan and contributed to “the cause?”

I don’t know the answer, but I do know I’m sick of it.  Cute rain coats, fancy sunglasses and mini motorcycles with training wheels do not make your dog a human.  Unless you’re blind or taking a happy lab to a hospital to cheer up sick people, leave the dog at home! 

I guess what I’m really trying to say is, I don’t want to see your precious labradoodle pumping out a steamer while I’m trying to eat my dipping dots at the food court… Come On!

Cigareetes, Whuskey, And Wild, Wild Women

I pushed my way to the bar to order a beer and as I went to grab a napkin, I saw her.  She was just a few stools down, alone, stirring some kind of fizzy blue drink.  Her long auburn hair was messy like she just got out of bed, which was strangely attractive.  Her dress was straight out the Amvets store, natty and only one of many layers – combatting a sweater, scarfs and some kind of pirate/Batman utility belt thing.  Whatever, she was kinda cute. As she looked up I caught her eye… just one.  I realized she had one of those koogle problems where one eye looked right when the other looked left.  Disturbing.  Was she actually looking at me or the bartender?  Oh well, I went for it anyway.  I moved over to her and pointed toward the fizzy blue drink, “You want another one of those?” She turned her good eye to me and replied, “Somebody just left this thing here.  Actually I’m a Beam drinker.  How about a whiskey rocks?” We were off to the races…

It’s an old story, yet it refuses to fade away.  Let’s go to the old Nightclub jukebox and plug a quarter in. I think selection J-12 is appropriate…