Foreverever's account of the Pet Shop's Annual Staff Holiday Party

So this was my first attendance at the Annual Holiday Party here at the Pet Shop. I don’t know where to start relating this evening to all our wonderful readers. First off Employee835 and Poodle M were able to attend and I’ll discuss how they gate crashed later. A brief description of the setting for the party was a series of rooms decorated to the 8’s with everything Christmas: wreaths, bows, presents, live Christmas trees, lounging areas, two buffets, one mashed potato bar, two beer and wine bars, dance floor, horrible snowflake lighting and other accents that we don’t really need to describe.

Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus were there along with some palm, tarot card, handwriting readers. After figuring out it would be easy for E835 and Poodle to get in I went and got a beer and waited in line to get my tarot card reading done. It was still early in the night and people were filing in so I knew I had to get any fortunes told early in the evening. I must say that the tarot card reading was rather humbling and actually linked up with many things that I’d been thinking about, I just have to follow my instincts and things will go great. I was also told that I need to eat more vegetables from the ground. I was able to get a margarita glass full of mashed potatoes with my choice of toppings, total class, and have another beer so things were looking good as E835 and Poodle were about to arrive.

At this point during the party I looked around and saw nobody I knew. A few staff were scattered here and there but, almost everyone was an elder according to Poodle M. These are the volunteers at the Pet Shop who help clean out the cages and take care of sick puppies so this is the Shop’s way of thanking them for all their hard work. They were already trickling out as I made my way outside to meet up with my blog bros. Right when E835 and M were about to cross the street one of the elder’s passed out right in front of me! Flinging her Lexus key to the ground and slumming down. Some people were there to help her and I ran inside to inform the security of the situation. E835 and M must have looked at this moment like when you're in college and you roll up to some crazy party and somebody is passed out on the front lawn. Help was on the way for the poor women and since no RSVP list or anything was being used at this point, E835 and M just strolled in.

We crowded into an elevator with a few elder’s and as E835 was asking me if this party was off the hook I didn’t have to answer his question because, the bass could already be heard through the elevator doors and as they opened to the glory of holiday party fueled by cheap red wine and terrible 80’s dance music was unfolding. We quickly got some food. As usual I ate something that I thought was veggie lasagna but, later found tuna fish or chicken or something in it. As a vegetarian for 13 years I wasn’t that shocked and let the beer wash away my accidental meat eating.

The three of us moved through the crowds trying to find more to eat and waiting for the dance floor to explode. They did get to witness the holiday raffle, awesome prizes like $150 gift certificate to Whole Foods and flat screen TV's! E835 and Poodle M were bummed I didn’t enter the raffle. It wasn’t a big deal because, I usually don’t win anything and plus it helps the chances for all the Pet Shop security guards, mail room clerks, and cleaning people to walk away with something they could really use. So we clapped and cheered and showed our support.

At this point it was about time for E835 and Poodle M to leave. They had been the perfect party crashers, eating and drinking their full. They had a chance to see the Pet Shop’s fearless leader CEO boss double fist an ice cream sunday and beer at the same time while strolling through the crowd. Also Poodle M made a celebrity sighting when Hillary Clinton was spotted! So things were good at this point. All my crushes at work were pointed out and I was quickly poked and prodded by E835 and Poodle M to introduce myself and make the ill-fated trip down the Holiday Party walk of shame by trying to pretend I was in a night club and not a work party. After one unsuccessful attempt to say hello to someone (I was blinded by the terrible lighting and lost sight of her) I gave up hope. Which was probably a good thing.

E835 and Poodle M left and the night club theme DID begin to take over. All the elder’s were long gone by now and everybody had reached their 3 drink max. The dance floor was bumpn’ to Brick House and I found myself standing next to Hillary and doing a little white person dance. Grinding was definitely witnessed and a conversation took place as to which drugs our HR guy was on while dancing: Valium, LSD, or Prozac. So the night quickly spun out of control. Santa packed up shop along with the mind readers. The food was gone and the dance floor was the only place to be unless you were outside smoking weed with the AV dudes. Drunk husbands were beginning to wander into things and the wreaths, table candles, and anything that wasn't tied down was getting looted. It was like being at some strange Berlin Wall tearing down/yard sale and everybody was grabbing what they could. I got a hand full of Clementine’s so I was happy.

So the party ended. No butt copying or make out sessions in the supply closet. I’m only slightly hungover but, I must say it was a fun experience. Having my blog bros there made the night. It always puts you in that strange frame of mind when you realize you’re having a good time but, you would never hang out with any of these people unless you worked together. So it was a nice way to enter this holiday season. I'll miss Employee 835 and Poodle M for the next few weeks but, we'll be able to catch up soon enough in 2008! Next year you're all invited to the party! That is if I still have this job.

Have a safe and happy holidays everybody!

-Foreverever

Time to Par-tay with Santa and Vodka, II

The excitement is mounting greater than George W's debts to the Dark Prince, and I'm afraid with all the pump, Poodle M and I may be walking into Al Capone's vault.

This is the email that I just received from foreverever:

So it's 2 hours until this doo doo parade of co-worker party christmas awesomeness begins. I have decided not to waste food/money with eating today so that I can gorge myself for free and get drunk faster here at work. . .this had caused me to feel a little hyper active and a general feeling of giddiness. Like Christmas? Kind of like that I think.. augh.. . it's unstoppable the christmas spirit. So i've scoped out what's going on. .. It looks like a check-in table exists when you first come in the building... That means possibly once we cross that barrier then it's all out mashed potato eating and dancing haven. So i'm going to scope it out and see if we can go around it. .. This could involve two distinct mission impossible type scenarios. ..

1. I meet you guys and just walk in.
2. I meet you guys and hand off a fake ID to Poodle M to flash to some sort of security guard and me bringing you in formally as my guest.

We must be aware that neither of these scenarios could be utilized as an entry point and plans dramatically changed. I'll call you guys closer to showtime to give you the lowdown.

Good stuff, all those hours watching MacGuyer and GI Joe are going to pay off.

Peace,

F

*****

I can't tell you where foreverever works, just know that with prestige come rent-a-cops supervised by partyzilla event coordinators in black dresses, black pumps, and sparkly sweaters, and they've got this thing sealed up tighter than the Green Zone in Ramamdan.

Roger Over.

Time to Par-tay with Santa and Vodka

It sounds like Employee 835 needs a little break. The debacle from yesterday will be overlooked soon enough with all the insanity of the Holiday Season gift giving, crap receiving, more crap returning, and heavy drinking that is the Spirit of Christmas.

Tonight is the annual holiday party here where I work. Which will have all the above mentioned items and then some. From what I’ve seen it’s over the top with a nostalgic photo op area with Santa Claus, mashed potato bar, open bar, dance floor, and other completely unnecessary elements like live Christmas trees and modest “club” lighting.

Unfortunately you and only one member of your family is allowed to attend so this has given me the opportunity to invite Employee 835 to the party but, what do we do with Poodle M? That’s where our adventure will begin tonight . . .How to get Poodle M in under the close scrutiny of basically a concierge at a swanky restaurant? I’m hoping that in the ensuing chaos which will be the party we’ll just walk in. Another option is using charm saying that Poodle M just arrived from Kentucky and has nowhere to go in which case he can bust out his red neck jock accident to “act” his way into the party. Whatever happens everyone will be able to enjoy the stupidity and I can’t wait to share this experience with my blog bros.

On another note this email just came in . . .

Hello all,

Please return all hard hats to the Conference Room by the end of today. All hats need to be utilized for a press event tomorrow morning.

Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Thank you!

Potty Brain

Just so you know, there are many times when I am not proud of myself. This report is of such an instance.

This guy John Fogerty, an ex-marine came up to my desk just a few minutes ago, giving me the thumbs up for my valuable insight during the recent meeting in the conference room about our 401(k) plan.

And in the drawing stacks, someone mentioned it as well.

Jesus Jimenez, the guy who greets me as Danielsan in Crane told me he wanted to move seats far away from me during the meeting.

I am in dire need of media coaching and tourrets meds.

I walked into the conference room, among the last to enter and greeted everyone, including the HR department by saying, “Good morning everyone, go fuck yourselves.” And I became disturbed when I realized that I wasn’t kidding.

Someone who manages our 401(k) plan came in today to teach all of us, in groups of 20 about the benefits of the new plan. As always, with 401(k) talk, the person freaks you out about saving, how you'd better do it now or as the woman today said, “you could be working as a Wal-Mart greeter until the day you die. There you go, a tired little old lady in your blue apron saying hello to everyone and then you keel over. That’s not how I want to spend my last days, so you bet I’m going to be putting away a good chunk of change.”

She asked lots of leading questions.

Does anybody know what a triple venti caramel macchiato is? Sounds expensive doesn't it? Remember when coffee was cheap and simple?

Does anyone here know how much a gallon of gas cost 25 years ago? What about a movie ticket?

How about a house? How much do you think all of these things are going to cost 25 years from now?

If you didn't have to work, what would you rather do? Anyone?

That's what they call retirement, and you have to ask yourself, what will I need?

She attempted a poor analogy, asking the group why you would go to the gym and pointed at me.

Why do you go to the Gym?

I heard a voice in my head loud and clear and it wanted to say a few things, but I tried very hard to breathe through it, so I could chalk up a perfect work appropriate reply, and the best I could muster was a very tentative response with long pauses between each word, and a huge question mark hanging in the air. Something like

Bee

cause

it

makes

me feel...

good?

She kept looking at me, digging with her eyes, and in retrospect, I see clearly now that she wanted me to say something like, “because I paid a lot of money for it, and you bet all the ice up Santa's Ass that I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

I wanted to end there, but she kept on looking at me, and slowly, expectantly nodding, stabbing me with her gaze, just lifting the words out of my mouth, and I kept talking and I said,


whennn


I


don’t...


kill people?

The words that came out were the result of an internal struggle between an angel and Dennis Hopper. The Dennis Hopper voice had a lot of f words ready to go, something about turning the office into a homo sapien slaughterhouse, while the angel voice that would like for me to keep my job begged for silence. This was a decent compromise I suppose.

It's hardly worth noting, and definitely not the worst thing I could have said, but it could be a harbinger of my Undeveloped Evil Twin's eventual coming out party, from decades of gestation inside of my gall bladder. I worry that I am on the fast track to becoming the man in this video, and that so far, so luckily, youth, although withering, is still on my side, and there is enough charm in the reserve tank to enchant my way out of my own creative expletives. But one day, I will be this man. I hope I can learn from this.

If you click on the video, you should know that he has a potty mouth strikingly similar to mine. Some of you may find it offensive. If you are at work, wear headphones.

The Video.

Holiday Blazes!

I received this email from foreverever this morning:

Are you all up in the work zone? I hope your commute was chill. .. seems like things are getting mellower around the holidays. The bus was still packed and crazy and this woman in a wheel chair at Fairfax and Crenshaw said. .. "Where I'm gonna ride? On top!"

Anyways, I'm looking forward to kicking it with you and Poodle M on Wednesday. I dropped my cell phone in a hot tub this weekend so you'll have to hit me up on my work line. We can work out the details later... .
hope it's all good.

*****

Must have been a great hot tub/key party. Wish I was there.

It is confirmed that Poodle M and I are going to foreverever's company holiday party this Wednesday, and without spilling the beans about his workplace, I just know it's going to be interesting, tasteful, and austere.

My company's holiday party was held this weekend and I did not attend. Something about a workplace where the man to woman ratio is 9 to 1 feels a bit like The Accused when you mix us all up in a dark warehouse and splash a little booze on everyone.

We instead, went to a sampler of The Nutcracker performed by a ballet school of kids between the ages of four and six, with some gangly teens sprinkled in as role models. Our four year old girl, the daughter of our friend, was particularly cute, and did her best, but I heard Poodle M praying quietly to himself during her part, “Trust yourself Etta, trust yourself.”

The stakes were high for the girls, and the urine was even higher for the audience.

Urine.

A woman in her sixties, who seemed to have no relation to child or child bearer, performer, audience member, stage hand, or facilities personnel didn’t quite sully our enjoyment of the experience, but rather, her enthusiasm, and her own special spice added an element of Rabid Nursing Home Fugitive to the event. She was dressed well, in a red top, red cardigan and overall holiday theme, but it was her odor, one of a gas station urinal, filled with falafel, and composted roses that brought more tears to my eyes than the five year olds in tutus, dressed as mice. Her BRAVOs and her exclamations of BEAUTIFUL and BRILLIANT added support to the otherwise dreary soundtrack. She gave Etta’s grandmother helpful parenting advice as well as dirty looks. She reminded Poodle M that he was gay – lest he forget and trot over to the nearest church to get hitched. And the audience looked to her, relied on her for cues on how they should respond to the performance. So when you look at the big picture, I’d say she stole the show. It’s just as well. Kids are exceedingly cute in costumed performances, but every show of this nature needs at least one adult Hindenberg to catch ablaze from a single static spark against a metal folding chair in order to burn bright and fierce amidst all the overly child-focused Jon Benet making parents.

I love the holidays.

And I’m excited about foreverever’s work party. Never been there before, and I hope they have their own handful of volatile dirigibles on staff.

What? I'm a work? How did this happen?

So I am in that mode where you are barely working. It started first thing in the morning. I woke up at 6:30 it was still dark and I thought to myself, "I could totally get up and start my day!" But, I didn't and stayed in bed dreaming until 8. So that created where I am now. That lack of motivation first thing in the morning lead me to dream and continue those dreams into my employement part of the day.

So today i've just been reading the news, emailing, watching videos on youtube without sound. A good one is Criss Angel stuff. And insert paper work and meetings along the way. Before you know it you're back out on the street and heading home. So i feel thankful for this place I'm in and thankful to you the reader. Life is strange and when we're at our day jobs, or school, or whatever we go on with it. I think a lot of us know it's a sham. A cultural joke that we're playing and that's where the humour and levity of Mr. Shankly comes along. To let the epp and flow of our commitments or lack thereof come through.

Someone left coffee burning in the kitchen. I wonder if it'll ever get turned off. It's rather nice. It's one of those "crazy" things that can happen around here and I wonder if other people are thinking the same thing I am. This group dynamic we share to get the job done has lots of different levels and styles that me and E.835 have discussed but, maybe it's the time of year. The darkness that bookends our days or something. It's making me happy to be here and I know I'll have to leave someday and I'll miss this place for a few minutes.

A Gift for You

What a fantastic welcome back note from foreverever. I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for anything bearing a crown in my neighborhood.

I was going to tell you that it took three hours to go through my emails yesterday, but I’m more excited to tell you this:

The photo above is of a laminated greeting card for all occasions. You can keep it, you can send it to loved ones, send it to hated ones, to whomever you want, for any reason. This heartfelt card is extremely precious, and if you want one, I want you to have one.

The lovingly hand made, laminated message, comes mounted on white card stock with a matching envelope.

Just send a self addressed, stamped US#10 envelope (or equivalent) with correct postage to:

Mr. Shankly
1431 South Fairfax Avenue, #1
Los Angeles, CA 90019

Include your email address so I can let you know that I’ve sent off your card.

Welcome Back Bitch!

Hello everyone,
So employee 835 is back in this land of Hilary and T.V. sitcom writer strikes. He was missed but his posts have kept us all company and gave us an excellent insight into his and Poodle M’s adventures. I personally would like to hear more about these adventures outside of the confines of the cube and douche bag alliances that surround us. I have personally given up any further retaliation against my cubeiverse and have accepted it with open arms. I’ve done this for a few reasons. 1. I have a job and I should be extremely thankful for that. 2. I have a job that allows me to do crap like this. 3. Free food sometimes.

Of course there’s always something better out there and searching and attaining that is the American Way. But, since I’m kind of anti-American and after seeing how Employee 835 observed and absorbed the culture on his adventures you probably noticed like I did that he really had fun in all of the differences and craziness that’s the rest of the world. America is weird. This is one of the weirdest places on the planet. We are the douche bag of countries. I don’t want to contribute to the doucheness of my own country anymore. Instead of giving up and moving to a country that’s more like a case of cheap beer (Canada) I think it’s better to stay here. Do what we can and when we can to take a little wind out of the sails of the USS Douche bag.

That’s where Mr. Shankly comes in. All you readers out there know that we’re right there with you. We’ll tell you how it is on the front lines, in our cubes, with our co-workers, or other observations in and outside of the workspace. We want to inspire you to just take a break from the drudgery you maybe experiencing and chill out by the water cooler with us . . .

So today I went down to the .99 cent store for my afternoon snacks and this is usually one of my favorite things to do because, I get away from the phones and gray walls and floors and get to be with the people and see tons of cheap shit. You know what I'm saying, strange packaged snacks with chili-peanuts, DVD's of movies you've never heard of, clothing, plants, you name it it's there and it's only .99 cents! So I guess it’s kind of like a mini-Thailand. I guess you can consider .99 cent stores as foreign lands because, I think either you go there all the time or you never go there. Some people will never eat the food from there but, will gladly get all their hazardous household chemicals from it. Maybe that conflict of energy created by random junk and the whirlpool of old people, moms, and house keepers just creates this perfect storm of capitalism at work.

One inspiring individual was at the .99 cent store today, and I’m glad we crossed paths. He was an older gentleman and he was wearing a rather nice Kings crown and had on a black t-shirt with his own portrait airbrushed on it with a Kings crown on. It was incredible. Was this Jackass? What was going on? The crown would have been one thing. The t-shirt another. But, together they formed a tableau to be discussed and referred to for ages. I wasn’t the only one who noticed and we were all in awe of his divine prescene. We were really seeing a King among us serfs at the .99 cent store. What a day to be alive and to have these eyes witness his majesty.

If you’re going to retire that’s the way to roll. He was asking people in the check out line how to get to south Fairfax because; he needed to see a lawyer and he was a Korea vet so it was free or something senile and boarder line crazy. What I love thinking about is this guy is on an adventure all day in this outfit. He gets to inspire other people and trip them out in his choice of clothing options. Seeing him totally made me look forward to growing old. Maybe I’ll be wandering around one day exhibiting my personal freedom in completely strange yet very deliberate attire. It just makes you glad to be alive so that you can see moments like that and know that yes, God exists, and he’s here on earth walking among us wearing a crown and t-shirt.

Bitch is Back

I thought I cruised through the Jet lag when I woke up at 8am this Friday morning, with a little yawn and a lot of good vibes. I got back into bed at 11 am, following some errands, just to take in the rain falling on ground sound from underneath my old pal the comforter. I woke up at 7 pm, my Friday vaporized.

I am home, with Poodle M as the result of our very serious and very focused prayers that we said in our Taxi to Bangkok Suvarnabhumi International Airport.

We caught a cab at 5:00 am in Bangkok, right outside our hotel. The only thing we noticed as being different was the route to the airport, but the meter seemed on schedule. If this were a NYC cab, I’d have slipped into my bubble of self-absorption and gotten on my phone, or chatted the ride away with Poodle M. But this is a foreign land, and you watch your route, your meter, and your American Nards like an insatiable pitbull hungry for more babies. And that’s why Poodle M noticed that we were going the fastest we’d ever gone on any Thai road at any hour (90 mph), we were in more than one lane for long stretches at a time, and our driver looked as sleep deprived as your bog standard Gitmo Detainee. Could have been drunk, drowsy, or hopped up on goofballs, whatever it was, we each silently wondered which of our friends and family would figure out who hated lilies, and who wanted an open casket, or who would know we were dead at all. I left my car at the shop before we left, would my mechanic eventually sell my car?

The short story is THERE IS A BUDDHA. We prayed and prayed for congestion, maybe a busted spark plug, anything to slow us down. I clapped a few times loudly and we said more prayers. We arrived with no incident.

We agreed to give him money for breakfast or a motel near the airport, or rehab, and he was on the extra money tip way before us. The fare was 230 Baht, I got out to get our bags, Poodle M gave 500, and got back 200. This is another area where guidebooks suck, they have basic phrases in the back, like where is the hotel, but they don’t tell you how to politely say in Thai, “Hey Sleepy, who you think I am Snow White? You better put 70 more Baht in this hand, or this other hand finna get bitchy.” But we did not; I just kept pounding on the trunk, making sure to get our bags before he wrapped the car around the nearest pylon.

(Tipping note: No need to tip taxi drivers, it is a practice to round to the next 5 Baht. Math note: It’s 33 Baht to the Dollar. 300 Baht divided by 33 equals $9.10. Choice note: A pittance by our standards, and money we had planned on giving, only we wanted the option of handing it over, instead of leaving it up to the Mummy to decide his take. Reaming Note: Our first taxi ride from the Airport to our hotel, before we knew anything about anything, was 700 baht, more than twice the average.)

I’d like to thank all the Shankly fans for your visits, emails and comments during my time away from the big desk. I have certainly had a great time taking it all in. I am excited to travel to more far away places that have fewer safety regulations, more street food, excessive pollution, gridlock up the tailpipe, and people who don’t speak my language. [Insert obvious joke about Downtown LA or Pomona here.]

I said I wouldn’t hit the ground running, and so far, I have not made too many telephone calls, definitely have not checked my work email, or contacted my trusted co-workers, Sam and Dawn, and I’m not looking forward to the backlog of emails waiting for me, as well as the shit storm of criticism from my boss about the things I may have let slip through the cracks. Whoops, how did it get to be the future so fast?

It may be a while before I report on the mishaps at work. I know you understand. I will be checking myself into a coma on Monday at about 8:10 am. Send flowers to Poodle M, I like gerbera, peonies and star gazers, no fucked up dyed carnations. Please play Smiths songs by my hospital bed. If you see my right pinky toe twitching, I am singing along on the inside to Half a Person.

It’s nice enough to be back, but I miss our slice of Nirvana. We worked hard to make that slice. Phuket is primarly for Western assholes on their honeymoons with matching flip-flops that imprint JUST MARRIED in the sand. Although our beach was far from perfect, and cluttered with dovey-eyed man/woman combos, we made it ultra pleasant, and I look forward to returning. Poodle M had his books and magazines; I had an iPod borrowed from Kate DeGovia, esq. (You should get her number, she springs people from all kinds of snags). And we had our icy shakes and plenty of purposeless time.

Let me recap, although this was not the Oprah, wildest dreams vacation, this was also not the budget, fresh-faced youth, not-a-tourist, cool backpacking, sharing a bus bench with a chicken, ass strapped to the roof of the train, diarrhea expedition. Our mission was to park it in one or two spots far away from the marriage blinded, do as our lazy asses wanted, and get there in relative comfort and convenience. There are certain cultural, as well as personal conflicts in that, but we decided to put all that ethical mumbo jumbo on the back burner, in favor of barbecues, massages, and taking it way the hell easier than we’ve ever allowed ourselves to. There was no future, and if we did address it, it was around locations of the upcoming meal. Vacation from thinking. Simple.

We made one wrong turn on the scooter, my fault. Our love of buffets headed us to the place that should have had a big banner outside proclaiming HEY WESTERNERS, YOU LIKE THAILAND? COME IN! It was the most expensive dinner we’d had, serving mediocre fare, except for the desserts and this saucy noodle dish. Saucy for sure, I almost took my clothes off it was so good. As with many Phuketeries, we ate under the stars, ocean as backdrop, but this night was special, it was the night they beat tourists over the head with THAI CULTURE.

The dancers came out looking Thai, in fancy dresses, wacky chandelier headgear, and gold gold gold! See? This is THAILAND! This is how we do it! You like? I don’t have photos. It was boring, and if it was authentic, someone in cultural affairs should send out a memo to all dancers and bands to tone it down bro. It was exactly the imagery - dancers in native garb, amazed tourists, torches in the sand, and plenty of seafood dishes - that makes up all Asian airline commercials. I’m glad we finally found it after all this time, now, when a Singapore Airlines commercial comes on during Grey’s Anatomy, I can emphatically point and say, “I’ve been to Asia and it looks just like that. You guys should check it out! It’s cool!”

I loved coconut everything - coconut desserts, cookies, and wafers. I had coconut yogurt twice daily to keep the extrusion machine in good working order and kept cool with coconut ice cream bars, and coconut shakes.

Coconut was my stock flavor, and I also particularly loved the screwball flavored packaged snacks. I had two ice cream bars of note, and I think a strongly worded letter to Good Humor about bringing them here is on the horizon. Good Humor sells in Thailand, an ice cream bar with a Taro Root center, coated in coconut ice milk, and another wacky and disturbingly good one made of coconut ice milk, containing jack fruit, corn, and GREEN BEANS. Green F’n Beans yo, wassup wid dat? I also really enjoyed the nori flavored, as well as the cuttlefish flavored Lays Potato Chips. These would never fly in this country of culinary scaredy cats that anxiously cling to their berry, lemon, and nacho cheese flavor. Wake up and smell the Pad Prik King People.


Tuk Tuks, pictured above are cute and lame. They’re unsafe, they’re open air, they’re unmetered, which means they cost whatever the driver feels like charging you. Taxis, especially the pink ones, were our preferred mode of transit. They are metered and have climate control, which unlike cars in the states where temperature controls go from red to blue, Thai cars go from blue to bluer. It’s how I like em - cheap, pretty, and ice cold.


Our hotel concierge was nice enough to give me a crash course in Thai at 4:30 am, on the morning we arrived. By the middle of our first day, we developed a decent taxi muscle and could easily and confidently tell the driver where we wanted to go, beginning each transaction with our favorite ice breaker, “Hello,” in Thai. Even though we didn’t know much more, this seemed to smooth out the choppy transaction. Poodle M really loved to flex his third learned phrase, How Are You? This usually caught the recipient off guard, and then endeared Poodle M to them, but sometimes they’d answer off book, to which Poodle M could only nod and grin, hoping to hell they didn’t say anything like, “I’m fine, Is that a stick of pork sate up your ass?”

Our visit was too short. As I wrote in previous posts, the smell is disquieting, the smiles are mysterious, and you’re going to get reamed, but hey you’re in Thailand, where the food is absurdly delicious, the water is jewel colored and warm, and you can get knock off anything.



*****

Final Notes – Hit or Miss

Hit: Spray hose attached to our toilet. The importance of this bears no explanation.

Miss: And you’ll be sorry.


Hit: Ultra amazing street food on sticks, in banana leaves, deep fried, steamed, flogged, what have you.

Miss: No pesky health codes to get in the way of you and your salmonella, hepatitis, worms, mouth lice, what have you.


Hit: $5 Thai massages every 20 yards.

Miss: Not your pampering spa day, but more like something you’re nice Thai cousin would do for you while watching TV or listening to his/her favorite Asian music, under fluorescent lights of course.


Hit: INSANELY low prices on knock off anything.

Miss: You touch it, you buy it. And if you put it even close to your body, and you don’t buy, you may have this happen to you – Skinny ass vendor wielding a calculator chasing you down the alley screaming 100! 100! OK 100! How you like that GIRL? LADY! YOU LADY! LADY! YOU GIRL!! On second thought, don’t even look. Looking is the same as buying.


Miss: Un-marked prices on all goods sold on the street.

Hit: Say nothing while the vendor yam yam yammers on about authenticity and suddenly a 3000 baht Breitling watch knock off can be yours for only 700 bhat. Translation – a watch that normally sells for $5,000.00 in its genuine form, starts off at the Night Bazaar for $90, and with no negotiation of your own, just by looking at the watch with one eye open, it can be yours for $21. The getting is good here my friends.


Hit: Fake Louis Vuitton purse for $60.

Bigger Hit: Fake Fake Louis Vuitton purse for $6. Why is this better? You’d be the only one in your tri-county area sporting a genuine Louis purse that closes with a Gucci clasp.


Not a hit, never, ever: Tourists in corn rowed weaves.


Hit: Our abode.


Hit: The view from our window.


Miss: Our window.


Hit: In line water heater.


Miss: Shower and Toilet in one.


Miss: Toilet paper as silicone caulking.


Hit: Our Beach

Miss: Our bathroom drain, and all drains empty the soapy water and other grime into a small stream, into a larger stream, right into our beach.



Click for more

Hits

Misses

Don't Bring Me Down

You might ask, why does it always cost more and take way more time to get anything done? If you’re in the US of A, one answer is safety. Safety regulations, these blasted little rules pretty much bog down any project, any undertaking, any activity, such as construction, parking, driving, hang gliding, starting a forest fire. You name it, there is a book of safety regulations that the man uses to take away your spontaneity, your own special know how, your fun, your everything. And the other answer is the law. There’s always someone ready to sue you for all your worth, so you better take your time and follow the law, follow the safety rules, waste all this extra money on BIG GOVERNMENT just to cover your ass in case someone sips on your fresh hot coffee too fast.

Not so in Thailand. Safety is cool, but who needs it if it’s going to slow growth. This is a country on the move and the people ain’t gonna stop for some man with a clipboard.

Got no delivery truck? No problem pile in, and bring your 500 lbs of green vegetables with you. You’re probably better off barefoot any way, it keeps you cool in this heat.


Like Shankly said, we are on the move and we got no time for that guy to fix the platform. That's why we keep ropes and buckets.


You’d think all these trinkets would impede my vision, they actually improve my vision. They tell me how hard and fast this mofo is turning, and I adjust throttle and brake as necessary, it's what we call TVSC - THAI Vehicle Skid Control.


It’s only a fire hazard if someone is smoking near all these extension cords.


The ever evolving miracle of cinderblock. Not just for shelving anymore.


Ahh, the bus is for assholes anyway, and I just hate getting harassed by crazy homeless people.

Can I get a HUH?

The alley diner is set back from the street, blocked by the fruit stand pictured above. Not many foreigners know that there is a kitchen behind the stand. One adventurous woman from the States broke through the fruit barrier, walked up to the cook and asked if he had any Thai iced tea. The cook answered yes.

I found that YES is the go to answer here, and then later on in the transaction, as this lady found out, they actually mean “HUH?” I know, because I made the same folly in Bangkok. I asked for Thai iced tea, the person replied a hearty and confident yes, because she was planning on serving me Lipton tea with ice, in Thailand – Thai iced tea, you dumb, obvious American fuck.

“No no,” I clarified, “THAI, iced tea. You know, it’s thick, it’s rich, has milk in it?”

First I got question face, then deeper question face, thinking face, and then the final face, just slightly more contorted, and then “HUH?”

And just as the lady did, I resigned, “well, never mind. Is OK. One soda water please?”

*****

In the months leading up to this trip, I tried to learn Thai by using the Rosetta Stone online language course. I didn’t find it optimal for my learning style. I know what boy is, and maybe a cat, and a plane, but outside of that, I’m pretty much Helen Keller. And I feel ashamed. It’s bad enough that I am among the hoards of tourists who treat this place like our personal fantasy rag. I feel terrible that Thais can't enjoy their own beaches because they are sullied by outsiders like me who can't focus on anything past their coconut drinks.

I only learned to count a few days ago, courtesy our friends at Ace Massage. Just understanding the numbers has made all the difference and I see that I have short changed myself and have missed out on the kinds of interactions that I love – making people feel heard and understood, making people laugh with just a simple phrase. If only I could say in Thai, “Take my wife…Please!” I would have so many people in stitches, or they’d get me a newer, better, bride than the current battle axe I haul around. Either way, we’d have a connection deeper than how much? and is there a discount?

We found a way to communicate with our new friends through sharing pictures on our digital camera, and we strained with each, supplementing with a great deal of exaggerated gesticulation and charades.

They giggled when I showed them pictures of the crap sold at local markets.

They blushed when we got to the underwear laid out like omelets on a buffet table.

And they all laughed at my photo of the toilet hose, each one making the same, spray in the butt gesture.

I was able to explain my love and appreciation for the spray hose attached to most toilets, and I was also able to explain with the help of my stellar spoken mime skills, “In Amereeka NO HOSE. Just paper.”

And they looked at me as if I swallowed a live Toucan.

“No water? Only paper?”

“Yes! Paper”

And then the inevitable, “HUH?”

I just couldn’t say more. Couldn’t elaborate on western cultural imperatives and our connoisseurship of toilet paper versus the Asian model for rectal cleanliness. It would have been a perfect opportunity to ask if that hose is the reason why Thai’s don’t shake hands upon meeting. I bet that if I had better language skills, we would have gotten past the Huh and dove right into Oprah Talk. But all I got was a lot of head shaking disbelief.

Damn the language barrier.

P.S. For the record, I learned on Monday night that the drink known in the States as Thai iced tea is known and ordered locally as Thai Milk Tea, and it’s not that popular.

Breathe In and Ahhh

At any point in this blog, please feel free to contact any one of the remaining U.S. Airline companies and let the bosses know that they are nothing but a gang of fuckheads set out to ruin the mystque of air travel.

Thank you.

We are currently waiting to board our flight from Phuket to Bangkok in the Bangkok Airways passenger lounge, OPEN TO ALL BANGKOK AIRWAYS PASSENGERS. No, it's not a water cooler with Thai TV Guides, it's a perfect sanctuary from all the air travel bullshit loaded with delicate snacks, Thai iced tea on tap, beverage-ola, and free Internoodle access. There were no lines to hassle with, just speedy movement from checkpoint to checkpoint. This is perhaps the most civilized way to fly.

Fuck Delta and all its friends on expedia.com.

Ad Infinitum Ad Nauseum

Around here, more is better, and why the hell not?

These two photos are the only two that can be uploaded from this internet cafe and I've been sweltering here for an hour while the windows hourglass taunts me.

I cruised into an outdoor market for more of the same treatment. Hey, come in! You like nail polish? What you like? Mac or Bobbi Brown?

Yeah, I dig nail polish, I use it when I get a run in my stockings.

Sun is particularly hot today. Everytime I park the scooter, like seagulls who smell french fries on the beach, lounging shop keepers stand to, and approach me carefully, offering more bespoke pinstripe pants, plastic garbage, and other wares no human really needs.

We saw this white guy earlier wearing a shirt printed in Thai and in English, proclaiming the following:

NO I DON'T NEED
A SUIT
A TAXI
OR A MASSAGE
THANK YOU VERY MUCH

I think the same thing, but only a true douche bag would wear a plum colored shirt with that printed on the front and back.

You can view some of today's photos here

http://www.flickr.com/photos/21189289@N02/

*****

We did not eat at our alley diner this morning. We had a bit of a pow wow last night about feeling ripped off for only a few Baht by the cook, and we agreed that there were probably better places out there, that would be just as good and cheap, and also less likely to be performing alchemy with the orange juice. Better to stop now before I get garlic powder in my OJ.

We went instead to the Danish bakery for a more traditional western breakfast that included fresh baked bread. We got eggs, bacon, ham, potatoes, a bread basket, tea, and some kind of orange juice that seemed a little whiz banged. It was not deep orange in color, like regular Shogun orange juice, and it tasted a little like Five Alive. It was good, but I couldn't place it.

Our proprietress, Lucky, went on to explain that two days before yesterday, a man she identified as one of three Danish Mafioso, laying low in Phuket, just around the corner, kicked the crap out of a dog that had wandered in to the restaurant. The dog wandered in and the diners seemed to all enjoy its visit, feeding it and petting it, but Den Danske Mafioso did not concur. Lucky said that the guy kicked the dog so hard, it flew into the street. Not cool, and she went onto say that she kicked him out making sure to say "Fuck" a few times for good measure. In her retelling, she giggled each time she repeated the expletive. The dog belonged to someone down the street and has not been seen since.

Dey not come here no more. Ip dey come, I know his face, I say, no more, you turn around, you no allowed come to dis place, fuck, hehehe hehehe no. Dats what I say to heem.

This kind of directness, this is the shit I can go for. You know where you stand with Lucky. If she is smiling, it's because she's down with your jive, and she'll let you know when she's not. Now if they could only stop fucking with the orange juice.

Keep Smiling, Keep Shining

I don't like to feel correct about my suspicions of certain smiling bastards, but I think, sadly, that we won't be returning to our alley diner. It seemed that our kitchen master was peeved yesterday that we didn't leave a big tip, but instead left our usual. Let me make this more clear - There was some confusion on our team as to the size and amount of the currency, he thought I was handing over the whole wad, but I took some back, and then I also left an additional tip on the table. When he didn't get the wad, he made a pouty sour ugly whiny tantrum bad cheerleader face, which I didn't see, because it was blocked by my big dumb hat. Poodle M caught it and noted it.

Today, we were presented with a whopping bill, much more than we'd ever paid, and since there is no printed menu, as that would be the obvious and fair thing, we had to fork over the extra cash. Didn't feel good. But man was that a pretty smile that he gave us.

Here is the other thing around here that I have a hard time with - very little consistency. I noticed that at our diner, some days they put sugar and water in the OJ, yesterday it was salt, today, nothing, just ice. You can't count on shit here, just like Trader Joe's. The other day, I crossed a road block because someone had earlier moved a concrete pylon just enough so that minivans could squeeze by. Me and my tiny scooter cruised on by just as the rest, because why the hell not? No one said not to, they just closed the road for no apparent reason, and no one seemed to mind even though there were traffic cops on duty. Same rules apply on the road, some days it's open, some days it's closed. You can take it or leave it. I took it, and it didn't pay off. I had to head all the way back to the road block and take a circuitus route back to Patong, where Mad Max goes for ashram. But I digress.

Just now, this loud Italian was blocking the entry to the internet place, smoking with his fat ass plugging the stairs. Don Smoke-o didn't move, so the proprietress had to get out of her chair and then she smiled and giggled and ha ha ha ha pointed ever so coyly, oh please, giggle wiggle, you move, please, no smoke, he he he he he so sorry. I just watched the woman in awe. Hard to know what the hell is going on in there.

*****

Other note - Poodle M and I just had the nicest little dinner at a Danish Bakery. Such a nice break to have actual bread and real salami, with milkshakes. That definitely put a smile on our faces, the real kind.

Giggle is the New Black

I'm wondering if the Thai people are just a bunch of smiley faced passive aggressive bastards this side of the international dateline. They call this place the land of smiles, and to be frank, I have a difficult time with the all smiles all the time routine. We've been ripped off by a lot of smiling people, which leaves me to wonder about this friendly veneer and all of this prayer pose bowing.

We go to this alley every morning for breakfast. The cook, a lady boy often sporting a billowing blouse, greets us with the biggest smile, as we delight in one of our two Thai Phrases - Sawadee Khrap! Helllloo! Hellloo! We all say to each other, but immediately he turns to his right and starts murmuring in Thai, using the same kind of face you might don when shoveling elephant shit out of your bed.

Hard to know. Poodle M suggested we hire an interpreter to sit next to us, but pretend he or she is also a foreigner, just so we can understand the shit talking.

And they just giggle. When all else fails, giggle. Massage too hard? he he he!

We don't understand each other so I've taken to slipping in non sequiturs like, This is a great dish, I masturbated all over myself this morning. I smile hugely and wait for the giggle.

Daily Grind

So I've told you about Patong, and about the smell, and I've noted my suspicions re all the smiling, but I have not yet mentioned to you about the little paradise on earth that Poodle M and I are carving out here in Kata Noi.

I wasn't exaggerating about the daily massage. This usually comes close to the end of the day, and for about $10 including tip - that's when we're going up town.

We have spent the last several days by waking up when we can't stay in bed any longer. It doesn't matter that there are birds, barking dogs, or construction going on, we get up when we feel like it, and that is usually after a good 9 hour sleep period.

We head off to our diner in the alley that none of the tourists dare enter. It's a ramshackle rig with a series of portable cookstoves. They have two plastic tables and some plastic chairs. Decor a la poverty. They know our order and giggle every time we say it. Kao Koog Ka Pi - Rice fried in shrimp paste, served with fried egg, pork, chilis, shredded green mango, shallots, cucumbers, and maybe pineapple. And a glass of fresh squeezed Shogun orange juice.

Today, I tasted salt in my juice and I bolted to the lady, "hey there's salt in my juice."

After some back and forth I realized she was saying, "yes, I know, I put some in it, that's what makes it taste so good! DUH!"

And she was right, but Poodle M didn't think so. His point to me was that I hated it when I thought it was a mistake, but came to love it when I found out it was deliberate. No matter, I came here to learn and so far, I have found that sometimes salt in the OJ is just what the Thai doctor ordered.

We log our expenses as we wait for our food, scratch our heads at how quickly the money is going, then realize it's all so cheap. We gather snacks for our long day at the beach, which is only a few steps from our door. I get coconut yogurt, Poodle M gets coconut wafers, then we seal the deal with water and some kind of fruit.

Cruise out to the beach with our towels, pay the $3 beach chair fee and we hang out all day. At some point, one of us orders up sandwiches and blended drinks. So far, my vote is for the ice blended young coconut in its own juice, served in its own shell. Poodle M seems to favor the pineapple shake.

We must remain vigilant about sunscreen. I got a bad sun burn two days ago just from being under the umbrella. Poodle M reads his books, I groove on the iPod. We carry on like this until late afternoon. Go in, wash off, get dinner and a massage.

We aren't spending lavishly, but this is hardly that shoestring budget, reggae on the river, dirty asshole dreadlock, back packing tour. Last night, during my foot massage, I came to realize that my life in the last few years may have been spent in preparation for this vacation. I have never treated myself this well, and I don't think I would have been able to do this a few years ago.

We can't stay here forever, and I wouldn't want to. The bathrooms suck, I'm a walking mosquito buffet, but the coconuts drinks are ice cold, the water is warm and the massages are almost free. Poodle M is a fantastic companion and stalwart navigator. All in all, this is one of the loveliest times I've ever had.

Hell so Close

We've decided to hunker down in Kata Noi, a little seaside hamlet near the south tip of the island. The rest of the place looks like the bloated, cancerous version of Las Vegas with a lot of Blade Runner thrown in.

There is no middle ground in Thailand. You are either in the lap of luxury or you're eating shit. Our quest is to find our own quiet middle ground. So far, that means stinky toilets and bad mattresses.

Last night we rode the scooter on a slightly harrowing trip to Patong, birthplace of the Devil. It's right hand drive here, so it can be a challenge to remember that the left lane is the slow lane, and much more of a challenge when you are sharing your lane with a mobile fruit stand on your left and a propane truck on your right, on a winding mountain road. Do what you feel, and the others might accommodate you, that is the rule.

I can't emphasize enough how the guidebooks understate how truly disgusting this place is. They might note that "Patong is the least attractive of the beach communities because it's so overdeveloped." But they should really say, that Patong is quite a unique place because it's the only known region in the world where you can get Street Herpes.

You see a great deal of older white guys wining and dining young Thai women. It's a douchebag's paradise. There is a great deal of shouting going on at all times. Shouting to get you to watch some kick boxing, or a ping pong show. High rise hotels next to shacks, upscale shopping centers boasting mega tall pink christmas trees serving as the backdrop for countless rows of designer knockoff stands.

The food is fantastic everywhere in Thailand, particularly on the streets. So far, we have enjoyed numerous snacks that I have never tasted before at laughably cheap prices. And the other thing that happens on the streets are the endless siren calls to get thee to a drinkery; or to a tailor, or to a massage, or to an optician. These are the main businesses here after food vendors. And it is impossible not to be harassed when trying to get from dinner to your motorbike.

Five or six ladies will all scream Hello! Where are you from? You like girl? Or boy? My friend! bondage show, Kahm in!

My friend! My friend! How about some nice pants? Hilfiger Yes? I make you good deal.

I carry around hand santizer, but it never quite cleanses my soul.

After dinner, our waiter recommended that we seek post dinner entertainment at the Paradise Hotel complex, code for the gay area, and also what puts the Gay in gay. I hate saying that, but there was no queer pride here, just a lot of closet case westerners screeching into 50, hanging with local twinks born after Duran Duran's lesser selling album, Big Thing was released. Again, hand sanitizer did not cleanse my soul.

In keeping with our one massage per day rule, Poodle M (Boyfriend's codename for the sake of blogginess) and I walked into FAITH. As I noted earlier, no middle ground in Thailand, which meant this knocked us squarely in the land of eating shit. We were each assigned an indifferent "therapist", mine more so than Poodle M's, in fact, I was perturbed that mine was as short as a night stand, and angry as hell. They escorted us up a dark staircase, inside of which Poodle M said freely aloud, I guess this is where they kill us. They took him away to shower, I got undressed in my little room while the guy waited alongside me. It wasn't the worst massage, but I was distracted that he didn't wash his hands, and that he sounded like a troll.

Time up, you get up now. Here is water.

I faked a drink, he then told me to shower. Just pointed to the back. Poodle M was already back in the one shower, having just completed his lackluster massage. So I got in with him. They didn't even give me a towel so I borrowed his, but I had to walk back to my room naked. No one even cared, and I just held my breath and laughter until we got way the fuck far away.

Patong is the bad David Lynch dream sequence that has no end. As we tried to gather our thoughts, we of course had to walk through gauntlet after gauntlet of bars and the crazy faced personnel hired to move your money from your wallet to the bar.

Last I checked it wasn't fleet week, but here we were, sailors in a foreign land. The walk to the bike was long, I felt like we were batting away all kinds of walking talking bullshit invitations to see some kind of lame show. They make things out here to be racier than they really are. It's as if a bunch of 8 year olds got a hold of porn for the first time, and they make a really big deal about it, guaranteeing a mind blowing experience, only to show you what you may have already seen on the internet for free.

We got on the bike, and since there was no way to the main road, but to go back through the gauntlet of bullshit, we had no choice but to stick together on the bike, through the crowds, engine revving, parting the sea of crap ahead of us, and we made our way back home. So the guidebooks will tell you how overdeveloped it is, and that it's not as cozy as it could be, I just want you to know, just to save you a lot of time, Fuck Patong.

Smells Like Thai Spirit

Before I carry on about nothing, I need to tell you two important things:

1. I can't tell what day it is, therefore, all that crap I spewed about Sunday being the worst day doesn't matter for this moment. I am truly on vacation.

2. I love this place entirely. In a minute I might complain about a few things, but I need you to remember how much of a good time we are having here and I'm not thinking about the Douchebag Alliance. So yes, for the record again, I AM TRULY ON VACATION and I'm digging it.

****

Two possible scenarios strike me as I write this: 1) I may not have read the right travel publication and/or 2) These fucking books leave out critical details like THIS PLACE, MUCH LIKE MANY OTHER COUNTRIES OF THIS TYPE, HAS THE BEST AND WORST SMELLS YOUR BODY CAN INHALE.

In notes that I've written to others, I state that there are three main odors that fill the swampy air - Boogers, Diesel Exhaust, Lemongrass. I don't have the guide book here with me, but I remember becoming filled with romance and fantasy when reading any of the entries in either one of our books, plus getting a little listless reading the endless Shine-o-la found on the internet about Thailand being beautiful. It's truly gorgeous. And to take Thailand in is like making out with a beautiful princess who had been chewing on smoked cod for about an hour before your makeout session. You just hope that the smell of her hair can counteract the sewer in her mouth.

You're grossed out? You should be.

It seems to me that guide books often make it a point to omit the disgusting odor factor in their reviews. I spend my days congested, that I can smell anything at all is a miracle so you think I wouldn't be bothered by it. I just wonder why no review I've read let's you in on the dirty secret. We know the Princess is hot, and we all want a piece of her, but for fucks sake, what's wrong with telling us about how bad she smells?

The books go to great lengths to let you know how to get somewhere, who to expect there, how much things will cost, where to get a hooker, and how long she'll love you, but they don't note in the cute legend about the smell.

Our sweet room in Bangkok, in Silom was just right for us. Picture perfect. Close to everything, super quiet, incredibly cheap internet access, the best free breakfast I've ever had, fresh squeezed shogun orange juice, service with ten thousand smiles, and a room that smelled like the ashtrays at your grandpa's favorite shoe store.

Our room had a no smoking sticker on the door, but maybe that was just for decor, and the kid who did that ran out of Hello Kitty stickers, so she found the next closest thing.

The sewers are just a few inches underfoot covered by removable, vented concrete slabs. So you'll be walking, enjoying your sate on a stick that you got for about 30 cents, or maybe some of that exotic shogun orange juice, and then boom, you'll get a gust of warm, grey brown smelling, air that could vaporize Marilyn Monroe's skirt, pubes, and possibly some lower internal organs. Not good.

Diesel is king here which means when I get back, I'm going to lease an iron lung.

Today on my scooter adventure from our little town Kata Noi, to Phuket town, then to Patong, I got stuck behind several different stench parties on wheels, the least of which was the Thai Trash Truck. I slowed down to let it ahead of me, way the fuck ahead of me, only to be passed by the Thai Pig Truck. There's a lot going on here in the Kingdom of Siam.

So that leaves the food smells. These are perhaps the best smells ever. If you can think it, they can fry it and they make it smell so good, that you just may want to eat snake dick. Haven't seen it yet, but I'm sure it exists. Beyond fried, you can get steamed rice snacks, baked whatever balls, limbs on skewers, glasses and bottles filled with rainbow antifreeze colors. The fruit stands are rediculously cornucopic and everyone here gets danbgerously close to hurling food at you as you pass by. In our taxi, our driver reached out his hand, for what I thought was to check the weather, and boom, two bags of fried yams, and bananas land in his hand for 67 cents. This is the land of cheap miracles.

So when you add it up the odor stew can be a bit much, going from sweet smelling fried bananas, to some boy's undies that have seen neither water nor light in a fortnight. It would be helpful to know this don't you think? Or maybe it's just assumed that you're in Bangkok buddy, the world's your oyster, and you know what those smell like.

Out of Office Reply

Dearest Shankly Readers,

If you were wondering why I haven't been logging my usual sarcastic reports from the office, it's because it's a little difficult to do it from the Beaches of Phuket.

My shit, and the rest of me is on vacation with the beloved until the end of the month. I will try to report to you from the ground here at Phuket as time and internet connections permit.

Please stand by for reports of this land.

For now, I will tell you this - we've been getting ripped off, but we're quickly racking up the anti-rip off skills. The food here is fantastic. Hot and humid here means that the organism I once referred to as my hair, is actually a sleeping giant, rising and expanding by the minute. I'm beaded in sweat, my hair has taken over my head - I don't look good.

The mosquito bites on my arm make it look as though my arms have developed little nipples.

The beach looks like it fell off a post card rack. There are no emails to check. No memos to scoff at, just sleeping, eating, and daily massages.

I will keep you posted. I promise. Hard to type here as I'm sweating up a storm.

Wish you were here.

Yours Very Truly,

Employee835

Both Sides Now (or not)

When Management sends a memo, we read with total delight and wonder because no one is as good as the ruling body of any organization at serving up delicious, steaming piles of white hot bullshit. I have retained this memo in its original form changing only the names of the individuals to protect their sad identities.

Date: 11/8/2007

To: All Staff

From: Management

Re: Personnel Changes

Due to the increased responsibilities of the Production Department, John Mellencamp has been transferred to the Production Office to assist with daily operations, administrative duties, and manufacturing process controls. His knowledge, skills, and abilities will continue to provide the support that is needed.

Real Story – This guy John Mellencamp did not get along with his boss, Mr. Angrypants. One partner, operating on Mellencamps's behalf offered Mellencamp a position on a different team headed by Steve Earl, months ago, but Mellencamp balked for reasons that defy logic and decided to tough it out. On a recent business trip with that partner, Mr. Angrypants gave the partner an earful about Mellencamp. When the partner returned from the trip, he was eager, very eager to fire Mellencamp on the spot, but his trusted go-to person, Joni Mitchell, the author of this memo, intervened and helped to create another position in the company, on the spot, to save Mellencamp's ass, because she thought he was worth saving.


We regretfully announce that Karen Carpenter has accepted a position elsewhere, and as of Thursday, Nov. 15th will no longer be employed by Abercrombie & Fitch. Karen has played a vital role in the development and progression of [certain special] projects, on top of being an engaged and valuable Abercrmobie team member in general. We thank her for everything she’s contributed and wish her the very best in her future endeavors.

Real Story - After being jacked around longer and harder than any porn production would ever demand, Karen Carpenter found a job that was a) closer to home, and be b) run by actual business people. Her vital role had been down played several times despite her own efforts to succeed so she said fuck it, fuck you, my shit is outta here.

Beginning Monday, November 12, Jerry Springer will join Steve Earl’s team and assume Karen's responsibilities.

We appreciate everyone’s continued support during this transitional time.

Real story – Jerry Springer and John Mellencamp worked under Mr. Angrypants. Springer asked to be moved another team/department citing a hostile work environment. The company hemmed and hawed. On the day that John Mellencamp was removed and relocated Jerry Springer made his case again, only stronger. With the help of Joni Mitchell, Springer was relocated to an equally dysfunctional team, but hey, it's better than unemployment.

Lesson: Don't fuck with Joni Mitchell.

No Brainer

We have this guy here, Murray, whom we rely on for all of our materials and services, which means everything, and this guy has ZERO urgency in his blood stream. I’m not sure if I’d like to be more like him, or just plain kill him.

You could be screaming, “MURRAY! A bunch of jihad guys have me hostage here, and one of them has an AK-47 up my ass with a fresh clip, and they are ready to pull the trigger, what is the FEDEX tracking number for that package? I NEED IT NOW OR THEY ARE GONNA BLOW MY ASS THROUGH MY OWN BRAINS!”

Humming Do the Hustle, he would say, “All righty. I’ll get that for you in a minute. Computer is slow today. Hope they’re not in a rush. Huh huhuh.”

(Humming resumes)
Do do do dodo dodo do do (4x)
Do the Hustle!

Sam asked me to draw a picture of how I felt inside.

Ruby Poosday

I just made an enormous mistake.

Someone left a big pink box of delightful Latin American pastries in our office. I took a big messy bite of the guava cheese pastry, expecting strawberry, so I was a tad surprised when the guava/B.O. taste kicked in. It was so messy that I got it all over my hands, and while still eating, I walked into the bathroom, on the heels of someone who had just taken the hugest, stinkiest, dead babies in the Ganges, dump.

Why couldn’t I just wait or go to the kitchen instead? Who ever heard of eating in a public restroom?

Bad call.

What We Don't Know About You

Dearest Mr. Shankly Fans,

You live in:

Los Angeles
New York
San Francisco
Washington State
Davis, CA
London
Vienna
Tokyo
Singapore
Taiwan
Bialystok, Poland
Anakra, Turkey
Bergamo, Italy
Indonesia
Malaysia
Philadelphia
Las Vegas
Delray Beach
Chicago
to name a few locales


In our efforts to better serve you, we have been stalking each of you. We are world citizens after all and we at Mr. Shankly just wanted to know where OUR dogs were at.

We still don't know where all of our dogs are, but we know know the following about you:

You prefer to visit Mr. Shankly on Mondays.

Mornings are your favorite time to visit, particularly between 10am-noon.

Someone in Washington loves us. And we can only guess that that someone also likes to hop the border into Idaho.

Someone in London loves us, and you too in Vienna. We are crazy about you.

You rarely visit on Sundays. Maybe your church doesn't have wireless.

You seem to like the wet look.

One of you found our site by googling the keywords, CHLOROFORM KIDNAP. Bravo! I don't know how you did it. Try it, it's impossible to find us this way. Too many Chloro-sex websites.

Some of you find Shankly comforting.

Some of you fear Shankly. You want to be on Shankly's good side, but you don't quite know how. Here's how - send us an email or comment.

Some of you let Shankly boss you around and abuse you, and you always say you're going to leave, but when Shankly comes by with a box of Russel Stover Chocolate Covered Cherries and a mini-teddy bear, you forget about all the pain and you stay. Good.

Some of you might think it's creepy that we know this about you, but how would we would we show that we cared? We don't actually know much, Google Analytics is pretty vague if you are getting the free version as we are.

Thank you so much for giving us a reason to be on the internet other than scanning Craigslist Missed Connections for our almost brushes with fate.

We love you all, we appreciate your visits and when Shankly Swag arrives, we will be sure to send you our branded therapeutic Koosh Balls and other Shankly approved stress reducers.

Untitled (Sunday)

As I did my rounds this morning, about three, maybe sixteen people groaned the following statement:

“RRR, it’s Monday.”

I have said it many times myself, but I don’t really get why I do. Makes no sense. Why do we hate Monday?

There should be some way to count all the times the world over (the Monday Fearing World that is) that some jerk who’d rather be binge drinking underneath a school bus, uttered that statement. I am surprised that it never gets old, and in many ways replaces, “Hello. How are you?”

Perhaps language instructors should modify their lesson plans to include “RRR, it’s Monday” as an acceptable substitute for the main ones that they throw at you when you learn any language.

Guten morgen!

RRR, es ist Montag.

Just like that. Easy.


I don’t really HATE Mondays. In fact Mondays are the days when my mind is as erased as it’s going to be, and since I have little recollection of the bullshit I left behind from the prior week, I actually feel slightly optimistic about the week ahead. I actually think I’m going to get things done and that things will go my way.

The day that is worse than Monday is by far Sunday. Sunday is for and by assholes. As a kid, my parents made sure to sock it to us early by going to church first thing. Some of you dig this place, I don’t. Not judging you.

I don’t like any place where I have to stew quietly on hard wooden benches for stretches at a time when I was perfectly content in bed. So I stopped going at fourteen. I don’t know how I got around it, but no one seemed to mind out loud. Eliminating the church factor definitely made Sundays a fuckload better, but it seems that space became filled with other free-time zapping Sunday anxiety.

I got no church to hassle with, but I have the all day, looming buzz kill, countdown to sleep and the end of all fun as we know it.

Some people have no beef with Sunday, in fact they LOVE Sunday. Who the hell are you? Puritan hold overs?

Stores don’t stay open as long; the radio is an abomination of public service spots, slow jams, and love songs and dedications; and the whole day just feels like borrowed time.

I don’t turn on the TV on Sunday because I don’t want to see Televised Sports – the quintessential Sunday buzz kill. Again, some people get off on Sunday Televised sports. Not judging you, just silently stabbing myself in the eyes. Growing up, after church, since we only had one TV, we then had to watch our dad watch his televised sports, yelling at the Ref, or at Magic Johnson, spitting bits of fried pork into his mustache, while the hot suburban sun made its full arc from high noon to evening.

“But it’s still a day off for you right?” you might ask.

Yes, of course it is and I would hate to work on Sunday, as I have in the past. I live in the future, that’s why it sucks. When Monday finally arrives, I can deal with it, and since it doesn’t look much different from Tuesday or Wednesday, I’m in the present on Monday. But Sunday is all about anticipation of Monday and I have tried many many approaches to de-criminalizing Sunday, including, but not limited to recreational drugs, hallucinogens, spa days, frat parties, key parties, you name it. The sad sad feeling always rolls in around 5pm.

I have often wondered if I would feel the same way if I didn’t have to work on Monday, and the answer is yes. It’s hard wired. There were many times that I’ve been unemployed -some call it freelancing - for long stretches and it still feels like a life sentence in traffic school with all your favorite dickheads you meet on the road.

Even Morrissey, the person who inspired this blog thinks Sundays suck.

So here I am, it’s RRR Monday and I’m cool with it. I made it through another Sunday.

It would be great if someone in blog-land could tell me of their own Sunday love/hate, but focus on the hate. Yes?

RRR.

Cinch It!

We were originally going to tell you about the fires. We wanted to tell you about the thick blanket of Armageddon that's been choking us all around here, the freeway closures, the endless, heartbreaking stories about people and their horses, how some people are thanking god for sparing their houses, and others are bitterly asking god why them. But all that is trumped by saggin’.

This article on NPR.org reports on the city of Dallas pleading all those who sag to "pull up your pants".

The Article

Why now? Don't you think it's too late? Isn't that a little Stepford?

Employee835: I'm about to pull the Country When Country Wasn't Cool Card, which is to say, my ten year old ass knew full well in the early 80s that saggin’ was not only inconvenient and inappropriate, it was dumb as shit. I, and all of my friends with pants did not need this spelled out to us, although it seemed many at the time did. At the GoKart place in Pomona, CA, item 2 on the dress code specifically and emphatically stated that "Pants must be worn on or above the waist AT ALL TIMES."

The article quotes the Mayor, a dude named Caraway as saying the following:

"This is not just a teenage problem," Caraway says. "There are people sagging ... in their 30s. You know, where's your mind? You're not a teenager."

People in their 30s, sagging? These are my peers. Where did we go wrong? Was it the lack of head start programs?

Dear City of Dallas, Duh. A little GoKart place by the railroad tracks at the corner of Reservoir and State Street had this figured out long before much of this country was down with OPP. By my own estimates, saggin' has been going on for a solid QUARTER CENTURY at least, and you're only now sending out your team of rappers with the message to keep it at the hip? It seems to me that you should post a sign at the perimeter of the City stating the City of Dallas Dress Code.

What’s the big deal?


Foreverever: Well Employee835, you bring up an excellent point that the world maybe reaching Armageddon and that the societal rules of dress codes is something that still plagues some communities like wild fires in SoCal. We know the fires will come, we know they will cause damage but, we just don't know how much damage. Just like baggy pants exposing young men's asses is endangering our communities and causing wild fires of their own.

I feel that I have a really open mind toward fashion, music, etc. but, yes the saggin' pants thing even has me a little worried. But, then it got me thinking about mini-skirts. Which are almost the opposite of saggin' pants. Super short skirts primarily on women showing off the legs and going right up to the ass-line caused their own controversies back in the day. I'm not sure if mini-skirts started in prison but, they may have just like the baggy pants fad. So the saggin' pants is like the reverse of the mini-skirt but, this time we get ass. What do you think?


Employee835: Point taken re the miniskirt. Basically, with one, you are looking UP the ass, and with the other, you are looking DOWN the ass. And I guess that I prefer up the ass - for women and for men. I see your point and I had no idea that saggin' would go down in fashion history as the upside down cousin of the miniskirt.

I'd like to point out though, that the miniskirt was one of the early forms of dress and that it was simply reintroduced to extremely conservative humans in the 60s using cotton, silk, polyester, and spandex. I've seen National Geographic - miniskirts rule in

Africa
(the Maasai Tribe)
Oceania
(the Maori)
and the Americas.
(Chumash Native Americans)

They don't cover much, but the people of the world, throughout time seem to agree, mini, micro, maxi, grass, scraps, etc. that the waist is the proper anchor, and it’s been that way since fig leaves were the miniskirt du jour.

Pants fastened around the thighs makes ZERO sense. Even if you liked the look, you can't run, you can't stand up straight, you can't walk, jump over fences, nothing.

It seems pretty obvious.


Foreverever: Thanks for the expose historical cultural history and anthropological fact finding on this one! You are always good at looking up facts and asses, Employee835. So now that we've seen through human history the exposing of legs and butts is rather common and that the waist line is the suitable place to secure your lower body covering, we need to examine why someone would want to go against societal and almost humanistic properties of dress.

So we all know saggin' is completely dysfunctional. You have to walk slow and hold your pants up and if you drop something you just have to leave it and shuffle away. We know this style came from prisons where belts were forbidden because, of their use for suicide or weapons or whatever. So then it goes into our street culture glorifying violence, drugs, sex, and the prospect of being in jail.

But, i don't think these guys and sometimes girls are wearing saggin' pants to tap into that prison style. They're just doing it to fuck with us. To make us feel uncomfortable as the youth have always been doing since the dawn of time.

I do like the idea of going pantsless. These body legging things coming out of Berlin are cool and when they're flesh colored they make it look like women aren't wearing any pants for a split second. So where is all of this going? Toward a ring in hell possibly. But, it might just be one of those things we think is funny and stupid and i'm kind of content with that.


Employee835: That’s just it, they are fucking with only a few people. I certainly find it born of pure dipshittery, but it’s not my call to tell people to cinch it.

I'm also glad you mentioned prison style. Here is a video of a prisoner warning kids NOT TO SAG. In the first few minutes, he clearly states, "You know what they do to people who sag in jail? They stick they fingers down they butt."

So if saggin' is about bringing the prison to the streets, then it's for those who don't see the need to run, jump, or walk, but could use a random, unsolicited ano/rectal exam once in a while. All the guy is saying is that saggin’ is dumb and it tells others that you may already be someone’s bitch, but he moves on to bigger issues.

The Video

Do you think that the peeps on the streets have severely misinterpreted the meaning of the sag?


Foreverever: Yhea, I think this sag thing like most of our fads and cultural inconsistencies was totally taken out of proportion and then you have the norm kind of freaking out about it. Kids are always going to be trying to one up each other. At first it was just wearing them low so you're butt crack hung out. Then so your butt, hung out, and i guess now they're around your knees. So whatever, if you're doing it to draw attention to yourself then you've succeeded and maybe that's what saggin' is all about.

In jail "saggin" as a way of saying your available and on the streets as a way of saying i'm here, my butt is hanging out, and i'm walking really slow?

Employee835: My original question was this, 25 years ago, it was obvious to many kids that it was dumb, but we went with it, and for a time, some of us got on board with the House Music and the Rave wear, but ultimately a number of us went back to form fitting clothing. I'm just wondering why it is only now that cities like Dallas are making anything about it, and why it matters so much.

In the NPR article, the Mayor says: "The No. 1 mission is very simple: pulling up your pants. That's all we want, we don't want to throw folks in jail because they wear their pants low. So we're going to make it man's law and not city law."

It feels like WE ARE AT A CRISIS. WE HAVE TO LEGISLATE. WE HAVE TO STOP IT. Someone is going to sit their naked ass on a Bus!

Foreverever: I think what's happening in Dallas is that the Mayor and town council people or whoever are stupid. Like really, 1000's of kids are going around like this causing havoc? Traffic comes to a halt, people jumping out of windows, rap songs and billboards need to be utilized to make dudes pull their pants up? They need to worry about teen pregnancy, guns, and hardcore drug use. WTF? This is exactly what's happening in our country at a national and local level. Picking something stupid to worry about. Just let kids do what they do and you know they'll grow out of it or trip and fall in front of some girl they like and then pull their pants up. It takes a while for style trends to reach the Midwest and south. They're about 10 years behind the times when it comes to style. Dallas is going at it the wrong way. When you make something an issue it totally makes it gain more attention. And then more people will be pulling their pants down. If they made all the cops sag their pants for a month I bet all those kids will pull their pants up and start getting Gumby cuts.

It just comes funneling down from the stupid government. People have always been doing stupid shit and then other people have to worry about them and make it a huge deal. Where are our freedoms to sag and look stupid? Next they'll be kicking bikes off the road in LA based on "man's law" I really like that. "man's law" could you be anymore sexiest and hypocritical?. . .ha ah aha ha ha ha. .. Next time you see me I'll be saggin.

*****

And we’ll close with this word from Notthead.

We could go on, but we are going to leave the last word to you.

Thank you for checking in with us, and whether up or down, keep your pants clean for work, you wouldn’t want them to think you weren’t serious about your office job.