The Competent Pessimist

Is this IT?

2006-04-12T01:57:00.000-07:00

All right dear folks, what is this? My fifth post? I believe this is a personal record for myself --you guys had better watch out.

This is a rather old story -- it is in fact one from my childhood. It is difficult to remember specifics from back then, but I do receive a vague sense of happiness whenever I revisit this period (this is not, however, a particularly happy story). I’m not sure how old I am in this story (If I asked mother she could tell me, but its very late and I haven’t got the energy for that).

Some background information: Every year until around seventh grade (I’ve told you its hard for me to remember) the Harris family would drive to California over winter break. All five of us. Mother, Father, Cassie, Abby and I. And yes, I said drive. DRIVE.

This story begins towards the end of our BELOVED (this means annual) family trip. We had already departed from the grandparents Harris and were driving through some bleak (bleak is not meant to be a bad adjective here) stretch of desert. I think maybe we were in Arizona, or perhaps New Mexico. It didn’t matter to me, I was in my standard position: curled up in the back seat of our beloved ford winstar. I can remember being just tall enough so that no matter which way I would contort myself, I was never quite comfortable. It was in this position (not quite comfortable) that I first saw a billboard for IT. “COME SEE IT”. “Well damn,” I thought, “IT huh?”. For the next fifty miles there were signs identical to this. Billboards were the only literature available to me; I had already read all of the books that were given to me for Christmas in Anaheim. The books were read before we even left towards home. Anaheim is actually a sort of boring place (Disney Land and Knotts Berry Farm lose their magic after five years in a row). At any rate, I was young and curious. “Hey mother, can we go see IT?” “Yeah, sure.”

At long last we arrived at the super hyped IT exit. The exit itself was very bleak (bleak IS meant to be a negative adjective in this case). Wow I was psyched (poor kid). Mother and I were the only people in the family who were remotely interested in viewing IT in all of IT’s glory (actually, I think mother went along with me because she was scared of me getting kidnapped by truckers). After navigating through a gift shop the size of a Books-A-Million, we each bought a fifty cent ticket (red flag) to see IT. We then proceeded out the door in the back labeled (with bloody lettering) “IT THIS WAY.” The back door opened to a path that led through three separate warehouses filled with BULLSHIT. I think the people who ran the place wanted it to seem like some sort of museum. The warehouses were filled with old garbage that people had found (presumably) in the desert. WOAH, LOOK AT THAT! IS THAT A CANTEEN? A REALLY OLD CANTEEN? CHRIST I THINK IT IS! My personal favorite were the tree roots that looked really spoooooky because they were painted like they were monsters (googley eyes and everything). I couldn’t believe I had paid fifty cents for this. Then, finally, the moment I had been waiting for. IT. As I gazed upon IT I realized it was made out of papier-mâché. IT was supposed to be some mummified Indian-monkey hybrid carcass(IT was also a female with an unborn baby). IT wasn’t any of these things. IT was papier-mâché. Poorly done papier-mâché. It looked like something a bunch of Indians did while they were on meth. I was pissed. I rode the rest of the day in silence. This was the beginning of the end for optimism for me.

And that is all. I bet some of you guys are more disappointed with this post than I was with IT. Who knows, maybe next time I’ll write about the cactus farm we stopped at in Mississippi. Probably not.

insomnia

2006-03-13T06:58:00.000-08:00

It is 7:25 in the morning. I have, by a cruel merciless twist of fate, been unable to acquire the rest my body needs and deserves. I have prayed for mercy several times between my tossings and turnings. They have yet been unanswered. I hate it when this happens. Insomnia is the last thing I feel like dealing with now.

Enough! Now: Let me tell you about stuff that happened to me the other weekend.

It was friday March 3rd and black history month had been over for three days. This sure as hell didn’t stop me from attending a party thrown by my esteemed colleague and coworker Pat (his last name momentarily escapes me). Patrick lives in Notasulga (I could write a whole post about Notasulga) so it took a while to find my way out there (I hate Notasulga, I hope to never write a whole post about Notasulga). As I drive past Pat’s house I see he’s built a nice bonfire. “Cool,” I think (this was indeed the wrong thing to think at this moment for reasons soon to be revealed). I find Patrick and say hello. I see a couple other coworkers. I talk to them for around 5 minutes before they leave and go back to Auburn. As I watch their car leave some smoke from the fire gets in my eyes and messes up my left contact (this is the reason the fire was not “Cool” -- indeed, it was quite the opposite). Patrick has disappeared. Everyone around me is a complete stranger. “No matter!,” I think to myself, “I’ll just have to make a new friend. Everyone will love my Devil-May-Care attitude.” I look around for my first recruit. There are 20 or so people standing outside with me. None of them are talking. I walk up to someone. “Hey, I’m Rollie.”. “I’m Darius.”. Darius shakes my hand and then walks away somewhere. Now there are approximately 19 people standing around not talking. I think, “Jeeeze, maybe I should just leave.”. I decide to say goodbye to Patrick before I leave (I didn’t feel any obligation to say goodbye to Darius). I find Pat inside. He introduces me to his parents, grandparents, uncle, and girlfriend. I think its weird for his parents to be at the party, but they look content playing cards. I tell Pat I’m leaving and then do so immediately.

That’s it. Sorry about the poor quality of this post. I will try harder next time. In my defense I thought I would fall asleep around halfway through. But now I’m finished. So I must post it. I hope it makes sense. Sorry again.

SPORE

2006-03-06T14:54:00.000-08:00

Man, this stuff if amazing.

Spore Gameplay

She's So Heavy

2006-03-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

Between the hours of five p.m. and four a.m. on the friday of February the seventeenth of the year twothousand-and-six I was at work. This, in itself, was not out of place or abnormal although I had not worked these late closing shifts (as I have christened it, the “widow-maker” shift) during the weekend for some time (such a long time that I thought somehow I had acquired “weekend immunity” -- I guess I was wrong).
My night was going pretty terribly (I was at work), but soon it turned even worse. I received a delivery to Ridgewood village, the scourge of Auburn. The mere mention of the name is enough to make pizza delivery boys’ hair stand on end. Pizza boys across Auburn wake up in the early morning hours ( that is, if they aren’t working) screaming from nightmares involving Ridgewood. Needless to say, I was not pleased when trailer 93 ordered a pizza (actually, I think it was one of our “subs”) for delivery.
As I pulled into Ridgewood village, I looked for a ridge (nope), then I looked for some woods (a few sad looking trees, not exactly a wood), after that I looked for the village (only shitty trailers). I sighed and drove to the office building to check the map there. The only saving grace of Ridgewood is that in front of the office building there is a map that shows all of the plot numbers and where they are located. If the map did not exist all delivery boys that enter Ridgewood would be at serious risk of going completely insane. For instance, during my early days of making deliveries, I did not realize that there was a map at the entrance of Ridgewood. I had spent hours at a time driving around Ridgewood cursing life, the universe, and everything. Things are better now.
Anyhow, after consulting the map and planning my route to the trailer (trailer 93 I believe), and began the journey. There are many strange sights in Ridgewood. On the drive to the trailer I saw half-human shapes wearing cowboy hats (“trailer people” I call them) milling about from trailer to trailer with no apparent direction or soul. They only wear shirts half of the time. As I turn a corner my headlights cause the eyes of some feral creature to glow red at first, then they turn blue (I think it was a dog that I met later when it tried to maul me).
Finally I find the trailer in question. There are lots of people standing around drinking beer. “Hey,” I think, “they’re having a party. Good for them.”

NOTE: For the best reading experience, when you read the following passages insert a healthy (and also drunk) southern accent on any words that are spoken to me.

I park and walk up to the trailer. “HEY! Its the pizza boy! Whoo!” says some moron. “Hey who ordered this food?” I reply. A girl gets up, says something that I can’t quite understand and then walks into the trailer, presumably to get the person who will pay me for the food. There is a bit of forced conversation between me and the people remaining outside. They are really drunk. A girl emerges from the trailer. If I were to say that this girl was “plump” I would be being nice. I guess I’m just a nice person. The girl is also very drunk. “That's my FOOD!” she cries. She stumbles down the stairs and I give her the precious subs. “THANK YOU!” She pushes aside empty beer cans and cigarette butts and puts them down on a table. “C’mere!” She heads in my direction. Before I know what’s happening she grabs me and gives me a long wet kiss. I look at her friends to see if they plan on helping me, It looks like they’re planning to continue laughing at me. “Well,” I think to myself, “at least her friends are hot.” As saliva is mixed it becomes very clear to me that the girl has very recently vomited (approximately 15 minutes prior by my estimation). I am finally released. I am so bewildered and disgusted that the only thing I can say is “Aww, Geeze.....” She already seems to have forgotten what just happened (her friends haven't, they continue to laugh). The girl gives me some money and then (forgetting her food) she stumbles back inside the trailer, presumably to pass out. I slowly walk to my car, still feeling slightly dazed and more than a little used.
When I get into my car I realize that she girl has given me two twenty dollar bills. She may not have realized it, but she tipped me fifteen dollars! My opinion of the girl changed completely. May god bless her soul. Had I realized how much she had tipped me it would have been me kissing her. It certainly brightened my night (well, what was left of it). As I pulled away (wondering if any residual alcohol from the experience could show up in a breathalyzer should I get pulled over) I looked into the rearview mirror and stoically wiped the lipstick from my face. A bittersweet experience to be sure.

The story of the old man and I

2006-01-20T16:57:00.000-08:00

All right folks, please bear with me.

Before I leave work on saturday evening I interrogate myself. What is in store for me tonight? Will I attend a good party? (depends on the definition of good). Will I attend a frat party? (Man, I hope not). Make a fool of myself? (Almost certainly -- I’ve probably already achieved this on friday). Find true happiness? (nope -- only temporary). Meet new people? (this sounds plausible). Become friends with said people? (probably not). Stay home and rest? (If I was smart maybe). Trouble with the law? (chances are higher than I would like to admit). While I am thinking about all of this I call Corey and tell him that I’ve left something over at his apartment. Corey tells me that Adam drank it. I am not surprised. He also tells me that Rod and him are on their way to Waffle House (the one on south college). I decide to meet him there. Before I get out of my car I can see Rod and Corey sitting at the back of the restaurant. As I walk through the store and take my seat I notice there is an old man sitting at one of those strange seats where the table is really low (sorry, those things are hard to describe). I also notice that the old man is watching us. I decide to ignore him. After some mild conversation I glance in the old man’s direction to see if he’s still watching us, and (of course) he is. He notices me looking at him. He stands up (I try and project a subconscious, negative, unfriendly bubble around our table). He starts walking over to our table (He seems to be immune to my vibe-voodoo). He begins: “Good evening gentlemen......”. I curse silently in my head. As he begins to talking I notice he doesn’t seem to have any teeth. I curse in my head again. It seems all the old man wants is not money -- indeed, he is willing to give us money, just as long as one of us will give him a ride to a hotel in Opelika (his car is broken down somewhere, actually I suspect that the car may be fictitious). Because I was the only person at the table who did not order any food I can tell he is talking to me. I agree to take him not because of the money, not because I’m a “nice” person (I’m not THAT nice), I agree to take him because I am bored. On the ride to Opelika we exchange names (his was John, mine was Simon) and he talks about his adventures across the United States of America. He says his favorite part of America is northern California. I agree with him, but for different reasons. He likes northern California because of the “most kickass weed”, I just like it for the Sequoias. As our conversation progresses it becomes more and more drug related. When he asks me if I smoke pot and I reply (truthfully) no, he seems disappointed. It is at this point that I realize -- this old man wasn’t paying me ten dollars for a ride to Opelika, he was paying me ten dollars for a ride to Opelika with some smoking on the way. With these goals in mind, the poor fellow had picked perhaps the single worst person in Auburn to give him a ride. Anyway, the ride was uneventful and I did not get held up at gun/knife/razor point like Corey had expected, nor did I meet slow and painful death or molestation (thank you for the “Are you still alive?” phone call though). Yep, that night I learned a lesson -- that appearances can be deceiving, or at least they were at Waffle House saturday night. I didn’t think the old gentleman was a pot head and he certainly seemed to think that I was. The generation gap widens. I don’t feel like writing about the rest of saturday.