Sorry about the lengthy Chuck E. Cheese post. I'd started writing it a while back, and thought i would release a few bits every other day, but then I thought "No, just get it over with. You don't want to punish people for coming back to the site on a regular basis."
Sometimes posts just form, and you go with them.
Day 1 of the conference is good. I couldn't sleep last night until late, and that was on top of getting 4 hours of sleep Saturday/ Sunday... so I sort of paid for it today. I'm going to bed very early tonight and will try again tomorrow.
Last night my freak bout of insomnia led to me accidentally watching the entirety of the the "Sex and the City" movie. I believed I was tuning in to watch the ending, which was actually the beginning. And the next thing I knew, it was very late and the credits were rolling.
I guess I'm glad that if we're going to co-opt the romantic comedy formula for Seth Rogan, Paul Rudd, et al., and their Bromance movies, that I'm comfortable in the knowledge that the SitC movie and show are squarely not aimed at me. Which makes some of my beefs with the movie irrelevant (such as the fact that men, both straight and otherwise, appear as little but plot points in the series or movie). Like a photonegative of the Apatow-esque dude comedies, the men of SitC are there to reinforce the notion that we all love these characters, even when you want to scream "run away!" at the screen. (Be free, Big! BE FREEEEEEEE!) I suppose this must be how many people feel at the prospect of, say, Seth Rogan writing himself a part where Katherine Heigl falls for anyone approximating Seth Rogan.
Curiously, my feeling during the run of SITC, that the characters are largely completely self-absorbed, awful people, was sort of addressed in the movie. I believe it was largely tackled in part as the closed narrative of the movie forced actual character development to occur instead of the cyclical nature of the TV show. The show hung on the characters' inability to really move on or progress as humans, which would end the show.
I didn't love it, but it was okay, and I couldn't sleep and it was on.
Just want to apologize for Chuck E. Cheese again.
I am tired already and am off to bed.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Me and Chuck E. Cheese
Edit: I am a bit horrified to find that Whitney Matheson of Pop Candy has re-redirected her readership here to The League (big fan of Pop Candy! Hi, Whitney!). Welcome one and all. I also apologize for the many, many grammatical and typographical errors. If I'd time, I'd clean it up, but alas.
Every year on my birthday, people ask where I want to go for dinner to celebrate. And every year, I say the same thing. I say that I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese.
Its partially a test. The truth is, I sort of figured out a long time ago that even if its your birthday, you sort of need to pick neutral territory that everyone will like. You cannot say "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese", because nobody over the age of 9 really wants to find themselves at Chuck E. Cheese for any length of time. Which is why they sell beer (or they did). So its always a fun litmus test to see how batshit people (especially Jason) will go when you quietly insist that, yes, you DO want to go to Chuck E. Cheese. When pushed, I insist that I like pizza, videogames and a complementary animatronic floorshow. And offer up helpful bits like "I told you where I wanted to go, and if you don't want to go there, that's fine. Just take me wherever."
I have actually had two birthdays at Chuck E. Cheese. When I was in 5th grade, my parents finally caved and agreed to let me have my party at a Chuck E. Cheese somewhere in Austin (probably off Burnet). And I recall pretty distinctly all of my friends just sort of milling around, realizing we were too old for Chuck E. Cheese. Whether we were too big for the "rides", or weren't into the robots anymore, or whatever... I just remember an awful sinking feeling that I'd made a mistake.
They probably still do this, but they would announce the names of kids having birthdays and bring out these cakes with these goofy sparkling candles, and Chuck would come by and give you a present. And as all of this was going on, all I could think was "Oh, Jesus Christ, I'm too old for all of this..." And as I was about to open the present from Chuck, this girl in a visor who worked there sort of apologized to me in advance, letting me know "we only have presents for little kids..." as I opened up what was a dollar-store Fisher-Price knockoff toy car. Pretty clearly intended for a kid, ages 2-6.
You Want Money, You Better Earn It
At age 16, I was informed I was to find a job once school let out. There was a certain window of time when school let out when people would plan to hire kids for the summer. This was kind of understood by me and my high school pals but possibly less understood by my folks. That year we headed out of town shortly after school let out, and remained gone for a couple of weeks. When I returned, I hit the road every day for several hours filling out applications, but to no avail. I was told at every place I applied that I could fill out an application, but they weren't hiring. For reasons unknown to me to this day, my inability to find a job was met with skepticism by my parents, who seemed to believe all you had to do to land a job was walk in the door of whever you wanted to work, and they'd hire you.
I confess I had a couple of rules.
1) I wouldn't sack groceries. Houston summers can be brutal enough, and I wanted to not wear the goofy bow-tie, long pants and smock get-up Randall's employed. Apparently the Randall's corporation believed that such a get-up would fool their patrons into believing that they were shopping in some Mom and Pop corner store during the early days of the 20th Century rather than in a state of the art grocery with automated rainfall on the out-of-season produce and endless aisles of preservative-laced foods.
In short, I didn't want to sweat so badly in my job that I'd not get tips, which is how the sackers made their dough.
2) I was avoiding the food industry. Apparently The KareBear had some amazing experience working at the same restaurant as a waitress for years as she made her way through school. But everyone I talked to made it sound like a lot of late nights and uncomfortable situations with assistant managers. Also, I get grossed out by other people's partially eaten food.
I wasn't going to land some sweet gig that my parents set up for me (which was something to always be jealous of), and I was starting late, after every 16 year old in the greater Spring area was already out and looking.
Landing the Job
But... Chuck E. Cheese was hiring.
When I asked for an application, the manager pumped my hand and asked if I could come back the next day. He was in his 30's, 6'4", wore a tie, and seemed like a great guy. The next day he put me in a booth, we chatted lightly (I had no experience doing anything but reading comics, shooting free-throws and doing homework, so... not much to chat on), and I thought we hit it off great. I was in!
I'd be nowhere near the food. I'd be working the Game Floor, which I imagined would be a bit like playing casino host to a bunch of 5-10 year-olds, handing out tokens, occasionally polishing a game, and getting free food.
Jason begged me not to work at Chuck E. Cheese. Family Pal Larry Lee had worked at a Chuck's in Austin when he and Jason were in high school.
"You don't just play the videogames," Jason told me. "You're going to hate it."
I steamed. Chuck E. Cheese was supposed to be fun, by definition. I had a job, and he didn't, so was clearly jealous of my job-landing skills, which... when the manager saw me, he clearly saw the potential that I thought pretty much darn near everyone SHOULD see in me.
I started a week later to the semi-surprise of the two managers on duty, Angel and Jim. Angel was probably in her early 30's, but looked older. I had a foot on Jim, and a head of hair he lacked, which at age 16, made me estimate him at somewhere between 20 and 95. The manager who had hired me was no longer with the store. No explanation was given.
With a few others, I was led to the back to be given a uniform and some cursory instructions. Stuff like "food isn't free, but it is half-off. Plan to be here for a two or more hours after closing every night. More on Saturdays" It was true I would be on the gamefloor, which thrilled me. No clearing plates of other people's slobbered-upon pizza crusts. No touching cups with lipstick smears. I would sweep up, I would wipe down machines. And, curiously, despite an utter lack of experience with anything more than a crystal radio kit, I would repair machines and games. And, give out tokens to kids who claimed they'd "lost" a token.
But there was literally no training. The tasks we were to perform were mostly so idiot simple (go sweep up pizza crusts), that I guess spending time training wasn't really necessary. And, what I would soon learn about the staffing issues probably led the managers to believe it was a waste of time.
Some vintage Chuck horror
The Uniform
Not clear on the spirit of the law, but intent to maintain the letter, I listened carefully to the uniform instructions. I was to wear what they gave me. No exceptions. A red, collared shirt with my name-tag. A blue visor with the logo. And a pair of khaki pants that was pretty clearly too small for me.
Someone asked if we could substitute our own clothing.
The answer was a definitive "no".
I have no recollection of my first day, other than squeezing into the pants I'd been assigned and worrying a great deal about whether I would burst, Hulk-like, from the pants should I squat down, and exactly how much of my wedding tackle would be on display at each shift, because... golly those pants were tight.
Plus, the visor pushed my hair up into a weird sort of explosion, jutting out the top of the elastic band.
I hopped into my disintegrating '83 Honda and headed off for work.
I was relieved to find we wore these little blue smocks that covered the area of primary concern, but did nothing to disguise the action going on in the aft.
The Way it Works
The most important thing to know is how totally gross a place full of children eating greasy pizza really is. Especially kids full of sugar who believe all bets are off because the ranting, robotic mouse keeps telling them they can "be a kid". Which, apparently, means pushing, shoving, kicking people in mascot costumes in the crotch and ass, and occasionally vomiting for no particular reason.
If I had a triumph in the summer of 1991, it was that I drew a line in the land which stated that I would clean neither the stalls, nor the vomit from the floor. That job, I bargained and bartered my way out of it. And you knew you were in dutch with the managers if you had to clean the bathrooms, but at our store, that usually fell to the "show floor" staff, who were perceived to have it somehow easier than the game floor staff during the usual hours.
But kids sort of leak fluids. Never, ever, ever allow your child to play in the ball crawl. No matter what they tell you, you can't actually clean one of those things. Just vacuuming the thing thoroughly, which was done a few times each week with a shop-vac, took the entire evening cleaning shift from 10 - 12:00 or 12:30. There was a semi-annual schedule for actually cleaning the ball crawl, and reportedly they found all kinds of stuff in there.
Walk into any Chuck E. Cheese, and you'll see some schlub constantly wiping things down. That's because greasy little kids are putting their greasy little hands on everything, always. Leaving handprints. The definition of sisyphian task was trying to keep the glass doors to the place hand-print free on a Saturday. Which the managers would do if they were displeased with you for some slight. Or, if they were really irritated, you could be condemned to rub the rubber floor edgings with lemon oil.
My Fellow Staffers
The turn-over was incredible. The entire crew I started with was gone within three or four weeks. Having a new person wander out to join you on shift occurred with such regularity, I mostly identified people by their physical traits instead of names. Guy Who Talks About Being Drunk All the Time. Girl With Too-Huge Boobs. Old Person. Too Much Make-Up Girl. That Guy Who Wears Shorts Even Though Its Not Regulation, But Nobody Says Anything. We were also not really supposed to talk to each other, anyway. Perhaps they feared Chuck himself would lead a Norma Rae-line uprising.
I didn't work many mornings, which was when you wanted to work. Customers tend not to hit the Chuck until later afternoon on weekdays, so the place is oddly sedate for the first few hours, especially before opening. And there were these two women who were in their late-40's, I'd guess, who had been there in a minimum wage position for over a decade. We were going through staff like people go through grapes, and these two had been there and seen it all. They were entrusted with the amazing "token counting machine", which had to be run every morning so they'd know how many tokens were in the store. I remember asking why they didn't become managers if they were there so long, and the conversation became suddenly very awkward until one of them assured me that they didn't want all the trouble of being a manager.
And from what little I knew of Jim and Angel, I didn't blame them. Angel seemed only like she constantly wished to be anywhere but there, but was at least kind of useful. Jim just dreamed up stuff for you to do, like polishing the baseboards. He just seemed particularly frustrated, and refused to crack a smile, even when I slipped and fell in the kitchen and the first words out of my mouth were "there's a lawsuit in there somewhere!" I spent that next Saturday cleaning windows.
Career Advancement
Sure enough, I learned how to fix the ski-ball machines through a sure-fire method of trial and error that would make any psychology lab proud. (If you perform this action, you will receive an electric shock... if you perform that action, the game will come back alive, and you get to play a few rounds to test the machine).
I cleared out hobos. Once ate a handful of the pink powder they use to make cotton candy, right out of the box (do not recommend). Gave away handfuls of tokens to kids who lied about losing them. But never dressed in the mascot suit, for which my carriage was too large.
I did almost wear it once on a slow day, but a party of several dozen showed up, unaware you were supposed to schedule a birthday party in advance. Thus, my one chance for wearing the suit (and going to Fiesta to drum up business, which is what I told the manager I was going to do), was foiled.
Losing Faith in Humanity
I don't know if any particular incident occurred during my summer at The Chuck, but I do recall coming home every night increasingly despondent over what I saw as some less-than-stellar parenting. Drunk parents. Parents who yelled. Parents who felt that Chuck E. Cheese was some sort of "time out" for them, and that whatever happened on behalf of their destructive little monsters within the confines of our store was our problem. Kids whose parents tried to use the Chuck as a daycare.
And I'll never forget the dad who walked up to the ball-crawl while I was on duty and just heaved his infant into the balls. I didn't actually see the action occur so much as looked over and saw the top of an infant's head disappearing beneath the balls, which were about 6-12 inches higher than the actual balls. Plus: Infant with no motor skills and 10 year olds doing flips off the sides into the pit is just a bad combo.
"Sir," I said, yanking the baby out of the balls. "Is this your child?"
A guy I know didn't look like Jeff Foxworthy, but that's how my brain recalls him, sort of stared at me through the netting.
"Sir, I don't think this is a good idea."
I now know that the look of incomprehension probably came from a pack of Coors Light which had probably been consumed pre-Chuck, but I watched as he tried to sort out what I was saying.
"The ball pit is actually pretty deep. I don't think its good for your child."
"She likes it!" he insisted.
The child was actually somewhat emotionless, which was impressive, given the fate which could have greeted her at the bottom of the ball pit.
"Aren't ya'll supposed to watch these kids?"
"Well, yeah. But this isn't really safe."
"You don't think...?" He said, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to return to the table with his child instead of just heading to the counter for a pitcher of the lousiest beer in Spring.
"She may be a little small for the ball crawl," I explained. "She can't stand up in here."
"I think she'd have fun," he was still looking for an angle.
"I don't think so......"
He reluctantly took the child back. And I flashed forward to a lifetime of similar decisions this child was going to endure at the hands of her idiot father. I imagined sitting on the handlebars of an ATV couldn't be too far off in her future.
The Floor Show @#$%ing Sucks
I'd been working at Chuck E. Cheese all of a week when I was having dinner at my friend Mari's house and her brother asked, "So, are you in the band?"
I didn't have super-fabulous memories of the Rock-a-Fire explosion from Showbiz Pizza, or the mishmash of other characters that had populated Chuck E. Cheese when I was little. But I do remember that they played familiar radio tunes. And by played, I mean awkwardly jerked around in something always approximating the beat, but not actually on beat, with the patented delirious eye-rolls and herky-jerky laughing, lifted straight from the on-cue guffaws one saw on TV variety shows of the era.
At some point between when I'd last stepped into a Chuck E. Cheese, and had been weirded out that Mitzy Mozzarella was receiving a spotlight solo for lip-synching the Bangles' "Eternal Flame", and when I started work, someone in the Chuck E. Cheese corporation figured out they could save money by penning original, family friendly tunes. About stuff like "Summer Fun".
And so, every 55 minutes or so, I was reminded of the summer fun kids were supposed to be having while I was pushing a dust pan around and sweeping up stray pizza crusts, waxing the floorboards and telling little scam artists that I would not give them a handful of either tokens or tickets at no charge. Not even if they volunteered to be my friend (which happened more often than you'd think).
The band was sort of a weird deal, in that they had the different pre-programmed sets, and I don't really remember them every breaking. They just never seemed to be programmed all that well to begin with. And when they were taking a break or whatever was supposed to be happening behind the scenes, they still bombarded the place with music and video of the band. So, really, from the minute you walked in until the minute we closed the door behind Tipsy McStaggerson and Family, you had to hear the same loop of half-assed, crappily penned and performed tunes about important topics like fun, friendship and hygiene.
This is sort of the set up we had.
Our store may have been a former Showbiz, from before the merger, as the layout was a multi-stage affair, and different from a lot of what I see on YouTube. They'd reskinned the Rock-afire explosion during the conversion, or something. I don't know. I never thought to care enough to ask.
The show emulated a bygone era of a band, an MC and a comedy act, which the kids, short on their fandom of "Our Show of Shows" may not have been picking up on the origins of the borscht-belt humor and stylings. But, hey, talking rat and his horrible, Italian stereotype, Pasquale and whatever the hell else made up the band (such as purple horror, Munch), always hit their cues and were far less trouble than the average Chuck E. Cheese employee.
I honestly think the kids kind of hated the band.
One Armed Bandits and Free Videogames
My friend Dave (not his real name) took a job at The Chuck shortly after me, apparently intrigued by the possibility of wearing the mouse suit or something. He somehow ended up behind the counter, which is where veterans usually worked (you know, people with 6 months of experience).
I noted that he would often be on the floor playing games during my shift. Often at multiple times, with the smock removed and his visor off, indicating he was "off duty". His girlfriend was often hanging out next to him, despite the fact she didn't work there.
"How did you swing two breaks today?" I asked him as I passed the Whack-a-Mole machine one day (I'd gotten amazingly good at Whack-a-Mole, which needed constant fixing). He looked at me like the sucker I was, and continued playing.
"Dude," he explained. "They never pay attention. I just take breaks whenever I feel like it."
"But don't they notice all the breaks on your time card?"
This was met with a sigh. "I don't ever actually clock out."
"Oh."
"Yeah, you're the only person who doesn't do it. Haven't you ever noticed that?"
"No," I answered honestly.
"You need to start."
I never did.
Like everyone else, he was also using the stash of tokens to play the games for free. And while he wasn't exactly robbing the place blind (really, there was little to steal in a commerce system that worked on Chuck E Currency), he had figured out how to game the system in about two weeks. I never did.
Dave had been born with one-arm, which hadn't slowed him down at all. He played sports, including lacrosse, which he was much better at than me, what with my two hands.
It was never an issue for anyone until he was assigned to wear the mouse suit and the kids noticed Chuck had an arm that didn't look quite right. The rules were pretty simple for wearing the suit, which I didn't do, as I was too tall. Put on the suit, walk around (but not when Chuck is on stage), shake hands, wave "hello" to babies, and when kids start to attack, which they always will... retreat. And never talk when you're in the suit.
And so it was that some kid spied Chuck's arm just sort of hanging there and called him out.
"Hey, you're not Chuck E. Cheese! You're the guy from behind the counter."
Dave waved a "no" motion with his one hand.
"Yeah, you are!"
"Yeah, you are!" a chorus of suddenly ugly little children chimed in.
"Shut up, kid!" the mouse said in a muffled voice, his plastic mouth never moving.
"Yeah, you are! You're that guy from the counter!"
And, of course, the kicking and hitting began as Chuck uttered some profanities and retreated to the stage door.
Here's a training video someone put together, probably in response to how uninspiring it is to get in the suit and beaten for $4.25 an hour.
Also, you can see the basic uniform I wore at the time. Also, why is there jazzy 80's keyboard music through this whole thing?
All Good Things Must End
In my final weeks, I remember feeling daring and going into work in non-regulation pants. After weeks of seemingly smuggling grapes into Chuck E. Cheese, not one person noticed or said anything about my pair of non-reg khakis that allowed for greater freedom of movement, shall we say.
I wound up scheduled in the ball-crawl a lot. Which I hated, but I kind of hated it less than other jobs, because usually you were scheduled alone in the ball-crawl, which meant it was less likely you'd get stuck with Only talks About How Much he Drinks Guy, and spend six hours hearing about how very much liquor he'd drunk out of his parent's cabinets the night before.
Until one day I crawled into the ballcrawl and someone came in right after me. We chatted for a while, agreed it was weird we were both scheduled in there, and then I went back out to check the schedule. I was nowhere to be found on the chart.
"What the hey?" I asked Angel.
Apparently after I'd checked the schedule on Sunday (when it was supposed to be final), she had changed it, and I was supposed to show up and work Monday instead of Tuesday. When i didn't show Monday, she'd assumed that, like everyone else, I'd quit and rescheduled my shifts to others for the entire week and closed me out as an employee. This was just how most people quit. You just quit showing up, and if you didn't show, they weren't going to pick up a phone and call you or anything crazy like that. My absence was taken the same as every other of the hundred or so similar disappointments they would see breeze through that year.
"We've made the schedule for the next week, already. You aren't on it. Maybe the next week?"
"Honestly," I sighed. "I was quitting then. I start school and have after-school obligations."
"Well," Angel and Jim (who'd shown up) assured me, I would have a place at Chuck E. Cheese any time if I wanted to come back.
I considered it that fall when the play I was in ended, but another play came immediately after, and so on. Alas, I never returned to The Chuck to work.
Return to the Chuck
I went back in high school after quitting to take some students from my mother's class out for a "special day". The food was terrible, I used up my non-free-tokens in about five minutes and so retreated to a booth and watched the show.
A few of my classmates were there working, and I saw nobody who had worked there with me. I felt badly for all of them. Especially when Michael P. was yelling at me through the Munch mascot costume so I'd know it was him in there.
They've changed Chuck's look. He no longer dresses like a ringleader, pimp or showman, all in red sparkles and a fancy hat. Instead, he's now a sort of mid-90's idea of corporatified "cool for kids", with a sort of sporty look, as if he might go roller blading or something else edgy or "in your face". I dunno. Miss the old Chuck. I sort of think of him as this old, outmoded entertainer, and I've always thought of him that way. No need for kneepads and a skateboard.
And then sometime in 2002, just before I moved, my co-workers packed into cars and took me to Chuck E. Cheese for lunch on my birthday. The pizza was better than I remembered, and the show just as creepy and bad.
We hung out way too long, and got back to work an hour late, thanks to playing video games. And I tore a four inch hole in the leg of my jeans jumping onto a jet-ski video game, ninja style.
I confess I don't know if I entirely feel good or healthy in regards to Chuck E. Cheese. Or about trying to drag friends and family into my annual desire for self-immolation by way of animatronic floorshow. But it is what it is.
There have been rumors we may be returning to Chuck E. Cheese pizza in the coming week in celebration of my birthday. I let my annual threat slip, and I think people are taking me up on it.
More reports as events warrant.
Every year on my birthday, people ask where I want to go for dinner to celebrate. And every year, I say the same thing. I say that I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese.
Its partially a test. The truth is, I sort of figured out a long time ago that even if its your birthday, you sort of need to pick neutral territory that everyone will like. You cannot say "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese", because nobody over the age of 9 really wants to find themselves at Chuck E. Cheese for any length of time. Which is why they sell beer (or they did). So its always a fun litmus test to see how batshit people (especially Jason) will go when you quietly insist that, yes, you DO want to go to Chuck E. Cheese. When pushed, I insist that I like pizza, videogames and a complementary animatronic floorshow. And offer up helpful bits like "I told you where I wanted to go, and if you don't want to go there, that's fine. Just take me wherever."
I have actually had two birthdays at Chuck E. Cheese. When I was in 5th grade, my parents finally caved and agreed to let me have my party at a Chuck E. Cheese somewhere in Austin (probably off Burnet). And I recall pretty distinctly all of my friends just sort of milling around, realizing we were too old for Chuck E. Cheese. Whether we were too big for the "rides", or weren't into the robots anymore, or whatever... I just remember an awful sinking feeling that I'd made a mistake.
They probably still do this, but they would announce the names of kids having birthdays and bring out these cakes with these goofy sparkling candles, and Chuck would come by and give you a present. And as all of this was going on, all I could think was "Oh, Jesus Christ, I'm too old for all of this..." And as I was about to open the present from Chuck, this girl in a visor who worked there sort of apologized to me in advance, letting me know "we only have presents for little kids..." as I opened up what was a dollar-store Fisher-Price knockoff toy car. Pretty clearly intended for a kid, ages 2-6.
You Want Money, You Better Earn It
At age 16, I was informed I was to find a job once school let out. There was a certain window of time when school let out when people would plan to hire kids for the summer. This was kind of understood by me and my high school pals but possibly less understood by my folks. That year we headed out of town shortly after school let out, and remained gone for a couple of weeks. When I returned, I hit the road every day for several hours filling out applications, but to no avail. I was told at every place I applied that I could fill out an application, but they weren't hiring. For reasons unknown to me to this day, my inability to find a job was met with skepticism by my parents, who seemed to believe all you had to do to land a job was walk in the door of whever you wanted to work, and they'd hire you.
I confess I had a couple of rules.
1) I wouldn't sack groceries. Houston summers can be brutal enough, and I wanted to not wear the goofy bow-tie, long pants and smock get-up Randall's employed. Apparently the Randall's corporation believed that such a get-up would fool their patrons into believing that they were shopping in some Mom and Pop corner store during the early days of the 20th Century rather than in a state of the art grocery with automated rainfall on the out-of-season produce and endless aisles of preservative-laced foods.
In short, I didn't want to sweat so badly in my job that I'd not get tips, which is how the sackers made their dough.
2) I was avoiding the food industry. Apparently The KareBear had some amazing experience working at the same restaurant as a waitress for years as she made her way through school. But everyone I talked to made it sound like a lot of late nights and uncomfortable situations with assistant managers. Also, I get grossed out by other people's partially eaten food.
I wasn't going to land some sweet gig that my parents set up for me (which was something to always be jealous of), and I was starting late, after every 16 year old in the greater Spring area was already out and looking.
Landing the Job
But... Chuck E. Cheese was hiring.
When I asked for an application, the manager pumped my hand and asked if I could come back the next day. He was in his 30's, 6'4", wore a tie, and seemed like a great guy. The next day he put me in a booth, we chatted lightly (I had no experience doing anything but reading comics, shooting free-throws and doing homework, so... not much to chat on), and I thought we hit it off great. I was in!
I'd be nowhere near the food. I'd be working the Game Floor, which I imagined would be a bit like playing casino host to a bunch of 5-10 year-olds, handing out tokens, occasionally polishing a game, and getting free food.
Jason begged me not to work at Chuck E. Cheese. Family Pal Larry Lee had worked at a Chuck's in Austin when he and Jason were in high school.
"You don't just play the videogames," Jason told me. "You're going to hate it."
I steamed. Chuck E. Cheese was supposed to be fun, by definition. I had a job, and he didn't, so was clearly jealous of my job-landing skills, which... when the manager saw me, he clearly saw the potential that I thought pretty much darn near everyone SHOULD see in me.
I started a week later to the semi-surprise of the two managers on duty, Angel and Jim. Angel was probably in her early 30's, but looked older. I had a foot on Jim, and a head of hair he lacked, which at age 16, made me estimate him at somewhere between 20 and 95. The manager who had hired me was no longer with the store. No explanation was given.
With a few others, I was led to the back to be given a uniform and some cursory instructions. Stuff like "food isn't free, but it is half-off. Plan to be here for a two or more hours after closing every night. More on Saturdays" It was true I would be on the gamefloor, which thrilled me. No clearing plates of other people's slobbered-upon pizza crusts. No touching cups with lipstick smears. I would sweep up, I would wipe down machines. And, curiously, despite an utter lack of experience with anything more than a crystal radio kit, I would repair machines and games. And, give out tokens to kids who claimed they'd "lost" a token.
But there was literally no training. The tasks we were to perform were mostly so idiot simple (go sweep up pizza crusts), that I guess spending time training wasn't really necessary. And, what I would soon learn about the staffing issues probably led the managers to believe it was a waste of time.
Some vintage Chuck horror
The Uniform
Not clear on the spirit of the law, but intent to maintain the letter, I listened carefully to the uniform instructions. I was to wear what they gave me. No exceptions. A red, collared shirt with my name-tag. A blue visor with the logo. And a pair of khaki pants that was pretty clearly too small for me.
Someone asked if we could substitute our own clothing.
The answer was a definitive "no".
I have no recollection of my first day, other than squeezing into the pants I'd been assigned and worrying a great deal about whether I would burst, Hulk-like, from the pants should I squat down, and exactly how much of my wedding tackle would be on display at each shift, because... golly those pants were tight.
Plus, the visor pushed my hair up into a weird sort of explosion, jutting out the top of the elastic band.
I hopped into my disintegrating '83 Honda and headed off for work.
I was relieved to find we wore these little blue smocks that covered the area of primary concern, but did nothing to disguise the action going on in the aft.
The Way it Works
The most important thing to know is how totally gross a place full of children eating greasy pizza really is. Especially kids full of sugar who believe all bets are off because the ranting, robotic mouse keeps telling them they can "be a kid". Which, apparently, means pushing, shoving, kicking people in mascot costumes in the crotch and ass, and occasionally vomiting for no particular reason.
If I had a triumph in the summer of 1991, it was that I drew a line in the land which stated that I would clean neither the stalls, nor the vomit from the floor. That job, I bargained and bartered my way out of it. And you knew you were in dutch with the managers if you had to clean the bathrooms, but at our store, that usually fell to the "show floor" staff, who were perceived to have it somehow easier than the game floor staff during the usual hours.
But kids sort of leak fluids. Never, ever, ever allow your child to play in the ball crawl. No matter what they tell you, you can't actually clean one of those things. Just vacuuming the thing thoroughly, which was done a few times each week with a shop-vac, took the entire evening cleaning shift from 10 - 12:00 or 12:30. There was a semi-annual schedule for actually cleaning the ball crawl, and reportedly they found all kinds of stuff in there.
Walk into any Chuck E. Cheese, and you'll see some schlub constantly wiping things down. That's because greasy little kids are putting their greasy little hands on everything, always. Leaving handprints. The definition of sisyphian task was trying to keep the glass doors to the place hand-print free on a Saturday. Which the managers would do if they were displeased with you for some slight. Or, if they were really irritated, you could be condemned to rub the rubber floor edgings with lemon oil.
My Fellow Staffers
The turn-over was incredible. The entire crew I started with was gone within three or four weeks. Having a new person wander out to join you on shift occurred with such regularity, I mostly identified people by their physical traits instead of names. Guy Who Talks About Being Drunk All the Time. Girl With Too-Huge Boobs. Old Person. Too Much Make-Up Girl. That Guy Who Wears Shorts Even Though Its Not Regulation, But Nobody Says Anything. We were also not really supposed to talk to each other, anyway. Perhaps they feared Chuck himself would lead a Norma Rae-line uprising.
I didn't work many mornings, which was when you wanted to work. Customers tend not to hit the Chuck until later afternoon on weekdays, so the place is oddly sedate for the first few hours, especially before opening. And there were these two women who were in their late-40's, I'd guess, who had been there in a minimum wage position for over a decade. We were going through staff like people go through grapes, and these two had been there and seen it all. They were entrusted with the amazing "token counting machine", which had to be run every morning so they'd know how many tokens were in the store. I remember asking why they didn't become managers if they were there so long, and the conversation became suddenly very awkward until one of them assured me that they didn't want all the trouble of being a manager.
And from what little I knew of Jim and Angel, I didn't blame them. Angel seemed only like she constantly wished to be anywhere but there, but was at least kind of useful. Jim just dreamed up stuff for you to do, like polishing the baseboards. He just seemed particularly frustrated, and refused to crack a smile, even when I slipped and fell in the kitchen and the first words out of my mouth were "there's a lawsuit in there somewhere!" I spent that next Saturday cleaning windows.
Career Advancement
Sure enough, I learned how to fix the ski-ball machines through a sure-fire method of trial and error that would make any psychology lab proud. (If you perform this action, you will receive an electric shock... if you perform that action, the game will come back alive, and you get to play a few rounds to test the machine).
I cleared out hobos. Once ate a handful of the pink powder they use to make cotton candy, right out of the box (do not recommend). Gave away handfuls of tokens to kids who lied about losing them. But never dressed in the mascot suit, for which my carriage was too large.
I did almost wear it once on a slow day, but a party of several dozen showed up, unaware you were supposed to schedule a birthday party in advance. Thus, my one chance for wearing the suit (and going to Fiesta to drum up business, which is what I told the manager I was going to do), was foiled.
Losing Faith in Humanity
I don't know if any particular incident occurred during my summer at The Chuck, but I do recall coming home every night increasingly despondent over what I saw as some less-than-stellar parenting. Drunk parents. Parents who yelled. Parents who felt that Chuck E. Cheese was some sort of "time out" for them, and that whatever happened on behalf of their destructive little monsters within the confines of our store was our problem. Kids whose parents tried to use the Chuck as a daycare.
And I'll never forget the dad who walked up to the ball-crawl while I was on duty and just heaved his infant into the balls. I didn't actually see the action occur so much as looked over and saw the top of an infant's head disappearing beneath the balls, which were about 6-12 inches higher than the actual balls. Plus: Infant with no motor skills and 10 year olds doing flips off the sides into the pit is just a bad combo.
"Sir," I said, yanking the baby out of the balls. "Is this your child?"
A guy I know didn't look like Jeff Foxworthy, but that's how my brain recalls him, sort of stared at me through the netting.
"Sir, I don't think this is a good idea."
I now know that the look of incomprehension probably came from a pack of Coors Light which had probably been consumed pre-Chuck, but I watched as he tried to sort out what I was saying.
"The ball pit is actually pretty deep. I don't think its good for your child."
"She likes it!" he insisted.
The child was actually somewhat emotionless, which was impressive, given the fate which could have greeted her at the bottom of the ball pit.
"Aren't ya'll supposed to watch these kids?"
"Well, yeah. But this isn't really safe."
"You don't think...?" He said, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to return to the table with his child instead of just heading to the counter for a pitcher of the lousiest beer in Spring.
"She may be a little small for the ball crawl," I explained. "She can't stand up in here."
"I think she'd have fun," he was still looking for an angle.
"I don't think so......"
He reluctantly took the child back. And I flashed forward to a lifetime of similar decisions this child was going to endure at the hands of her idiot father. I imagined sitting on the handlebars of an ATV couldn't be too far off in her future.
The Floor Show @#$%ing Sucks
I'd been working at Chuck E. Cheese all of a week when I was having dinner at my friend Mari's house and her brother asked, "So, are you in the band?"
I didn't have super-fabulous memories of the Rock-a-Fire explosion from Showbiz Pizza, or the mishmash of other characters that had populated Chuck E. Cheese when I was little. But I do remember that they played familiar radio tunes. And by played, I mean awkwardly jerked around in something always approximating the beat, but not actually on beat, with the patented delirious eye-rolls and herky-jerky laughing, lifted straight from the on-cue guffaws one saw on TV variety shows of the era.
At some point between when I'd last stepped into a Chuck E. Cheese, and had been weirded out that Mitzy Mozzarella was receiving a spotlight solo for lip-synching the Bangles' "Eternal Flame", and when I started work, someone in the Chuck E. Cheese corporation figured out they could save money by penning original, family friendly tunes. About stuff like "Summer Fun".
And so, every 55 minutes or so, I was reminded of the summer fun kids were supposed to be having while I was pushing a dust pan around and sweeping up stray pizza crusts, waxing the floorboards and telling little scam artists that I would not give them a handful of either tokens or tickets at no charge. Not even if they volunteered to be my friend (which happened more often than you'd think).
The band was sort of a weird deal, in that they had the different pre-programmed sets, and I don't really remember them every breaking. They just never seemed to be programmed all that well to begin with. And when they were taking a break or whatever was supposed to be happening behind the scenes, they still bombarded the place with music and video of the band. So, really, from the minute you walked in until the minute we closed the door behind Tipsy McStaggerson and Family, you had to hear the same loop of half-assed, crappily penned and performed tunes about important topics like fun, friendship and hygiene.
This is sort of the set up we had.
Our store may have been a former Showbiz, from before the merger, as the layout was a multi-stage affair, and different from a lot of what I see on YouTube. They'd reskinned the Rock-afire explosion during the conversion, or something. I don't know. I never thought to care enough to ask.
The show emulated a bygone era of a band, an MC and a comedy act, which the kids, short on their fandom of "Our Show of Shows" may not have been picking up on the origins of the borscht-belt humor and stylings. But, hey, talking rat and his horrible, Italian stereotype, Pasquale and whatever the hell else made up the band (such as purple horror, Munch), always hit their cues and were far less trouble than the average Chuck E. Cheese employee.
I honestly think the kids kind of hated the band.
One Armed Bandits and Free Videogames
My friend Dave (not his real name) took a job at The Chuck shortly after me, apparently intrigued by the possibility of wearing the mouse suit or something. He somehow ended up behind the counter, which is where veterans usually worked (you know, people with 6 months of experience).
I noted that he would often be on the floor playing games during my shift. Often at multiple times, with the smock removed and his visor off, indicating he was "off duty". His girlfriend was often hanging out next to him, despite the fact she didn't work there.
"How did you swing two breaks today?" I asked him as I passed the Whack-a-Mole machine one day (I'd gotten amazingly good at Whack-a-Mole, which needed constant fixing). He looked at me like the sucker I was, and continued playing.
"Dude," he explained. "They never pay attention. I just take breaks whenever I feel like it."
"But don't they notice all the breaks on your time card?"
This was met with a sigh. "I don't ever actually clock out."
"Oh."
"Yeah, you're the only person who doesn't do it. Haven't you ever noticed that?"
"No," I answered honestly.
"You need to start."
I never did.
Like everyone else, he was also using the stash of tokens to play the games for free. And while he wasn't exactly robbing the place blind (really, there was little to steal in a commerce system that worked on Chuck E Currency), he had figured out how to game the system in about two weeks. I never did.
Dave had been born with one-arm, which hadn't slowed him down at all. He played sports, including lacrosse, which he was much better at than me, what with my two hands.
It was never an issue for anyone until he was assigned to wear the mouse suit and the kids noticed Chuck had an arm that didn't look quite right. The rules were pretty simple for wearing the suit, which I didn't do, as I was too tall. Put on the suit, walk around (but not when Chuck is on stage), shake hands, wave "hello" to babies, and when kids start to attack, which they always will... retreat. And never talk when you're in the suit.
And so it was that some kid spied Chuck's arm just sort of hanging there and called him out.
"Hey, you're not Chuck E. Cheese! You're the guy from behind the counter."
Dave waved a "no" motion with his one hand.
"Yeah, you are!"
"Yeah, you are!" a chorus of suddenly ugly little children chimed in.
"Shut up, kid!" the mouse said in a muffled voice, his plastic mouth never moving.
"Yeah, you are! You're that guy from the counter!"
And, of course, the kicking and hitting began as Chuck uttered some profanities and retreated to the stage door.
Here's a training video someone put together, probably in response to how uninspiring it is to get in the suit and beaten for $4.25 an hour.
Also, you can see the basic uniform I wore at the time. Also, why is there jazzy 80's keyboard music through this whole thing?
All Good Things Must End
In my final weeks, I remember feeling daring and going into work in non-regulation pants. After weeks of seemingly smuggling grapes into Chuck E. Cheese, not one person noticed or said anything about my pair of non-reg khakis that allowed for greater freedom of movement, shall we say.
I wound up scheduled in the ball-crawl a lot. Which I hated, but I kind of hated it less than other jobs, because usually you were scheduled alone in the ball-crawl, which meant it was less likely you'd get stuck with Only talks About How Much he Drinks Guy, and spend six hours hearing about how very much liquor he'd drunk out of his parent's cabinets the night before.
Until one day I crawled into the ballcrawl and someone came in right after me. We chatted for a while, agreed it was weird we were both scheduled in there, and then I went back out to check the schedule. I was nowhere to be found on the chart.
"What the hey?" I asked Angel.
Apparently after I'd checked the schedule on Sunday (when it was supposed to be final), she had changed it, and I was supposed to show up and work Monday instead of Tuesday. When i didn't show Monday, she'd assumed that, like everyone else, I'd quit and rescheduled my shifts to others for the entire week and closed me out as an employee. This was just how most people quit. You just quit showing up, and if you didn't show, they weren't going to pick up a phone and call you or anything crazy like that. My absence was taken the same as every other of the hundred or so similar disappointments they would see breeze through that year.
"We've made the schedule for the next week, already. You aren't on it. Maybe the next week?"
"Honestly," I sighed. "I was quitting then. I start school and have after-school obligations."
"Well," Angel and Jim (who'd shown up) assured me, I would have a place at Chuck E. Cheese any time if I wanted to come back.
I considered it that fall when the play I was in ended, but another play came immediately after, and so on. Alas, I never returned to The Chuck to work.
Return to the Chuck
I went back in high school after quitting to take some students from my mother's class out for a "special day". The food was terrible, I used up my non-free-tokens in about five minutes and so retreated to a booth and watched the show.
A few of my classmates were there working, and I saw nobody who had worked there with me. I felt badly for all of them. Especially when Michael P. was yelling at me through the Munch mascot costume so I'd know it was him in there.
They've changed Chuck's look. He no longer dresses like a ringleader, pimp or showman, all in red sparkles and a fancy hat. Instead, he's now a sort of mid-90's idea of corporatified "cool for kids", with a sort of sporty look, as if he might go roller blading or something else edgy or "in your face". I dunno. Miss the old Chuck. I sort of think of him as this old, outmoded entertainer, and I've always thought of him that way. No need for kneepads and a skateboard.
And then sometime in 2002, just before I moved, my co-workers packed into cars and took me to Chuck E. Cheese for lunch on my birthday. The pizza was better than I remembered, and the show just as creepy and bad.
We hung out way too long, and got back to work an hour late, thanks to playing video games. And I tore a four inch hole in the leg of my jeans jumping onto a jet-ski video game, ninja style.
I confess I don't know if I entirely feel good or healthy in regards to Chuck E. Cheese. Or about trying to drag friends and family into my annual desire for self-immolation by way of animatronic floorshow. But it is what it is.
There have been rumors we may be returning to Chuck E. Cheese pizza in the coming week in celebration of my birthday. I let my annual threat slip, and I think people are taking me up on it.
More reports as events warrant.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Deep Thoughts on Kitties
I was looking at the box of Arm & Hammer cat litter that we keep for Jeff, and it struck me how odd the pictures they put on cat products are when they choose to use photos. Cats just don't photo terribly well. Add in the fact that when cats ARE happy, they don't usually have a facial expression or body language to alert you to the fact that would be photographable. So on all cat products, they kind of depend on just getting photos of cats with piqued attention. Ie: they take pics of cats who are in hunting mode. Or, cats who are thinking of destroying/ killing/ maiming something.
And that's a little weird.
EDIT: here's some cat imagery that hopefully Jason will enjoy.
The only thing on their minds is murder.
Jeff the Cat as imagined by Frank Quitely (from We3)
Red Lantern Kitty (from: Rage of the Red Lanterns)
Li'l Leaguers: Kid wins contest to be in Superman book by Stone Arch
I mentioned a while back that Stone Arch Books is publishing kids reader books featuring Superman (which you should BUY so your kids will grow up as right-minded people). Well, I particularly dig this deal.
They had a contest to write about a hero at their school, and the winner was placed into a story with Superman. Pretty cool stuff. Read more here.
Tip of the hat to Superman Homepage.
Julia's B-Day
Went over to Vivo tonight (off Manor) to have dinner with League-Pal Julia. Julia and I worked together at Enspire, sharing offices upon occasion (it was sort of tradition for producers at Enspire to change offices every few months), and becoming lunch buddies and outside-of-work buddies.
Julia's pretty smart (she went to MIT), but not smart enough to not be my pal, so this evening, we raised a glass or two for JEP. I don't think she actually reads LoM, but if she did, I'd say "Happy Birthday, Julia Goolia".
Also, I always forget about Vivo, but its really pretty good. I'm partial to it.
Jonathan and Billie were there, too, for Leaguers who want to track their movements.
Who Wants to Websling Down the Great, White Way?
Nathan sent this along. It's an announcement about auditions for the upcoming Spider-Man Musical with music by Bono and The Edge. Click on the block about "Casting Calls".
Apparently, they're casting in Austin. Which only makes sense. The producers obviously were looking for me to shave my head and play Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin. Because I look @#$%ing GOOD in a purple ascot.
Countdown to the Land of the Ice and Snow
As a reminder, Sunday I board a plane for Minneapolis. For Leaguers looking to party down with a bunch of Library professionals, have I got a place for YOU.
I'm happy to go. Sadder that its conflicting with what was supposed to be my birthday present (enjoy that ticket to Springsteen, Reed-o). But if my birthday plans weren't completely screwed, it wouldn't be my birthday. Although, on reflection, last year went well. Its just been pretty much every other single birthday since I turned 17 that's been lackluster.
Ah, well. Once every decade and a half is pretty good, I guess.
I would much rather be in Minneapolis hangin' with my bosses than seeing Springsteen rocking "Thunder Road". Yeah. Awesome. Maybe we can go to Mall of America and visit a Sbarro or something.
Anyhow, blogging may be heavy if I'm just sitting in a hotel room. But if I keep getting shanghied by the dudes who sign my paycheck, I might not blog so much. Who can say?
All I know is that it'll probably snow at night. And I'm ready for springtime.
I was looking at the box of Arm & Hammer cat litter that we keep for Jeff, and it struck me how odd the pictures they put on cat products are when they choose to use photos. Cats just don't photo terribly well. Add in the fact that when cats ARE happy, they don't usually have a facial expression or body language to alert you to the fact that would be photographable. So on all cat products, they kind of depend on just getting photos of cats with piqued attention. Ie: they take pics of cats who are in hunting mode. Or, cats who are thinking of destroying/ killing/ maiming something.
And that's a little weird.
EDIT: here's some cat imagery that hopefully Jason will enjoy.
The only thing on their minds is murder.
Jeff the Cat as imagined by Frank Quitely (from We3)
Red Lantern Kitty (from: Rage of the Red Lanterns)
Li'l Leaguers: Kid wins contest to be in Superman book by Stone Arch
I mentioned a while back that Stone Arch Books is publishing kids reader books featuring Superman (which you should BUY so your kids will grow up as right-minded people). Well, I particularly dig this deal.
They had a contest to write about a hero at their school, and the winner was placed into a story with Superman. Pretty cool stuff. Read more here.
Tip of the hat to Superman Homepage.
Julia's B-Day
Went over to Vivo tonight (off Manor) to have dinner with League-Pal Julia. Julia and I worked together at Enspire, sharing offices upon occasion (it was sort of tradition for producers at Enspire to change offices every few months), and becoming lunch buddies and outside-of-work buddies.
Julia's pretty smart (she went to MIT), but not smart enough to not be my pal, so this evening, we raised a glass or two for JEP. I don't think she actually reads LoM, but if she did, I'd say "Happy Birthday, Julia Goolia".
Also, I always forget about Vivo, but its really pretty good. I'm partial to it.
Jonathan and Billie were there, too, for Leaguers who want to track their movements.
Who Wants to Websling Down the Great, White Way?
Nathan sent this along. It's an announcement about auditions for the upcoming Spider-Man Musical with music by Bono and The Edge. Click on the block about "Casting Calls".
Apparently, they're casting in Austin. Which only makes sense. The producers obviously were looking for me to shave my head and play Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin. Because I look @#$%ing GOOD in a purple ascot.
Countdown to the Land of the Ice and Snow
As a reminder, Sunday I board a plane for Minneapolis. For Leaguers looking to party down with a bunch of Library professionals, have I got a place for YOU.
I'm happy to go. Sadder that its conflicting with what was supposed to be my birthday present (enjoy that ticket to Springsteen, Reed-o). But if my birthday plans weren't completely screwed, it wouldn't be my birthday. Although, on reflection, last year went well. Its just been pretty much every other single birthday since I turned 17 that's been lackluster.
Ah, well. Once every decade and a half is pretty good, I guess.
I would much rather be in Minneapolis hangin' with my bosses than seeing Springsteen rocking "Thunder Road". Yeah. Awesome. Maybe we can go to Mall of America and visit a Sbarro or something.
Anyhow, blogging may be heavy if I'm just sitting in a hotel room. But if I keep getting shanghied by the dudes who sign my paycheck, I might not blog so much. Who can say?
All I know is that it'll probably snow at night. And I'm ready for springtime.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The Show Must Go On
I was, of course, kidding about bailing when I wrote the April Fool's post (see, yesterday). For good or ill, we've no plans to shutter The League.
Today I talked two of my co-workers into attending a "Learning Break" for Library staff on the subject of "blogs and RSS feeds". Our office offers a blogging tool for facult to use to discuss their areas of expertise, so I figured I'd see what the presentation was about, and how they were pitching use of blogs in libraries. It turned out to be a very, very basic course on what a blog is, and how to use an RSS feed reader. And, of course, there were some in the room who had never actually read a blog and needed that kind of help.
Anyway, it was a fine presentation, but I just kept thinking "Six years. Six years. Six years."
A brief thought did occur to me, that if nobody said anything about me declaring The League was done and over with, I was going to feel pretty darn bad. I've heard of this happening with cartoon strips ending, etc... The creator sort of fantasizes about complaints regarding the end of the series, but then not a single letter comes in.
I am glad that I read about that at a young age. It's best to set expectations for yourself.
DC Comics launched a blog, by the way.
My Friends are Broken
Lauren is still recovering at home. Still on liquids. We're wishing her well and hoping she's on the mend. And, of course, Steven is doing a fantastic job making sure she's a-ok. She's not back to break dancing speed yet, but I have faith we'll see her headspinning shortly.
Mangum apparently brought home some sort of Thai Hooker Fever from his vacation. It sounds like he's got strep throat, which is treatable, but fairly awful during the process. So glad I shared fries with him at the movie theater...
Anyhow, Nicole has stepped up and reported in this evening. She's got Matty's back.
Thriller and Comics
There's a coffee shop now in the PCL where I work, and as I do not function without coffee, they see me every day. Which means I'm friendly with the staff.
I had to admit to them today that I was old enough to remember when Thriller was released (they were listening to the album and asked if I knew "the Thriller dance"). I watched their eyes as they mentally did the math and then become sad for me for being so close to the grave. Still, they promised me a lifetime of free coffee if I actually performed the Thriller dance.
I am considering it.
I'm a fan of shopping where people know me, and its a rarity in this day and age. The Austin Books guys know who I am, which is nice, but as I don't hang around the store, they don't exactly know me (well, Brad does). Part of the curse of only showing up once a week for about fifteen minutes, I guess. But I'm also happy that Austin Books is healthy enough that they aren't going to know every dude who walks in the door by default.
New Flash out today, by the way. Seems off to a good start, which The Flash sorely needed. It's been mostly not-good since 2005, but I'm sort of a Flash nut, so I hate to give up on the Scarlet Speedster.
It's tough to explain what happens in serial comics as writers come on and go off the title, and add their own little bits. But its also nice to know that Geoff Johns has made a hell of a career for himself by knowing what works and doesn't, and getting it all sort of straightened out through the actual story-telling.
My favorite line from the new issue? Barry Allen talking about Hal Jordan:
And he laughed under his breath like a maniac whenever The League was outnumbered.
Throw in some Van Sciver art that's above and beyond even what I'd expect (and I was expecting some good stuff), and it's worth the price of admission.
Anyway, yes, if you're playing catch-up and haven't read a comic since the 1980's, Barry Allen will be the Flash in the newest series.
TV
I don't know if I'm going to be as okay with all the explaining Lost is going to have to do as I thought I was. I have a bad feeling the last two episodes will feel like the final five minutes of the movie "Clue".
I'm also still enjoying "Kings" on NBC.
Today I talked two of my co-workers into attending a "Learning Break" for Library staff on the subject of "blogs and RSS feeds". Our office offers a blogging tool for facult to use to discuss their areas of expertise, so I figured I'd see what the presentation was about, and how they were pitching use of blogs in libraries. It turned out to be a very, very basic course on what a blog is, and how to use an RSS feed reader. And, of course, there were some in the room who had never actually read a blog and needed that kind of help.
Anyway, it was a fine presentation, but I just kept thinking "Six years. Six years. Six years."
A brief thought did occur to me, that if nobody said anything about me declaring The League was done and over with, I was going to feel pretty darn bad. I've heard of this happening with cartoon strips ending, etc... The creator sort of fantasizes about complaints regarding the end of the series, but then not a single letter comes in.
I am glad that I read about that at a young age. It's best to set expectations for yourself.
DC Comics launched a blog, by the way.
My Friends are Broken
Lauren is still recovering at home. Still on liquids. We're wishing her well and hoping she's on the mend. And, of course, Steven is doing a fantastic job making sure she's a-ok. She's not back to break dancing speed yet, but I have faith we'll see her headspinning shortly.
Mangum apparently brought home some sort of Thai Hooker Fever from his vacation. It sounds like he's got strep throat, which is treatable, but fairly awful during the process. So glad I shared fries with him at the movie theater...
Anyhow, Nicole has stepped up and reported in this evening. She's got Matty's back.
Thriller and Comics
There's a coffee shop now in the PCL where I work, and as I do not function without coffee, they see me every day. Which means I'm friendly with the staff.
I had to admit to them today that I was old enough to remember when Thriller was released (they were listening to the album and asked if I knew "the Thriller dance"). I watched their eyes as they mentally did the math and then become sad for me for being so close to the grave. Still, they promised me a lifetime of free coffee if I actually performed the Thriller dance.
I am considering it.
I'm a fan of shopping where people know me, and its a rarity in this day and age. The Austin Books guys know who I am, which is nice, but as I don't hang around the store, they don't exactly know me (well, Brad does). Part of the curse of only showing up once a week for about fifteen minutes, I guess. But I'm also happy that Austin Books is healthy enough that they aren't going to know every dude who walks in the door by default.
New Flash out today, by the way. Seems off to a good start, which The Flash sorely needed. It's been mostly not-good since 2005, but I'm sort of a Flash nut, so I hate to give up on the Scarlet Speedster.
It's tough to explain what happens in serial comics as writers come on and go off the title, and add their own little bits. But its also nice to know that Geoff Johns has made a hell of a career for himself by knowing what works and doesn't, and getting it all sort of straightened out through the actual story-telling.
My favorite line from the new issue? Barry Allen talking about Hal Jordan:
And he laughed under his breath like a maniac whenever The League was outnumbered.
Throw in some Van Sciver art that's above and beyond even what I'd expect (and I was expecting some good stuff), and it's worth the price of admission.
Anyway, yes, if you're playing catch-up and haven't read a comic since the 1980's, Barry Allen will be the Flash in the newest series.
TV
I don't know if I'm going to be as okay with all the explaining Lost is going to have to do as I thought I was. I have a bad feeling the last two episodes will feel like the final five minutes of the movie "Clue".
I'm also still enjoying "Kings" on NBC.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
6 Years. Almost 3000 posts.
Well, holy shit.
March 30, 2003 I wrote my first blog post here at LoM. We're dangerously close to 3000 posts (the counter says 2995, but that's misleading), so that should give a good indicator of our rate of posting.
Six years. 3000 posts. Where's my gold watch from Blogger.com?
In blogging lifespans, I'm a frikkin' methuselah. I've not raised and lowered the boom on a number of blogs. Its just been six straight years of the same-old-same-old.
It's been a great run. When I decide to start a new blog, you people will be the first to know.
THE END
March 30, 2003 I wrote my first blog post here at LoM. We're dangerously close to 3000 posts (the counter says 2995, but that's misleading), so that should give a good indicator of our rate of posting.
Six years. 3000 posts. Where's my gold watch from Blogger.com?
In blogging lifespans, I'm a frikkin' methuselah. I've not raised and lowered the boom on a number of blogs. Its just been six straight years of the same-old-same-old.
It's been a great run. When I decide to start a new blog, you people will be the first to know.
THE END
Monday, March 30, 2009
Lauren in Hospital
After work, Jamie picked me up and we headed straight over to Seton NW to check in on Leaguer Lauren. I am happy to say that she's handling the situation with her usual gusto, and I would expect she'll be back to swing dancing her way across Austin again fairly soon.
I also realized how much goddamn time I've spent sitting in hospital rooms just like the one she and Steven are sitting in. I've never really wanted to count the total days that I've spent sleeping in those chairs or shuttling between home and the hospital and work, eating on the road or in the greasy spoon that all hospitals seem to have for a cafeteria.
And I don't think Jamie or her mother would want to tally the hours Jamie's spent sitting in a hospital bed.
The truth is, there have been so many trips to the hospital, and so many trips to the ER, and so many procedures and surgeries, I've lost count completely. I can't even ballpark.
That's not to detract from Lauren's stay, which is going swimmingly, save some post-op discomfort, etc... and Steven is doing his part, it seems. You just can't help but walk into a hospital room and not evaluate, assess, etc... and want to give tips on how you can proactively manage the situation, even if nobody wants to hear it.
Lauren was chatty, which is the best sign possible, even if its pretty obvious she isn't hitting on all six cylinders quite yet. We saw pictures of what they saw and what they took out. Its odd to look at the innards of a pal. Its who they are, but it isn't any part of what you think of when you think of them. But modern technology gives us that amazing insight into territory folks didn't see thirty years ago without an operating lab or a cadaver.
I hope Lauren comes home tomorrow, as has been suggested. But mostly I hope she feels better tomorrow and she receives the best in care. Again, Steven is doing his part, as you kind of knew he would.
Juan and Letty came up, and we decamped to The Cheesecake Factory where the old Arbor stood when I was a kid until sometime after college. Letty and Juan are about to move in a week or so, so I'm watching them with great interest as they prepare the next step in preparing for Baby #1.
The Old Models are Busted
Watched with interest as the White House made moves on the auto industry today. The part of me that's been trained to believe that this isn't how things are supposed to work is deeply at war with the part that says "if they want the money, then things must be different". I've not reconciled my opinion on this issue as of now, but don't think it's "wrong", per se. But it also unreconcilable to say that the industry can make it without the money, just as its unrealistic to believe that leaving the powers that be that got us there in the first place are going to know how to do things differently. Or that the car companies weren't going to just go under without assistance.
But that doesn't mean I'm keen to go deeper into debt to resolve the issue. Or that the US should have a department worried about car manufacturing.
As I said... unreconciled.
But I suspect we'll be talking about this for a long, long time.
I generally try to avoid political affiliation, not because I'm deeply private (see: the last 6 years of this blog). Rather, I'm not particularly a fan of buying into a set of ideologies that can't conform to new or unanticipated situations, or unable to change when its clear the old models aren't working. Or trying to apply a single rule to all situations, as if all situations required the same treatment.
It seems it would leave one unprepared for the eventuality of the unanticipated. And its been that kind of political expediency and "common knowledge" application of the rules thats made so much of the bailout efforts so bungled. We aren't supposed to have government involved with dictating business, but if we don't support the business, huge parts of the economy fail. If we became involved, we're nationalizing and becoming something we don't want to be, but if we don't place rules (as has happened with criticism surrounding AIG, etc...), then we're being irresponsible.
It's a no-win. But everyone agrees SOMETHING must be done. Its just that everyone has a different opinion, and everyone is sure that the rules with which they arrived at the party are the right ones.
Its a bit like those scenarios in movies where they have to pause and someone has to declare "gentlemen, we're in uncharted territory...", and then nobody says anything for a beat or two before they cut scene.
I have no idea how any of this works. But I'm willing to see a brand new, previously unthinkable plan at least tried. Because we sort of know the consequences of doing nothing, and/ or doing what we were doing, which wasn't helping. At all.
And, hey, if we never tried new things, we'd all still be going to the barber for a good bleeding every time we got a sniffle.
@#$% Day is OFF
I'm not feeling it.
After work, Jamie picked me up and we headed straight over to Seton NW to check in on Leaguer Lauren. I am happy to say that she's handling the situation with her usual gusto, and I would expect she'll be back to swing dancing her way across Austin again fairly soon.
I also realized how much goddamn time I've spent sitting in hospital rooms just like the one she and Steven are sitting in. I've never really wanted to count the total days that I've spent sleeping in those chairs or shuttling between home and the hospital and work, eating on the road or in the greasy spoon that all hospitals seem to have for a cafeteria.
And I don't think Jamie or her mother would want to tally the hours Jamie's spent sitting in a hospital bed.
The truth is, there have been so many trips to the hospital, and so many trips to the ER, and so many procedures and surgeries, I've lost count completely. I can't even ballpark.
That's not to detract from Lauren's stay, which is going swimmingly, save some post-op discomfort, etc... and Steven is doing his part, it seems. You just can't help but walk into a hospital room and not evaluate, assess, etc... and want to give tips on how you can proactively manage the situation, even if nobody wants to hear it.
Lauren was chatty, which is the best sign possible, even if its pretty obvious she isn't hitting on all six cylinders quite yet. We saw pictures of what they saw and what they took out. Its odd to look at the innards of a pal. Its who they are, but it isn't any part of what you think of when you think of them. But modern technology gives us that amazing insight into territory folks didn't see thirty years ago without an operating lab or a cadaver.
I hope Lauren comes home tomorrow, as has been suggested. But mostly I hope she feels better tomorrow and she receives the best in care. Again, Steven is doing his part, as you kind of knew he would.
Juan and Letty came up, and we decamped to The Cheesecake Factory where the old Arbor stood when I was a kid until sometime after college. Letty and Juan are about to move in a week or so, so I'm watching them with great interest as they prepare the next step in preparing for Baby #1.
The Old Models are Busted
Watched with interest as the White House made moves on the auto industry today. The part of me that's been trained to believe that this isn't how things are supposed to work is deeply at war with the part that says "if they want the money, then things must be different". I've not reconciled my opinion on this issue as of now, but don't think it's "wrong", per se. But it also unreconcilable to say that the industry can make it without the money, just as its unrealistic to believe that leaving the powers that be that got us there in the first place are going to know how to do things differently. Or that the car companies weren't going to just go under without assistance.
But that doesn't mean I'm keen to go deeper into debt to resolve the issue. Or that the US should have a department worried about car manufacturing.
As I said... unreconciled.
But I suspect we'll be talking about this for a long, long time.
I generally try to avoid political affiliation, not because I'm deeply private (see: the last 6 years of this blog). Rather, I'm not particularly a fan of buying into a set of ideologies that can't conform to new or unanticipated situations, or unable to change when its clear the old models aren't working. Or trying to apply a single rule to all situations, as if all situations required the same treatment.
It seems it would leave one unprepared for the eventuality of the unanticipated. And its been that kind of political expediency and "common knowledge" application of the rules thats made so much of the bailout efforts so bungled. We aren't supposed to have government involved with dictating business, but if we don't support the business, huge parts of the economy fail. If we became involved, we're nationalizing and becoming something we don't want to be, but if we don't place rules (as has happened with criticism surrounding AIG, etc...), then we're being irresponsible.
It's a no-win. But everyone agrees SOMETHING must be done. Its just that everyone has a different opinion, and everyone is sure that the rules with which they arrived at the party are the right ones.
Its a bit like those scenarios in movies where they have to pause and someone has to declare "gentlemen, we're in uncharted territory...", and then nobody says anything for a beat or two before they cut scene.
I have no idea how any of this works. But I'm willing to see a brand new, previously unthinkable plan at least tried. Because we sort of know the consequences of doing nothing, and/ or doing what we were doing, which wasn't helping. At all.
And, hey, if we never tried new things, we'd all still be going to the barber for a good bleeding every time we got a sniffle.
@#$% Day is OFF
I'm not feeling it.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
We apologize if we've been a bit negligent in our duties here at League of Melbotis. Last week was chock full of busy-ness, Jamie was fighting off a cold, and I'm old and I get tired.
Saturday was given over to the astounding brand of capitalism that only Ikea has managed to pull off without enraging the populace. How they've trained us all into herding through their mouse maze with all the tidbits of cheese at every step is beyond me. I think its because we know there's a cafe in the middle of maze. And its not just shopping there that's at least an hour-long endeavor (and that's if you want one item, like we did). There's also the "okay, its home... oh, yeah. Now I lose half-a-day assembling this thing" that we went through. (We got a TV cabinet/ armoire for the bedroom).
Probably the part of me that's emasculated by my utter lack of skill with power tools, carpentry or generally being handy likes the faux-sense of accomplishment of putting together furniture held together with cams and dowels.
I also finally got to read some comics, which I haven't really ahd opportunity to do the past few weeks. I know... poor me.
Sadly, Leaguer Lauren has been laid low by a bout of the appendicitis variety. It seems she and Steven have the situation well in hand, and Lauren is on her way to being her normal, healthy self. Nonetheless, hospitalization is never fun and we at The League of Melbotis offer her our most heartfelt hopes for a speedy recovery. It sounds like they've had a good experience so far with doctors, the hospital, etc... which is so important when you're dealing with the mysteries that come with a sudden illness.
This evening we met up with Mangum and caught the latest in the line of "Bro-Mance" comedies that have become so popular in the wake of the Apatow onslaught, "I Love You, Man". Its a reminder of how much comedy has changed in the past ten years or so that the movie didn't feel the need to have any character reveal themselves to be some sort of psychotic nut, which was pretty much always the path taken during the height of the Jim Carrey or Mike Myers years (think: "The Cable Guy" or "So I Married an Axe Murderer").
Instead, like a lot of recent comedies, the script seems based in familiar territory with people who are just better written than most conversations you'll wind up having with your pals. Also, you don't tend to go through entire arcs of a friendship or relationship in 90 minutes. While it works on a certain level and doesn't stoop to the antics that wore me out on Jim Carrey, the movie wants you to love the characters so much that the movie felt oddly conflict free. Which, while the plot is mostly there upon which to hang gags, it might have done the script a bit of good to feel there was some threat to someone somewhere, to get you hooked in.
And unlike Forgetting Sarah Marshall, there's a tragic lack of puppets.
Its hard not to feel the movie is formulaic, even if you can't put your finger on the bro-mantic comedy formula quite yet. Not to say it isn't a funny movie, but it falls into the "sure, I saw it once... not sure it'll be funny again on a second shot" category that I feel especially Seth Rogan movies tend to fall.
I'm being hard on it. The movie is fine. Just nothing I'd buy on DVD. And it has Rashida Jones, which is always a huge plus.
I'm sorry... somehow I stumbled upon a show called "High School Reunion" and its featuring people from Chandler High School, which was about two miles away when we lived in Arizona. How weird.
I didn't attend my 10 Year Reunion, and I am unsure what force on Earth (aside from Meredith's insistence) would get me to our... what's coming up? I guess the next will be our 20th. WOW. That's... terrifying. But the show seems to be tossing people back into the mix and by making it a "reality show" situation (aka: removing the participants from friends and family and putting them in a resort where they march them through games of some sort) these people are essentially picking up where they left off 20 years prior.
That sounds... not fun.
And... she's crying. I guess its not fun. Oh, wait. Hugs. I thought having a beer and trying to remember who people were sounded like a chore... Plus, the fact that I'm considerably... ahem... larger and in charger than I was in high school is not really something I feel like dealing with. I'll stick with the folks who know me as a Grande-sized Ryan.
Hope your week is looking good. I'm headed for Minneapolis next weekend for work, so if I suddenly go AWOL for a while after Friday, you know why.
Saturday was given over to the astounding brand of capitalism that only Ikea has managed to pull off without enraging the populace. How they've trained us all into herding through their mouse maze with all the tidbits of cheese at every step is beyond me. I think its because we know there's a cafe in the middle of maze. And its not just shopping there that's at least an hour-long endeavor (and that's if you want one item, like we did). There's also the "okay, its home... oh, yeah. Now I lose half-a-day assembling this thing" that we went through. (We got a TV cabinet/ armoire for the bedroom).
Probably the part of me that's emasculated by my utter lack of skill with power tools, carpentry or generally being handy likes the faux-sense of accomplishment of putting together furniture held together with cams and dowels.
I also finally got to read some comics, which I haven't really ahd opportunity to do the past few weeks. I know... poor me.
Sadly, Leaguer Lauren has been laid low by a bout of the appendicitis variety. It seems she and Steven have the situation well in hand, and Lauren is on her way to being her normal, healthy self. Nonetheless, hospitalization is never fun and we at The League of Melbotis offer her our most heartfelt hopes for a speedy recovery. It sounds like they've had a good experience so far with doctors, the hospital, etc... which is so important when you're dealing with the mysteries that come with a sudden illness.
This evening we met up with Mangum and caught the latest in the line of "Bro-Mance" comedies that have become so popular in the wake of the Apatow onslaught, "I Love You, Man". Its a reminder of how much comedy has changed in the past ten years or so that the movie didn't feel the need to have any character reveal themselves to be some sort of psychotic nut, which was pretty much always the path taken during the height of the Jim Carrey or Mike Myers years (think: "The Cable Guy" or "So I Married an Axe Murderer").
Instead, like a lot of recent comedies, the script seems based in familiar territory with people who are just better written than most conversations you'll wind up having with your pals. Also, you don't tend to go through entire arcs of a friendship or relationship in 90 minutes. While it works on a certain level and doesn't stoop to the antics that wore me out on Jim Carrey, the movie wants you to love the characters so much that the movie felt oddly conflict free. Which, while the plot is mostly there upon which to hang gags, it might have done the script a bit of good to feel there was some threat to someone somewhere, to get you hooked in.
And unlike Forgetting Sarah Marshall, there's a tragic lack of puppets.
Its hard not to feel the movie is formulaic, even if you can't put your finger on the bro-mantic comedy formula quite yet. Not to say it isn't a funny movie, but it falls into the "sure, I saw it once... not sure it'll be funny again on a second shot" category that I feel especially Seth Rogan movies tend to fall.
I'm being hard on it. The movie is fine. Just nothing I'd buy on DVD. And it has Rashida Jones, which is always a huge plus.
I'm sorry... somehow I stumbled upon a show called "High School Reunion" and its featuring people from Chandler High School, which was about two miles away when we lived in Arizona. How weird.
I didn't attend my 10 Year Reunion, and I am unsure what force on Earth (aside from Meredith's insistence) would get me to our... what's coming up? I guess the next will be our 20th. WOW. That's... terrifying. But the show seems to be tossing people back into the mix and by making it a "reality show" situation (aka: removing the participants from friends and family and putting them in a resort where they march them through games of some sort) these people are essentially picking up where they left off 20 years prior.
That sounds... not fun.
And... she's crying. I guess its not fun. Oh, wait. Hugs. I thought having a beer and trying to remember who people were sounded like a chore... Plus, the fact that I'm considerably... ahem... larger and in charger than I was in high school is not really something I feel like dealing with. I'll stick with the folks who know me as a Grande-sized Ryan.
Hope your week is looking good. I'm headed for Minneapolis next weekend for work, so if I suddenly go AWOL for a while after Friday, you know why.
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