drunkenbee

The Convincer

I don't think I am a stupid person. I'm generally not even that flighty. I'm a Capricorn after all, and despite spending all of middle school embarrassed by my sign (an anal, uncreative goat who's born to plan for god's sake) when all the popular girls were sexy Geminis or Sagittariuses-- mysterious, limber, and passionate) I'm ok nowadays with my level-headedness. I feel like I could get my family and myself safely (and efficiently!) to a refugee camp, without even having to leave our cows or tractor behind. And really that's all one can ask for from life sometimes.

So anyway, right, I'm not dumb or flighty. I think Special Ed is just really, really convincing. The man could sell farts on a street corner. He is The Convincer. I offer the following for your consideration:

A few years ago, as we exit the incredibly nasty grocery store we used to frequent in our somewhat ghetto-ish Chicago neighborhood:

Me: Wow, I can't believe how expensive those pecans were.

The Convincer: I know. Nuts are very dear in this country. Always have been.

Me: What do you mean?

The Convincer: Well, they've always had a very high value per unit. Much like gold and other precious metals. You do know that there was some debate in Congress in the 1860s over whether to institute a gold standard or a nut standard. Around the same time there was all that uproar over the national bank.

Me: Really?

The Convincer: Yes, it was one of the major reasons the Union wanted to vanquish the Confederacy so badly. They needed access to the South's plentiful nut crops to stock the federal coffers with them.

Me: Wow, I can't believe I've never heard of that before.

The Nut Standard? Never heard of it. I've got to get to the library!

Last night, The Convincer struck again, as our landlords (crazy people, of whom I'm sure you'll be hearing more about in these pages) trudged in and out of our apartment trying to locate a leak that was soaking our downstairs neighbors' ceiling. Our landlords, we've realized, have buried many strange clauses into our lease about what we can and cannot flush, do, think, smell, wash, be, or love. As they perused the situation in our house-- in matching sweat suits, no less-- Special Ed leans over and whispers, "Oh no, what if they see your yoga mat in the corner? Do you think there is a clause in the lease about yoga mats?" I'm all big-eyed, "No, why would there be?"? Then he lets me have it, "Well, you know they are finding that yoga mats wear through floors, and really do a lot of damage. In San Francisco there's this huge movement of landlords getting together to ban yoga mats on their properties." To which I answer, not "Shut up, I'm trying to watch The Gauntlet" or "What do you think I'm stupid?"? but "Wow. But I guess you mean they wear the finish down, not that they actually wear through the floor?"

Who am I, Jessica Simpson? "You mean this yoga mat isn't made out of milk?"

(My favorite part about this latest hoax is Special Ed's use of "they"? and "in San Francisco."? Who is this "they" doing research on The Effect of Yoga Mats on the Structural Integrity of Rental Properties? And of course this yoga mat problem would just be an epidemic in San Francisco, home of Millions of White People Doing Feng Shui. Take note, wannabe Convincers, of these smooth rhetorical moves.)

Well, I have to go now. Special Ed: The Convincer is saying something about our refrigerator running on mouse power.

The Pope Gets Wiggity Whack

Seriously, the Pope is getting shit done these days. I know I speak for many of you out there when I say it's about damn time there was a Papal Blessing For Breakdancers. The hep AP reporter covering this riveting story notes, in a crackling and evocative description, that the breakdancers "leaped, flipped and spun their bodies to beats from a tinny boom box."

The only thing better than breakdancing is breakdancing for God. Brings new meaning to the phrase, "Peace out, yo."

Movin' On Up

So Special Ed's been nipping about my heels telling me to write about how two tough-guy Northerners made the move to the Deep South. It's an epic story, and I'm too lazy to do epics. So without further ado, the man himself:

The whole neighborhood came out to watch when the movers arrived to drop our stuff off.  Our landlords, some of their friends, Jimmy from across the street, some stray dogs.  We had spent a torturous week and a half in our bare apartment waiting for our stuff sleeping on an air mattress with a slow leak that would beach us every night on the hardwood floors at 4:30 a.m.  We had no tables, chairs, or T.V.  We were so desperate we paid to see American Wedding.

We couldn't believe the truck was finally backing into our driveway.  When it stopped, the driver's side door slowly swung open.  Out stepped an older gentleman, over sixty years old.  He walked towards us, his open shirt flapping in the wind, showing a wide grey-haired chest and bubblicious stomach.  He was chomping on a cigar.  He wore sandals.  Our mover was wearing sandals.

The other mover came around the other side, a tiny college kid, a Mini-Pete Sampras with a limp.  Sarah and I exchanged what-the-fuck-are-you-kidding-me-these-can't-be-our-movers looks.  They were both quiet, almost surly. Mini-Pete immediately asked if he could use our bathroom, and Sarah said "yes," forgetting the lesson she learned when one of the pick-up movers in Chicago asked the same question, spent 30 minutes in the john, and didn't light a match.

The older man -- we never learned his name -- was immediately grumpy and unpleasant.  He looked and sounded like Carl Reiner as Saul Bloom as the rich German guy in Ocean's Eleven.  Thick accent, maybe Russian, or Polish, or Ukrainian, or Czech.  His first request, after showing up a week and a half late to our home, after we had already given his company over $1000: he demanded $200 cash to bring our shit up to our apartment.  He said, "You read contract.  It say, $50 for stairs.  There are two of us, and those stairs are like two staircases.  Very big."

I knew this was a shakedown.  I said "I'll give you fifty."  He shrugged, and I thought he might do a head fake, jump in the truck, and drive off with Mini-Pete still sitting on our toilet.

We had already been alerted that these movers might not be on the up-and-up.  The two pick-up guys in Chicago argued the whole time as they slowly worked. At one point Sarah overheard one say to the other, "What, you think I'm going to fuck you?  Have I ever fucked you before?  What's your problem eh?"  They were now a week and a half late, after apparently taking the scenic route between Chicago and Louisiana by way of California.  But here they were, and we were just grateful to finally get our stuff.

They opened the back of the truck and the old guy and Mini-Pete started shifting things around.  There was only one problem. 

I saw the sick look on Sarah's face.  "That's not our couch...," she said quietly, and then louder, "That's Not Our Stuff."  Then louder, screaming: THIS ISN'T OURS!  WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR STUFF?!?!?!?!?!?!? "Calm down dear,"I answered, "our stuff is probably behind this stuff here, heh heh, right guys?"  They stared blankly at me.  The old guy said "Not yours?"

The next forty minutes were a blur.  Sarah and I were both screaming, literally, at these two guys, swearing at them, in front of all our new neighbors.  I got on the cell phone and screamed at their boss, Kovi.  I asked, "How is this good for business?" a question I had always thought was only asked in commercials about shipping companies.

It was a sad, maudlin display, Sarah crying, our neighbors clucking and shaking their heads, the movers driving off and leaving us bereft and heartbroken.  We had no stuff.  Again.  They would have to drive back to Chicago, try and locate it, and drive back to Louisiana.  At their previous rate, that would take about six months.

The days passed slowly again, we'd work the phones with Kovi, pleading our case.  At one point Sarah had a full hour fight with him, where we were trying to get out of paying the remaining $500 on our balance.  Kovi wouldn't budge, he was saying "Hey, don't I give you good service?  I thought you were nice customers, I gave you discount."  Sarah gave him the routine: "I'm going to tell all my friends about you!  I'm going to tell all of my friends' friends and their friends' friends' friends!"  Then the ace-in-the-hole  "I'm going to post this all over the internet!"  I wanted her to take it a step further and use the threat that I have grown fond of since I became a lawyer for the government: "Hey pal, you ever been to Federal Prison?!?!"

But in the end, you are at their mercy.  They are free to brutalize you when they have your stuff.  And that goes double for someone who has your stuff, knows where you live, and sounds like John Malkovich in Rounders.

The neighborhood came out to watch when the movers returned.  Again, the truck backed in the driveway, and again, the old guy stepped out with his bare chest and belly and cigar and sandals.  This time, though, he was triumphant:  "SE-RAH," he said, "you heppy now eh?!!?"  As he said this he did a little jiggly dance with hip swivels.  He slapped me on the back (fucking hard!) and did a laugh like the Count from Sesame Street: "Ahhhh Haa Haa ha ha."

But there was one problem.  The old guy said, "Me, I'm too old and tired to be moving this heavy stuff.  And the kid has a hurt ankle, he can't do it."  Sarah and I exchanged what-the-fuck-are-you-kidding-me looks while the laugh track to this particular episode erupted in groans and guffaws.  The solution?  Of course, the movers hired movers.

We waited for two hours, the stuff still in the truck.  Finally, a beat-up Cadillac with tinted windows pulls up, bass thumping.  The doors opened and smoke spilled out and then standing in front of us were two enormous black guys.  These guys, I thought, are movers.  So, the movers who were hired by the movers who were hired by us moved all our stuff into our house.

When it came time to pay the remaining balance I took the old guy aside and told him that we weren’t paying the rest on account of this nonsense, but I gave him $60 for his trouble.  "You can give that to Kovi," I said. "I'll tell you what I give to Kovi," he said.  "This is what I give to Kovi." And he gestured down and I looked at his hand and he had his middle finger up.  "Fuck him," he said.  "I fuck him."

The End.

Correction

Special Ed was very quick to point out that I have committed the Cardinal Sin of Inaccurate Hip-Hop Reference below, and that the phrase is, in fact, "Throw your hands in the air and wave em like you just don't care" (cf: LL Cool J, Dr. Dre and Ed Lover, and Cypress Hill, I believe).

Anyway, I like it the way it is. It's got that White People Co-opting Black Culture vibe I was going for. Fo shizzle? My nizzle.

Wave Your Hands in the Air, Like You Just Don't Care

Edism of the Day

On "To My Wife" birthday cards:

"My favorite? The one that says 'To my wife, my friend, my lover.' I love it because 'lover' is tacked on almost like a threat. Like, 'Yes, I did turn into a fatso but it's still in the contract.'"

Straight Up

In response to my derisive chuckle at how few copies of Nick Lachey's solo album have been sold, Special Ed tells it like it is: "How many copies have you sold of your solo album?"

The Birthday Hulk

Today, it's my birthday. I'm so Incredible Hulk on my birthday. Normally mild-mannered, I become an engine of destruction, a green fury of entitlement, thrashing my way toward unattainable Birthday Nirvana. I rip and ruin all my shirts on my birthday, and sometimes my pants too. I always get in trouble on my birthdays. . .

1982: Ten spastic children begin sitting down around our kitchen table for cake when I tell Alison McCullough to move it, cause ain't no way she gets to sit next to me, The Birthday Hulk. My mom takes me upstairs and whacks me on my delusional ass.

1984: It's an intense game of musical chairs** "Karma Chameleon" is about to finish, I have to find a seat, I HAVE TO FIND A SEAT!!!! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! I GET A SEAT!!!! Somehow this leads to my tackling Jennifer Richman, knocking her flat on her ass, at which point she gets all tangled up in Mark Lester's gangly legs, sends him and his chair tumbling to the ground, and all of a sudden we've got a hog pile. Of 8 year olds. My brother, the Musical Chair referee, rules that I'm out. I get all up in his face about his bogus call. My mom takes me upstairs and whoops my little booty for acting like Lawrence Taylor on a bender.

1986: At the kitchen table again. Cake time. Yes, this cake looks f-ing delish! Wait, is that little brat Jeffrey Schumacher seriously reaching out and taking a strawberry? Off MY birthday cake? That MY MOM made for ME?!!!! And so, I figured it'd be best to reach over the table and swat little Jeffrey's hand away from the cake, in the process slapping my grubby hand smack in the middle of the cake. Yoink! I find myself upstairs again. With my Mom. And her anger. Happy Birthday to Me!

1988: I want a surprise party. I boss my best friend into throwing me one. She does, and I fake act real surprised. I'm not a good faker. Everybody can tell I knew. Our Miami Vice-themed party is a success, but karma gets me (again) and the love of my life, Chris Madden, refuses to kiss me during Spin the Bottle. Me! The Birthday Hulk! How could he? Did my rippling muscles turn him off?!

And so on and so on. The Birthday Hulk became a bit more subtle in later years, though her antics include forcing boys to make out with her, BECAUSE IT'S HER SPECIAL DAY, knocking people to the ground on a dance floor with her wildly flailing elbows, because BIRTHDAY HULK OWNS THIS SONG, BITCH!, and throwing a bowling ball smack into an innocent car parked on the street. What? BIRTHDAY HULK DOESN'T KNOW HER OWN STRENGTH!

So on this birthday, I'm wishing myself delicacy and grace. And an unripped shirt. I'll let you know how that turns out.

---

** I just IM'd Special Ed and asked him "What's that game called when you walk around chairs in a circle and try to get a seat when the music stops?" Apparently the brain is one muscle I do not overwork on my birthday.

Love at Second Sight

We recently bought a coffee table. It's something I have been dreaming about having for quite some time now. Actually, for all of my adult life. Once, my roommate Lauren bought a coffee table and we lived like queens for five months--we still ate our dinner in front of the television, but it felt so much classier with the plates off our laps. But then she had to move back to New York City and so took the coffee table with her. I returned to my life of kicked-over glasses of water and uncontrollable piles of slipping and sliding magazines.

Then, this year, I got married. And, I've found, marriage isn't just a union of two souls, it's license to max out the credit cards furnishing one's home. Whereas my apartment used to be an apartment, my apartment is now a home. And if anyone, say your husband or somebody, questions your lack of fiscal prudence in matters of furnishing you can just snap back, "What, do you still want to live like we're in college? Maybe you'd prefer two milk crates with an unfinished door laid on top?"? This response has been proven to be just about 100% effective in bossing a man into furniture capitulation.

And then, if you're feeling like you're really on a roll, you'll boss your in-laws into going to the store you've ordered your coffee table from to pick the damn thing up and drive it 5 hours to your home, so that you don't have to pay shipping charges. And when it arrives, well, you hate it.

Because, see, it's an aggressive coffee table. It sort of fights with the couch, and it's totally taking up too much of the Flokati rug you've gotten so close with, and indeed, as you've confessed to your husband, that you feel has become your friend, your companion on those long working-from-home days. Your New Year's resolution to do yoga every morning is shot, because now there isn't any room to unfurl the mat, and you can just forget about ever again having one of those luscious Saturday afternoon naps stretched out on the floor, snuggling with your buddy the rug.

But what's kind of great is, you'll slowly get used to the coffee table. It won't seem as hulking, you won't peek outside your bedroom door each morning to see if it's shouldered its way around the corner to taunt you, its lower shelf curved into an evil grin. In fact, you'll begin to appreciate its dark stain, especially at night when you've got the mood lighting going and everything looks warm and welcoming and in its place. You'll probably feel silly for having spent a day hiding in the bathroom, weeping quietly about this cocky intruder into your space. But, mainly, you'll feel thankful that you have someone in your life who told you to suck it up and get out of the bathroom, cause ain't no way you're returning the table you bossed him into getting.

So I guess sometimes I just need someone to tell me to get out of the bathroom and get on with it. Thanks, AB, for making me this site!