Of Fast Food and Driver’s Etiquette

My mother used to get off on letting people merge in front of her and letting them take her turn at four-way stops. Often she let so many people in front of her that it made her late, but she didn't care. She was usually late anyway, and she said it made her feel civilized.
With a different take on civilization and deep-rooted hatred for tardiness, my father will yell at anyone and anything that irritates him behind the wheel, unleashing cruel ad hominem remarks about weight, hair, teeth, etc., with liberal use of the words “douchebag” and “dumbshit,” aimed at everyone from old people and children to the local Hardee’s.
My own behavior leans toward my father’s side, but with a slight emphasis on gutlessness. Once in a Wendy’s parking lot a man cut me off and when I yelled something, he rolled down his window to ask me sinisterly if I had a problem.
“NO, OF COURSE I DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM!” I screamed back at him.

This morning pulling out of a McDonald’s with my breakfast I found the narrow alley I was taking back to Main blocked by a brown Chevy whose driver was feeling a little timid about moving past me. Irritated and late for work, I asked the car to "hurry up already,” and made a circular waving motion with my right hand. To my surprise the car pulled up beside me, and the driver, a sassy black woman so stereotypical I cringe at describing her for fear of seeming racist, rolled down her window and started shouting at me as though I were her child and I had just stolen some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from CVS.
“You don’t talk to me like that!” she yelled.
Maybe if she was the big guy from Wendy’s I would have been intimated, but she wasn’t.
“What are you even talking about?” I yelled back, “I just wanted you to get on with it. See this gesture? (demonstrated gesture) That was me waving you ahead.”
“You better be glad I’m not your mother,” she told me.
“My mother knew how to drive better than that. Stop being slow and making other people late for work,” I advised her, and she drove away.
For a few minutes I felt bad, like I had started my day off by being petty and immature and yelling at someone I should have respected. Then I thought about it for a few minutes. I gave her as much respect as she was entitled to: I didn’t make any obscene gestures or remarks, and I responded to anger with reasoned criticism. What’s to feel bad about?
Between my mother’s over-the-top deference to others and my father’s bitter anger, this seems like the happy medium.

Childhood can be Pleasantly Eccentric

There's a boy at work who wants to play foosball every morning. And so I play foosball with him every morning, and every morning I win, and after each point I score he throws his hands up and yells "NOOOOOOOOO!!!" like Elijah Wood in Fellowship of the Ring when Ian McKellan fights the huge troll-thing and ends up falling into the bottomless pit.
Sometimes when I beat him he tells me that I am evil, a word he also uses for an older girl he has a crush on. At different times he has told me that I am "an evil sack of potato-beans," that Waldo (of the Where's Waldo? books) is "his darkest enemy," and that "the sausages of breakfast are delicious." His words exactly.

Sometimes while he is walking he will bob up and down, one hand in the air as though he were pantomiming carrying a tray of food, his back slightly hunched so that his butt sticks out, and singing a nonsense song with lyrics pretty much consisting of "Doot-dit doot-dit, doot-dee-doo-dit."

At first this boy put me off-- mostly because he would do things like put his hands in my hair and coo "fuzzy!"-- but this morning, as I pushed him away and explained for the dozenth time the concept of personal space, it occurred to me that I won't see him over the summer, and that this made me sad.

It's funny how they grow on you.

From way back in the day--A Few Words About Race-- May 5, 2004

A Few Words About Race
This weblog is not only concerned with frivolous things like quilts and graphic sex scenes with important members of the government, it is also concerned with the important issues of our day. Today's post will be a frank and earnest discussion of race relations in America, and I will focus this discussion around two important questions.

1.) As far as the whole "portraying black people in a positive light" thing goes, didn't the Cosby Show sometimes get a little silly?
I'm not saying they shouldn't have portrayed black people positively, but I think they could have sometimes done a better job making their positive portrayals of black people fit in with the story. For example, the other day I watched an entire episode about how Denise wouldn't lend Vanessa a sweater, and then for some reason in the last two minutes of the show the whole family gathered around the television to watch the "I have a dream" speech. What did that have to do with the sweater? Or Vanessa's problem with studying? Or Cliff's winning a tub of popcorn from Claire in a bet, only to have her eat it when he fell asleep in the movie theater? I'd have liked it if they could have integrated the last two minutes more with the other twenty-three. Perhaps Denise and Vanessa could have argued over the value of non-violent protest instead of a sweater? Or perhaps Cliff could have fallen asleep watching the "I have a dream" speech, and Claire could have eaten his popcorn then. It's called craftsmanship, and I don't think it's too much to ask. (Thinking about it, I realize that The Cosby Show did that a lot, tacking on two minute scenes at the end that had little or nothing to do with the rest of the episode. Those scenes were normally about Cliff and Claire getting it on, or dancing to jazz music, or engaging in some other married behavior, so I guess superfluous Martin Luther King is better than superfluous old people sex.)

2.) Why is Sprite marketed to young black men almost exclusively?
Consider Sprite's current ad campaign, featuring a puppet with an afro (This is not the first such commercial. I distinctly remember another commercial, this one for sneakers, that was targeted at young black men and involved a puppet. Do young black men like puppetry? How do they feel about the Muppets?). This puppet is shown interacting primarily with young black men, who are usually asking the puppet questions about why it likes Sprite so much. The puppet explains why, and usually throws in some joke about also enjoying girls with large bottoms. This kind of ad seems to be clearly targeted at young black men. Why? Is lemon-lime soda popular with young black men? I have known a few in my day, and I don't remember them drinking it much. Why isn't Coke marketed to young black men? Or for that matter Toyota Corollas?
I wish more products were marketed exclusively to black people. Hopefully someday we will live to see commercials where little black puppets with afros will be used to sell cars and prescription drugs, as well as lemon-lime soft drinks and sneakers.

The question, "Why market Sprite to young black men?" continues to haunt me. Recently I asked my black co-worker Melvin about it.
"You know A-Money," he said, "I never thought about that, but you are right. I wonder what the dilly is with THAT? Know what I'm saying?" And I said "Fo' shizzle," and then we locked fists and embraced.
I am tight with black folks.

Satan's Pussy

Today I heard this story from Jonathan Knowles. I want it to be true.
And I'm paraphrasing him. As James Frey might say, "This is how I remembered him telling it"--

"So this guy I'm friends with, he told me about this girl he works with who cuts herself. Which, you know, that's really horrible, and I kinda feel bad telling this cause I don't wanna make light of cutting yourself. But whatever. This girl cuts herself, and she needs to be smarter about it cause she isn't allowed to wear long sleeves. But she's not smart, she just cuts herself wherever, and she comes into work the other day with this pentagram cut into her forearm. And the boss brings her into his office to ask about it, and she's like 'my cat did it.' "

Quilt Enthusiast Classic-- I Prove Hermandad is a Word-- April 5, 2004

Tonight I worked the closing shift at Barnes & Noble. As usual, after all the books were put away we all stood around and talked until the manager told us we could go home. Looking for a conversation to join, I found two of my coworkers (lets call them "Kathryn" and "Frances") in front of the Spanish books, several of which "Kathryn" was turning upside down.
"That'll teach the dirty spics," she said (not really).
"Frances" picked up a book by John Grisham, titled "El Hermandad."
"That's not a word." she said, pointing to the title.
"Oh come on," I said, trying to be reasonable, "Of course it is. They actually do expect Spanish speaking people to read this, they're not going to just make up some word and make it the title of a book. What kind of marketing sense does that make?"
"I know it's not a word. I took so much Spanish. I know."
I tried again: "Dearest Frances, I don't mean to be rude, but you are asking me to take your word against that of a large and distinguished publisher, Harpercollins, which is but part of a vast international media conglomerate, News Corporation, which in turn is owned by Rupert Murdoch. Surely Mr. Murdoch and the folks at Harpercollins did not get where they are today by allowing such errors as the one of which you now accuse them. They have editors; they are careful about these things."
"I was in Spain for forty days. I learned so much Spanish. Seriously, it's not a word."
For a moment I was prepared to let it go. Why argue something that could clearly not be settled? But then I realized of course, it can be settled. We work in a book store, one that sells many excellent reference books, some of which are Spanish-English Dictionaries. So I found one, and I looked up the word "hermandad." It means "association." When I told "Frances" this she corrected my pronunciation. I refrained from asking her how she knew the pronunciation of a word that she knew didn't exist. I had already accomplished my goal; it was clear that I was right.

Since I wrote this two years ago I have gotten to know both Frances and Kathryn a lot better: Kathryn hates Hispanic people even more than I thought, and Frances is a compulsive liar who has on different occaisons claimed to be both the inventor of Pop Tarts and an African-American. None of us works at Barnes & Noble anymore. Thank Goodness.
PS- Steve Riggio, you cheap son-of-a-bitch, how the hell are you? How's your blog? Care to leave a comment about how you "do good work," you self-righteous greedy prick?
Don't be mad, it's all love. Always love.

Quick Note

The other day I was sitting in a restaurant with some friends and two things were discussed that I felt were of note--
1. Jacob Pepper said that he longed to spend his birthday in a Mexican bar drinking with real Mexicans and
2. Even the few people who read my blog are reluctant to go wading through my archives, which are, truth be told, sometimes hit and miss.
I swear to God I didn't bring up point #2, it just naturally arose in the conversation. The only reason I mention it here is to explain why I am going to start republishing old blog posts. I plan to do this once a week, not only because I am lazy but also because I think some of those things were good and I want people to read them.
I will still write new things.
Thank you for your time.