Your game is weak, sir.
It is not a lot of fun working behind a counter. Whether you’re checking out the blue-hairs at Ross or taking orders from 1 a.m. stoners at Taco Bell, it’s not easy to put on a smile and just get through the day.
So when I see people who seem happy pulling drinks or ringing up purchases, I really appreciate them. Those people make commerce worthwhile. If everybody manning a register acted like an a-hole, I’d do all my shopping online.
But there are dangers, especially if you’re of the not-bad-looking girl persuasion. (Not-bad-looking guys are a dime a dozen. Buy in bulk.) And I saw, first-hand, one of those dangers this morning.
Waiting to order my breakfast sandwich, I had to witness Lamey McDouchehat hitting on the poor girl making coffee. He was telling her about how he couldn’t eat chicken because he knew what they did to chickens. Pitching woo like that, I was surprised she didn’t fall into his arms, but I guess she saw that episode of “Bones,” too, and decided she didn’t care.
There’s a place for gross dudes to hit on non-gross ladies. It’s located at the corner of Nowhere Near Me Dr. and Get Out of My Way Ave.
Seriously, man? “Chickens are tortured” is your pick-up line? Let me guess your closer. Is it, “I hope you like back hair”?
Allow me to apologize for being creepy…
I am not creepy. OK, maybe I am. I honestly don’t know. That is because “being creepy” is pretty subjective.
Is a person following you or is he just headed to the same place you are? Unless you are also a mind-reader (they walk among us), you probably won’t ever know — barring said stalker saying, “I’m following you! How am I doing?”
That said, I am perpetually worried that I am being perceived as creepy in situations where I am genuinely not trying to do anything creepy at all.
At the gym? I try not to look around. Situational awareness is great if you’re a security guard or Jason Bourne or something. But Greg Elwell will either zone out and listen to his music or watch whatever’s showing on the TV. Look around too much and you’re bound to meet eyes with someone and BOOM! Creepy.
“Does he/she think I’m staring at him/her? I’m already sweaty and gross and now he/she thinks I’m a stalker? Awesome.”
And, honestly, it’s hard NOT to stare at a he/she. I mean, if somebody has half a face that’s a man with a moustache and a tuxedo and the other half is a buxom blonde in a crimson cocktail dress, you can’t not look. And what the hell is he/she doing in the gym dressed like that? You can’t climb the StairMaster in those clothes!
At the grocery store, I am perpetually convinced that people think I’m going to steal their babies. And I cannot make this clear enough — I’m not even sure I want a baby that is half me, much less some strange baby being pushed around Crest.
So, you know, if you see me out and I appear to be creepy, please accept my regrets. I certainly don’t mean to be creepy; though now that I think of it, the hooded sweatshirt, sunglasses and ski mask (and the lack of pants) might be giving everybody the wrong impression.
Again…sorry.
Stay Away From My Wife!
My wife has been talking more lately about having a kid and, frankly, I’m against the whole notion.
It’s not that I have anything against children in theory. They learn things and say cute malapropisms and sometimes they sleep. But the practice of having kids seems…ugly.
There’s poop, for one thing. And crying and snot and sometimes they don’t sleep. And you get in trouble if you leave one alone for a few days at a time because they “can’t feed themselves” or “roll over.”
And kids in general tend to have unhappy consequences on things I love. Like pictures of inappropriate nudity. And ribald humor. And alcohol.
People are always saying, “Think about the children!” And I do think about them. I think, “Why are these children screwing up a good time?”
But if I had to nail down my biggest objection to my wife having a kid, it’s that I don’t want her sleeping with some other guy. I mean, she can’t possibly be thinking about having a kid with me. Let’s be honest, nobody is eager to have my genes polluting the pool for generations to come.
I’m like Hitler and Tila Tequila rolled into one. I’m history’s greatest monster. A smaller version of me won’t do anybody any good.
Austin City Limits Music Festival: Wrap-Up
Toward the end of Pearl Jam’s show-closing performance, the last of their songs Eddie Vedder sang was “Alive.”
The final lyric wrapped up the show for those of us who braved through a sea of mud, which turned out to be mixed with a certain amount of sewage.
“I’m still alive”
Three days, more than 150 bands, monsoon rains and the perfectly manicured, golf-course quality grass metamorphosed into a soupy swill that rendered all footwear save for rubbers useless.
But that didn’t stop the B-52s, Arctic Monkeys, Ben Harper, Michael Franti & Spearhead, or Pearl Jam from putting on a spectacle worthy of the final day of a festival of this magnitude.
Vedder said at the beginning of Pearl Jam’s set that because he’d received so many gifts during his three days at the festival, he felt obligated to do his best to give something back in return.
Pearl Jam drew from their nearly two decades of discography to keep the beaten, mud-caked crowd on its feet and away from the horror within which those feet were planted.
Ben Harper and Perry Farrell were among special guests who joined Pearl Jam during a half hour of encores.
Pearl Jam, Flogging Molly, Michael Franti and Spearhead, The Walkmen, Arctic Monkeys and White Lies stood out this weekend.
Friday provided the finest weather this eight-year-old festival has ever seen grass laid just after last year’s event. The result was positively pastoral.
But then came the rain. Then came the realization that the very green practice of using sewage to fertilize the grass also created the very repellant realization that the mud 65,000 fans wallowed in was at least partially poop.
As I walked out of the festival, the giant Exit sign above me, Pearl Jam was just finishing their final number, a cover of Neil Young’s “Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World.”
Sometimes to do that, you have to slog through a little manure sauce.
See you next year.
Austin City Limits Music Festival: Day 2
Mother Nature struck back with a vengeance on day two of the Austin City Limits Music Festival.
Twenty-four hours the best weather this festival has ever featured, rain plagued the entire day.
But that didn’t keep fans from showing up in droves or stop the bands from delivering more outstanding music.
Less than a day after Kings of Leon put on a show that not only lacked volume but showmanship, Flogging Molly put on a show that the young Folowills could learn from.
At a three-day festival, the crowd loses steam and Flogging Molly is the cure.
Sixty minutes of rude Irish folk had fans on their feet from front to back. People who wouldn’t know Ireland from Scotland danced figure-eights around each other. Near the stage the rain made a mosh pit unavoidable. But it was kindly, brotherly mosh pit. A few brave lads surfed the crowd. When moshing got to intense, the seemingly rude embraced arm-in-arm and danced a Celtic merry-go-round.
Lead singer Dave King played the crowd as expertly as he strummed his guitar and delivered his barroom-brawling vocals.
For an hour the rain was welcome. For an hour we were taken an enormous Irish Pub in Dublin.
I’ll never buy as many Flogging Molly CDs as I buy Kings of Leon CDs. But I’ve seen Kings of Leon three times now, and the only place they’ve never taken me was into their basement for a run-through of their catalog.
Neither are a bad place to escape a stressful life and maybe a rainy day.
Next time you get a chance to see Flogging Molly, and it’s they have been to Oklahoma a number of times, don’t miss it — rain or shine.
Austin City Limits: Day 1
This festival has been bedeviled by curious weather every year since I started coming back in 2005, but not today. Highs were in the mid to high 80s. As night fell, it was clearly in the low 70s.
The Walkmen, who play Meacham Auditorium tonight, performed at 3:30, delivering their usual dose of all-out performance. Just as all you can ask from your favorite sports team is that they leave it on the field, that’s what this New York-based quintet gives. Lead singer Hamilton Leithauser appeared literally at the point of self-destruction at different points throughout the show. No member leaves the stage who isn’t in a full sweat.
Kings of Leon, who play the Ford Center tonight, was easily the draw of the day — perhaps the entire festival. There is no band on the face of the planet riding more positive buzz than these Grammy-winning kinsman. The Followills, two brothers and two cousins, are nosing their way to U2 hype. With two members born in Oklahoma City, they might even be a more important act to see than Bono and the gang in a couple weeks.
While the attendance Friday was more than 60,000, it’s difficult to believe any less than 55,000 of those were anywhere but the Livestrong stage as the night came to a close. Unfortunately, some shoddy sound engineering muted the sound. Fans in the middle to the back of the stage could barely make out songs. That won’t be a problem for Ford Center fans.
Kings of Leon is brand-new to headling, and it shows. I saw them in 2006 at the Diamond Ballroom, and their style on stage hasn’t progressed much. That’s not to speak ill of it, but simply to point out that you shouldn’t go expecting a dynamic stage presence. This is a hardworking band who lets their music speak for them. Not a bad idea when your music is this good.
Kings of Leon play at the Ford Center tonight, doors open at 7. The Walkmen play at Meacham Auditorium on the OU campus at 8.
Kanye West is a Jerk? Total Shocker…
I am really enjoying how unhappy people seem to be this morning after Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech to give props to Beyonce. Not because I think Kanye was right or Taylor Swift (who?) shouldn’t have won, but because…this is news?
Kanye West acting like a jerk in a very public and inappropriate manner is about as shocking as putting a dollar into the vending machine, pressing the button marked “Coke” and getting a bottle of Coke.
He’s an ass. He only has two jobs. 1. Perform music. 2. Be an ass. Last night, he did his job. There should be no more controversy about that than when the guy at Krispy Kreme hands you a free glazed when you come inside or when the lady at Wal-Mart greets you.
Stay tuned next week when Donald Trump unexpectedly says something mean about Rosie O’Donnell. And then, prepare to be amazed as Michael Moore makes an un-even documentary.
An Open Letter to the Dude in the T.O. Jersey at the Bar
Dear Sir,
First of all, let me say how happy I am that the professional football season is here once again. I enjoy the camaraderie with friends, spending long, lazy Sunday afternoons at the local sports bar, watching multiple games while drinking multiple beers. I assume you, also, enjoy the NFL, because you routinely return to the bar on Sundays. Granted, you seem less inclined to watch the games and more apt to jump around and shout epithets at your friends and the TV, but this is one of our many differences.
Another point of departure is that you are always clad in your Terrell Owens 49ers jersey and your…how to put this?…douche hat, while my friends and I wear jeans and T-shirts. I like to think what you wear has little bearing on anything, except that your choice of jersey (and hat) seem to reflect your personal lifestyle.
And it is that lifestyle that is at the heart of this letter. I do not know that you are gay or straight, nor do I care. I have no idea about your religious affiliation, if you have one, and that doesn’t matter to me one bit. The only thing I really know about you is that you seem to enjoy standing up, often blocking the TV screens, and shouting a derogatory term for “homosexual.” Over and over and over again.
I certainly don’t wish to impede your right to free speech, but do you think you could stop doing that? If you are trying to make a political statement or even an artistic one, I think you are failing. The only point that is coming across to my friends, or to the many tables surrounding yours, is that you are a loud, obnoxious jerk.
If that is your aim, then I say bravo, sir. You have certainly found the sweet spot.
But, now that we all know you’re an inconsiderate jackass, I think it’s safe to stop getting drunk at 2 p.m. and screaming insults. Point made. Move on to the next point, which we’re all hoping is rehab, or at least a different sports bar.
Sincerely,
Every Single Person Who Had to Endure You Last Year
Ban the Asterisk
As a semi-literate writer of things, like blogs and sentences, I love punctuation. Periods are great, period. Exclamation points are vital to hyperbole, such that I would die without them!
And question marks? Do you even have to ask?
Even semi-colons are important; I should learn to use them someday.
But there’s one bit of punctuation with whom I am very cross: The Asterisk. I’m not saying that little hanging star isn’t useful, but it almost never contains any good news.*
(* Exception that proves the rule: Those must be space pants, because your butt looks out of this world. That seems like pretty good news.)
An asterisk in sports always involves cheating or some other scandal. Barry Bonds hit 71 homers* (while he was juicing). Michael Phelps won 14 gold medals* (despite a goofy grin on his face).
It’s even worse when you’re buying stuff. Nothing like purchasing floor wax that claims “Great on Floors*” only to read “* Not for use on tile, hardwood, laminate, marble, dirt or carpet.”
And sales are always ruined by the asterisk. “20% off all purchases*” isn’t much use when the disclaimer tells you “*purchases must be $800,000 or greater and include a yacht.”
Rather than hide behind the asterisk, I think we should put everything out there. Let people know the deal up front.
Think about how many bad marriages could be avoided if everything was out in the open? Too many people say “I do” without looking behind their soon-to-be spouses to see a big, fat asterisk, just waiting to screw up their lives.
I say we do away with the asterisk once and for all. And I’m looking at you next, parentheses.
(Oh, crap.)
I would also like to apologize to Rihanna
Rihanna,
Girl, I know a lot of people are apologizing to you right now, like that guy you used to date, Chris Brown. Of course his apology is kind of vague, talking about “the incident” and “what happened.” I’ve used super new technology to embed it below, in case you’d like to watch again.
But unlike Chris, who savagely beat you in a car and then waited six months to say “sorry” as part of his community service, I’d like to make my apology very clear.
I am sorry that I don’t know who you are. Really, really sorry. I heard there was some song about an umbrella you did? But all I can think of is this song from the ’50s or ’60s they’re always playing on KOMA, and I don’t think that was you.
The fact that I only know you because Chris Brown beat you up is not cool. Then again, I though Chris Brown was a running back for the Detroit Lions, but I don’t think that skinny dude in the video could play in the NFL — even for Detroit.
So let me sincerely beg your forgiveness. I will try and figure out who you are beyond police reports posted on the Smoking Gun. And after that, I’ll get to work on the mystery of who gave Tyra Banks a damn talk show.
Sincerely,
Greg
p.s. Seriously? Who gave Tyra a talk show? Were you worried America was getting too smart?
