Currently Listening Songs for Silverman By Ben Folds see related

I still work 12 hours a week at the plastics factory-mainly to support my swinging life as a piano teacher in rural northeastern Ohio. A couple days ago I cut my knuckle on my left-hand ring finger with an exacto knife; and while the injury was nothing serious, my supervisors recommended I go to the urgent care center that handles all the factory related accidents. I obliged, was told by the austrio-german Dr. Klausenhauserschmit that my injury was "no big deal", had my finger wrapped with a little foam stint, and was sent on my way....almost. I first had to take a urine drug test. Yep, I had to pee in a cup to make sure I wasn't hopped-up on the ganja. This being a virginal experience for me, I was a little nervous about having to "perform" on demand. The nurse asked if I needed any water or pop to get the "juices" flowing; my pride said aloud "that won't be necessary" but inside I cursed myself, knowing I had only drank a few sips of apple juice earlier that morning. Before doing the deed, I had to choose a cup to deposit my specimen from a giant shelf of identical cups. It was reminiscent of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Indy must choose the true Holy Grail or risk becoming a victim of stop-motion face-melting or some strange Price Is Right game where the contestant has one chance to choose the cup holding the keys to a brand new Chevy Malibu (the contestant actually has two more chances if they can guess the right price on a can of maxwell house coffee and a tube of orajel). I made my decision and was glad my face did not fall off but was disappointed that I did not win a new car. The nurse showed me the line on the cup I must pass to have a successful "fill-up" and reminded me that if I can't make it all the way there, she has to throw out the remains and start again. It was at this point where I began to feel the pressure, knowing my performance had to be up to snuff, so my employees knew I didn't huff snuff. I reminded myself that I had been doing this since before I could walk, talk, or blog and commenced with letting the good times flow. I'm glad to say that my body worked in complete concert and met, nay exceeded the expectations of the nurse and the cup. I handed her my donation, washed my hands (yes it was in that order) and went on my merry way. And remember kids: drug free is the way to be.

Currently Listening Anything Goes By Brad Mehldau Trio see related

Take the Plunge

Have you ever bought a plunger?  Like, walk into a store with the singular mission of finding a plunger; find the bathroom/plumbing section, find the rubbery concave toilet tool of your liking and walk to the register.  I did this week...and for some reason it was slightly embarrassing.  Now, I've never bought a playboy or any kind of pornographic publication but I'd imagine the glances you'd receive from the clerk and shoppers of higher moral fortitude while purchasing that, a red bull, and five dollars worth of scratch-n-wins would be the same as the glances I perceived I was receiving from fellow patrons while walking with my clog-buster.  The paranoia is based on the fact that the people seeing you with a plunger know what you've done and what you're going to do with your new implement.  It's no secret, you've already shown your cards; you clogged the toilet with something...most likely something foul and you must dislodge it.  I didn't even bother testing it's suction capacity on the floor or the nearest bald head, the fact that it was made of rubber and had a handle was proof enough that it could do the job so I quickly skirted away.  Since I bought the plunger at walmart, I obviously chose to pay at the quick and inconspicuous self-checkout station (walmart's one saving grace) and hiding the rubber sucker in the bag, hoped people seeing the long handle would just think I purchased a broom for midgets--walmart does have everything, for less.

...and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains...fortunately my plunging shame has been removed.  

Currently Reading Orthodoxy By G. K. Chesterton see related

Since I have not authored a xanga post in quite some time, it would seem appropriate to give an update on the happenings of my life.  However, I will choose otherwise and provide a brief window into the world of third-shift factory life.

First of all, one does not get a job at a plastic factory with the idea of meeting women, or at least shouldn't.  Not that there aren't women manning (or womanning I guess) the various presses and machines.  It's just that a certain "taste" is required.  A taste that prefers semi-circular bangs cascading down the forehead or stars-and-bars bandannas over salon-styled, mocha high-lighted tresses.  But don't think that the abundance of  broads with bangs means these ladies lack attitude or sass--no, that's why silk-screen t-shirts were invented.  Why have to try to say something witty or crass when you can buy a shirt that already, and at all times, says it for you.  "This is the shirt I wear when I don't give a crap" and "Keep talking, I like watching your lips move" are phrases that only increase in sauciness when read, not heard, by others.  Plus, shirts that have popular loony toons characters saying these phrases increases the attitude factor exponentially.  However, don't think that blue-collar factory men don't have their own fashion tendencies.  Take one of the supervisors for instance; everyday he wears either or both a hat and t-shirt commemorating the life and death of the Intimidator.  Yes, number 3: Dale Earnhardt.  He's a walking shrine to the fallen nascar driver.  In fact, everyday at noon Earnhardt fans around the world say a prayer facing Middlefield, OH and some die-hard Earnhardtinos even make pilgrimages to see the supervisor during the weekend of the Daytona 500 to gain insight and wisdom on all things Earnhardt.  

And I apologize for my literary precociousness, I blame Chesterton.