Yearly Archives: 2013

There, I said it

I’m going to go ahead and say it: I don’t like Starbucks. There, I said it. Come on, it’s like, why does everybody like Starbucks? They’re so stupid, with their dumb green signs, and their lines of people waiting to buy coffee. Oh look at me, I’m Starbucks, I sell bottles of water and little packages of fruit salad in an open display right before checkout. And get a load of this, I have Wi-Fi. Does anybody need to use the Internet? Because I have Wi-Fi.

And I’m going to go ahead and say another thing: I hate Wi-Fi. There, I just said that too. It’s like people can’t go anywhere without having to log on to the nearest Wi-Fi network. Every time somebody asks me, “Hey man, do you know if this place has Wi-Fi?” I want to be like, “Fuck you, man. I hate Wi-Fi. Why don’t you just use your cell phone’s data plan? Aren’t they all like unlimited data anyway? And even if it’s not, how much data are you really using, sitting there checking out Facebook at this Starbucks? Huh? And why are you asking me, do I look like I work here? Fuck no, man. A guy’s not allowed to wear a green hat, black polo, and green pants to a Starbucks without working at Starbucks? And who the hell are you, anyway? Where have you been for the past hundred years? Everybody knows that Starbucks has Wi-Fi, just look around man, what do you think all of these people are doing with their laptops open, huh? Playing solitaire? They’re not. Get lost.”

And I don’t even like coffee. Wow, I can’t believe I just said that, but there it is, I said it. It’s entirely way too much of a big deal over nothing. You ever see coffee in the wild? It doesn’t look anything like coffee. It’s these tiny little berry things, the kind of wild berry-looking fruit that your parents warned you not to touch as a little kid. OK fine, I won’t eat the berries, I’ll just cut them open, take the seeds out, let them dry, then I’ll roast them, grind them up, pour boiling hot water over them, and then drink the resulting brown liquid. What are you crazy?

You know what else I hate? Coffee cups. Let me get this straight, you make a stupid little paper cup to hold all of that boiling liquid, you pour the hot liquid inside, and then you reach to grab it, realizing that it’s too hot to hold. OK, that might have been an acceptable mistake the first time around. But to keep doing it over and over again? And you get those little sleeves? Hold on, I forgot to say, “there, I said it.” OK, I said it. So here, I’m saying it one more time, those sleeves are stupid. Just make a stronger coffee cup. Don’t take some piece of garbage cardboard and give it to me like, look, this is for you, so you don’t burn your hand. How about just don’t give me a cup of coffee, and don’t talk to me about Starbucks.

And you know what, I said that I hated coffee cups, but I hate all cups. It’s like, here, let me totally insult your intelligence and pour all of this water into some stupid receptacle, because you’re too dumb to figure out how to get that liquid inside of your mouth without me having to literally set it down right in front of you. Oh gee thanks for the cup of water. What, no instruction manual? Whoops, I accidentally poured everything out on the floor instead of in my mouth. Looks like I’m too much of an idiot to know how to use a stupid cup.

There, I said that too. I said it all. And I hate coffee, I hate cups, I said it. There. And I hate water. I hate the fact that we have to drink anything at all. What’s wrong with having a dry mouth? I like having a dry mouth every once in a while. There. It’s like, you ever have a conversation with somebody and they start talking really fast and all of the sudden they spit a little spit bubble in your mouth? I said it. I hate it. There. That would have never happened had humans evolved in such a way that they didn’t constantly need to wet their whistles with stupid liquid water. That’s why, given the option, I’ll always choose the intravenous saline solution. Because, fuck you biology, nobody tells me how to stay hydrated. You tell me what to do and I’ll do the opposite. I just don’t like it. I don’t have to like it. Everybody else likes it? I’m not afraid to go ahead and say it. I hate it. There. I said it. There.

Pass me the ranch

I just love ranch dressing. Pass me the ranch! That’s what I’m always saying, pass me the ranch. It tastes great on everything, chicken nuggets, celery sticks, popcorn, yeah, everybody knows that. That’s what ranch rookies use as a medium to consume their ranch dressing. But when I say it goes good on everything, I mean it. Like I put ranch on everything that I put into my mouth.

Like even if I need a drink of water. Even if I’m playing basketball or running a race and I’m sweating all over the place and my throat is dry and I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it another second without some serious rehydration, while all of my teammates are running for their water bottles or all of the other runners are slowing it down for one of those Gatorade stops, you’ll still hear me saying, “Pass the ranch.”

Because ranch has water in it. Everything has water in it. It’s basic physics. Water is one of the building blocks of everything. Right? So the trick in a situation where you really need some water it to just put down a ton of ranch dressing, like three or four bottles. And while I’ve been known to occasionally put my lips straight to the bottle, it’s really not in line with the spirit of ranch dressing, which by its nature, kind of suggests needing something to eat it with.

Usually something flavorless is better, like that celery stick I was talking about earlier. But there are so many tasteless, bland foods out there that make perfect vehicles for ranch consumption in heavy quantities. Lice rice cakes. Man, you get a solid enough rice cake, that thing can hold like half a bottle, maybe more if you’ve got a steady pour.

Or you know what’s a really professional ranch move? You go to an Asian grocery store, you buy some plain white soy paper, I think they use it for sushi or something, I don’t know. You moisten it slightly, I’m talking just moist enough so you can form it into a round cup without breaking. You make a bunch of these rounds, like one inch, two inches in diameter, you fill them with ranch and then stick two of them together to make a ball. Booyah, instant ranch bomb. One day I want to get in touch with one of those paintball manufacturers. Wouldn’t it be a cool idea to make like ranch paintballs? Because honestly, it’s one of the main reasons why I’ve never been paintballing: how are you supposed to make sure your ranch doesn’t get contaminated with paint? Ranchball, it’s going to happen sooner or later.

Or sometimes I like to go to restaurants that I know don’t serve ranch. I sit at the table and order a whole bunch of food, like chicken fingers, and fries, and onion rings, and more fries, and then when everything comes out, I’m like, hey waitress, where’s the ranch? I don’t even give her a chance to tell me that they don’t have ranch, I just keep peppering her with requests. Where’s the ranch? Bring me some extra ranch. Did you get that ranch yet? All while she’s still standing there passing out the chicken fingers and fries.

And then when she says they don’t have ranch, I like to make a big stink, like what kind of a place doesn’t have ranch? After the manager comes over and apologizes, usually he takes something off the bill, I send him away. And it’s OK, really, because I always have my own ranch with me. I keep a bottle in my jacket and a few emergency packets in my pants pockets. One time one of those packets exploded when I sat down too hard, and my sister, she was like, “Rob, are you still carrying around packets of ranch? I told you that was a bad idea, and now you’ve gone and done it.”

But I don’t mind, I love ranch dressing. What’s a little loose ranch dressing in my pockets? Now every time I go reach for my keys or see if I have any spare change, I can lick my fingers and get a little ranch pick me up. And I get to smell like ranch also. Or, I should say, I get to smell more like ranch, because I always cut my shampoo with just a little bit, just so if I’m working out and I start to sweat, when it drips down from my head to my mouth, it tastes a little ranchy.

Anybody looking for an easy investment? I’ve been trying to get this restaurant off the ground, we’d call either just Ranch, or Rob’s Ranch, I haven’t decided. I don’t want to make people think that I think that I own ranch, like it’s mine. Ranch is for everyone. But anyway, that’s not really important. It would be a regular restaurant, you know, grilled cheese, hamburgers, chicken fingers, but you wouldn’t have to ask any waiters or waitresses for ranch. No, there’s going to be a ranch gun installed next to every seat. So you just ask for some more celery sticks, and that’s it, you don’t have to bother anybody for extra ranch, like even more, like you’re only going to bring me two? You might as well make it four, or eight if you want to save yourself another trip back to the kitchen.

Hit me up, or if you see me on the street, let me know you’re interested. I’m the guy with the I Love Ranch t-shirt on, with the kind of greasy looking pockets, sometimes, usually. Yeah, it’s messy, but what can I say? I just love it. I just love ranch dressing.

Substitute teacher

When I was a little kid, every day I’d wake up for school, it was always the same drill, the same getting up way too early, way earlier than a human child is supposed to naturally wake up. Breakfast was a haze, I always remember sitting around the kitchen table, half-asleep, constantly pissed off at my brother reading the back of the cereal box while eating his cereal, annoyed in the way that an older brother gets watching his younger brother just sitting there content, minding his own business.

It was just a regular school day. Summer vacation would still be months away, even Friday felt impossibly out of reach. All I’d have to look forward to on any given day was going to school, sitting in class, bored, trying not to get in trouble for fidgeting in my seat too much. Then I’d go home, I’d have to do my homework, help set the table for dinner, and then it’d be bedtime.

But every once in a while the universe would hand me a present, would break up the monotony of the school year with its routines and assignments and homework. Every now and then I’d arrive at school, I’d line up in the cafeteria to wait for the teachers to bring us into the classrooms, and we’d walk down the hallway and I’d see all of my classmates entering up ahead.

Something would be different. I could hear giggling, euphoria. Whereas normally the chatting would be silenced by our teacher immediately upon walking through the door, this time something was definitely different, instead of shutting up, everybody was getting louder. What was going on? Who was inside?

And I could already sense it, that our teacher was out, that, for whatever reason, maybe she was sick, maybe she just took a personal day, it doesn’t matter, she wasn’t there. It would be a substitute teacher. And for the rest of that day anyway, all bets were off.

My school had a rotating cast of subs. The best was Mrs. Tackish. She should have been our regular teacher. She loved kids. She loved us. While our regular teachers would yell, scream, “Stop laughing! Get in your seats this second!” Mrs. Tackish would welcome us to the classroom with a huge smile, a, “Good morning children! I’m so happy to be substituting today! We’re going to have so much fun!”

And we would. Of course our regular teacher probably left some bullshit photocopied worksheets for us to fill out, but Mrs. Tackish saw right through all of that nonsense busywork. Let’s play Seven-Up instead. Seven-Up was the greatest, seven kids selected to stand in front of the class, everyone else remained seated, putting their heads down on their desks. With nobody watching, each one of the seven would tap someone on the head. A hand was raised to indicate you’d been tapped. Then the seven lined up back at the front and each of the seven who’d been chosen got one chance to correctly guess who had been the tapper. If you got it right, congratulations, you got to take a turn up front.

Or there’d be hangman. It’s actually not that great of a game. I mean, not for an adult. Recently I found myself at work, it was dead and so a bunch of us started playing hangman. The category was movies, my coworker put five dashes and then three dashes. He showed it to me and I immediately said, Cabin Boy, to which he stared at me in disbelief for like a while, because how did I get it so quickly, with no letters?

But in grammar school? Hangman was the shit. It was all about putting things up there that the teacher had no idea about, like names of cartoon characters, weird little inside jokes. Under normal circumstances, mild giggling would be acceptable while playing hangman, but with Mrs. Tackish, even a full-blown uproar was tolerated.

Unfortunately, The Tackish (as we referred to her with utmost reverence) wasn’t always available to sub. In that case, our school would default to the B-team, which included the recent college grads still looking for teaching jobs, a bunch of retired nuns who used to teach school decades ago or, if things were really bad, somebody’s mom or dad would have to fill in. I always felt really bad for whoever wound up having to sit there while their parent pretended to be a teacher. It was painfully obvious how bad of a teacher impersonation they were performing, and everyone would make fun of that kid for at least two weeks, how he had to sit there and either call the teacher mom or Mrs. and then his own last name.

I wish we could have subs in the adult world. I wish that I’d show up for work some random das and instead of my regular boss there’d be a sub, and even better, it would be Mrs. Tackish. I’m a waiter, and so tables would start complaining about this and that, and instead of me having to explain the situation without upsetting anybody in charge, I could just go to the Tackish and laugh, like, hey Tackish, get a load of these clowns at table twenty-five. And she’s go, “Oh Rob!” like trying to be in charge, but really just getting a huge kick out of it, out of all of us, just goofing around and having a great day.

Movie Review: The Wolverine

After watching The Wolverine, I’m starting to doubt my power to give any superhero movie a fair review. Am I that biased? Have decades of reading comic books left me unable to separate the good from the garbage? I mean, yes, I loved Dark Knight Rises. Like, I really, really, really loved Dark Knight Rises. But I thought Daredevil was pretty cool. And Thor. And Iron Man 3. And Spider-Man 3. And X-Men 3.

And The Wolverine. I was watching that movie in the theater, sitting there, thinking to myself, man, this is a pretty cool movie. Pretty badass. Even when Wolverine got escorted through security, and the guards are waving the metal detectors all over his body, and all of the readings are off, you know, he’s got that metal skeleton and everything, and he says, “hip replacement,” I was like, well, OK, yeah, that’s kind of cheesy, but it’s still OK. I mean, yeah, he does have a metal skeleton and I’m sure that’s got to be annoying after a while, constantly trying to explain himself.

And then much later in the movie when he’s trying to get through airport security and the machine’s going nuts, and he’s just like, “I want the pat-down,” it’s like, really? Two metal detector jokes? But maybe it’s not a joke, maybe they’re just really driving home the point that, if you had a metal skeleton, this is what you’d have to deal with on a regular basis, deal with it. And that’s kind of like a really hard directorial trick, right? Like getting us really inside the character’s head?

But I’m jumping ahead. It starts in the woods somewhere. The Wolverine is sleeping outside, not like in a tent or anything, but just right outside. And he’s got a severe case of PTSD. But that’s OK too, because he’s sworn off killing, a solemn vow as he calls it. Except, there’s this guy in the woods who shoots this bear that the Wolverine has befriended, and that kind of sets him off, like it’s just the right offense to make him forget his solemn vow.

But that’s kind of believable, I mean, if I were living in the woods by myself, with a big beard and long hair, and a stupid little radio that runs on size D batteries, batteries that kept dying way too fast, so fast that I’d have to walk all the way into town and buy just one two-pack of batteries and then walk all the way back to the woods, and my only friend was a bear, and somebody shot my friend, I guess I’d be pissed. Yeah, that makes sense.

We’re out of the woods soon enough. The Wolverine’s got some business to attend to in Japan. Some guy that the Wolverine saved from the atom bomb in Nagasaki wants to say thank you, and goodbye, and also, sit still for a second so I can steal your healing powers, please. The whole rest of the movie takes place in Japan, showing off everything as Japanese as you might imagine: ninjas, samurais, secret orders of the black clan, marrying the Minister of Justice to help out with your family’s honor, getting scolded for leaving your chopsticks sticking out of your bowl of rice. It’s all very authentic. And very picturesque too.

In the comics, Wolverine does spend some time in Japan, and he winds up getting involved with a woman named Mariko. I only mention this because, when you see Mariko and Wolverine suddenly fall in love, the only reason that makes sense as to where the out-of-nowhere mutual attraction arose from is, well, it happened in the comics, so there you go, it’s happening in this movie also. But whatever, it’s love at first sight. That’s no reason to criticize a movie. In fact, it’s just another added dimension to the film. Look at me, I’m practically a romantic over here, gushing about true love.

There’s some blond villain named Viper. It’s one of those names that she kind of gives herself while she does this speech explaining her powers, more or less, “I possess the ability to manufacture any type of poison. Also, I’m immune to every class of venom. I guess you could say I’m a … Viper.” And it just takes off, because soon random Japanese people are referring to her as capital V Viper in their English subtitles.

But I can’t knock it. That’s her name, it’s Viper. That’s who she is. Who am I to judge her name, how she dresses? Hell, if I were a blond super villain named Viper, I’d probably only wear green also. Like green leather pants, and green tank tops. And then green dresses later on, and green eye shadow. That’s her thing, she wears green, like a snake, like a green viper. And she has that viper tongue, it’s always like slithering out of her mouth. She’s like a snake lady.

And then, I don’t know, there’s fighting and stuff. And there’s some sort of a plan to kidnap a granddaughter to trick the son, who in turn is using the fiancé, all in an effort to get back at the grandfather, I think. And the Wolverine is there. And he does this crazy fight scene on top of a three hundred mile per hour train.

It’s awesome! That’s probably all that it is, it’s just a truly great movie. I’m here doubting my reviewing skills, but it’s not me, it’s not me just blindly slapping a seal of approval on all projects Marvel. No, The Wolverine must have been a truly amazing movie. Some things don’t need to make sense. Or some things probably do make sense, it’s just my fault for not really getting them. Like when the Viper lady gets stabbed in the heart and dies, why is she able to peel off her skin and restart her pulse? I don’t know, it’s probably some really technical snake ability that I don’t get.

Whatever, superhero movies are the best. I could watch The Wolverine like three more times, today, and I’d still be entertained. Just keep them coming. Like man, I hope they make a Daredevil 2. Or even better, a Spider-Man 3 2. Maybe they could do a crossover, Spider-Man 3 Vs. Daredevil. That would be pretty sick. Even though Michael Clark Duncan probably won’t get to be Kingpin again, because he died.

You can’t find me

You’ll have to find me first. I’m the best at hiding, at picking out choice hiding spots. You might walk into a sparsely furnished room, you’d think, OK, well, if he’s not behind the couch, then he’s not here, because there’s nowhere else to hide. Wrong. I could be hiding in that space in between the ceiling and the lights. What do you call that space? There’s a name for it. Do you know what I’m talking about? Like in an office. Like there are those tiles that you push up and there’s a little space before the real ceiling. OK, yeah, it’s a sparsely furnished office room, I wasn’t very specific. But that’s OK, that doesn’t change anything, because that’s where I’d be hiding, and you’d pop your head inside, you’d think, nope, no way he’s hiding out here, on to the next room.

You might be saying to yourself, why would I tell? Why would I give away such a good hiding spot? Because while it might be a good hiding spot to you, the average hider, to a professional such a myself, that’s actually a pretty poor hiding spot. And by me giving you a supposed hint as to where you might want to start looking, I’m only further guaranteeing that you’ll definitely never find me. I’m already in your head, before I’ve even given you a chance to count to twenty, I’m making it even more difficult that you’ll ever figure out where I am.

Because, OK, picture yourself back in that office. You open the door, this time you think to yourself, well, normally I’d pass right by, but now I’m definitely at least going to poke up around in that ceiling space. Go ahead, be my guest. Now you’re only giving me even more time to quietly sneak out of my real hiding spot, in that giant file cabinet on the other side of the room. See, it was a hasty decision, yeah, but it’s still a great hiding spot. And now that I’ve got you wasting time pushing up ceiling tiles, it’s as easy as slipping out quietly and further eluding my chances of ever getting caught.

I know what you’re thinking: stupid, stupid Rob. Why are you being so dumb, offering up the entire plan? Now all I have to do is walk into the room, check out the file cabinets, make sure you’re not inside, and then make my way to the ceiling. But I’m not the stupid one, you’re the stupid one. Because I’m not even in this office room. So far everything I’ve said has been a cleverly planned ruse, designed to make you spend at least half an hour locked inside, pointlessly opening up cabinets, pushing aside ceiling tiles, and then spending even more time trying get those ceiling tiles back into place. It’s not as easy at it looks, especially in this office building, because the ceiling is so high up you need a step ladder to reach it.

Or maybe I am in the ceiling. You’ll never know. And if you’ve made it to this paragraph, I doubt that you’ll ever challenge me to a game of hide and seek. You’ll think to yourself, no way, Rob’s already thought this out further than I care to spend time playing and, ultimately being soundly defeated.

It’s because I’m the best at finding the best hiding spots. I think I’m technically still currently playing at least half a dozen games of manhunt. It’s like the Korean War, nobody’s playing anymore, but the game never ended on account of me never having been found out. It’s like, if you really, really never want to see me again, challenge me to a game, I hide, you seek. I’ll disappear from your life completely. Everywhere you look, that’s where I won’t be, I’ll make sure of it.

And that’s how I eventually want to make my exit from this mortal coil. I’m not going to waste my time saying goodbyes or writing out a will or making it like, ooh, I’ve only got a little bit of time left, I’ve better make every minute with my loved ones count. Nope, I’m going to challenge the whole family to a game of hide and seek, and they’ll be like, what? Are you serious? What’s going on? And I’ll just scream out, go! And that’ll be it. Poof. You’ll never find me or see me ever again. I’m the best at finding hiding spots.