Michael Kindt's Blog, page 116
July 11, 2015
So the local hookah lounge caught on fire, but neither the patrons nor the management noticed. “It’s always really smoky in a hookah lounge.”
Haha.
Unfortunately, the fire was small and no one was hurt. <That’s a joke, by the way.
Where there’s smoke there’s fire….but what kind??
July 9, 2015
The least I can do….
The least I can do….
July 8, 2015
Jobs I have held over the last 25 years:
paperboy (twice, once as an adult)
busboy
dishwasher
cook (dozens of times)
kitchen manager (several times)
friendly neighborhood pot salesman
airplane cleaner and parker (I got to meet Faith Hill!)
fake telephone psychic (fifty thou a year did indeed by a lot of beer)
vaccuum cleaner salesman
housepainter
dumptruck driver
campground maintenance
convenience store “associate”
convenience store “assistant manager”
convenience store “manager” (they’re all the same, really, in that they all suck)
produce clerk (man’s work; muscle-creating)
political writer (both online and in print; no money)
twisted Americana slice of life writer (also no money)
published author (some money; I became a thousandaire!)
poet (one drunken evening, I was paid in sex)
When I die, I will be ok with my life.
At least I tried, goddamn it. At least I did that.
“The negro is indolent and a dreamer; spending his meager wage...
“The negro is indolent and a dreamer; spending his meager wage on frivolity or drink; the European has a tradition of work and saving, which has pursued him as far as this corner of America and drives him to advance himself, even independently of his own individual aspirations. “ -Che Guevara
——————
Hm, seems like conservatives aren’t the only ones who whitewash history…
July 5, 2015
Belgian Trappist ale: Chimay ‘Cinq Cents’, posed with,...
Belgian Trappist ale: Chimay ‘Cinq Cents’, posed with, apparently, bag of steel cut oats and mostly used-up paper towel roll.
Excellent stuff.
Tales from the Produce Department
The Rainbow Family of Love and Light are having their annual gathering here in the Black Hills of South Dakota (or, as Paul McCartney called us in the White Album song Rocky Raccoon, “the Black Minin’ Hills of Dakota”). The Family is a modern-day group of olden-day hippies, ala the 1960s. They wear headbands and bellbottoms and flash the peace sign, the works. They know who Country Joe and the Fish is, are still pissed about Nam, and probably think the Grateful Dead is actually a good band.
Despite all this, many of them are young. In fact, most of the ones I’ve seen are young. Sorry, but I can’t help but think of re-enactors when I see them–you know, like those Renaissance festival people or those Civil War dudes. It all strikes me as play acting, but then I’m an asshole.
They live the life and walk the walk, though, I’ll give them that. Their play acting is 24/7, which is more than I can say for most of us.
Lots of local people, due to extreme boredom and privilege, have decided to be upset about the Rainbow Family coming here. Honestly, there isn’t a lot that goes on around here, so we might as well be upset and offended by something.
Let’s look!
Sure enough, we found the Rainbow Family of Love and Light (aka “dirty hippies”). You don’t know South Dakota like I know South Dakota. Of late, before the “Hippie Horde” descended on us, we were all pissed about cottonwood trees. In case you don’t know, in Spring and early Summer, cottonwood trees release, basically, little tufts of cotton, which then blow all around and get stuck in the oil slicks under cars.
People were actually bitching about it. I’m not even kidding. Nothing says BORED and PRIVILEGED like being all pissed off about a tree.
Jesus, South Dakota.
So I was at work, in the Produce Department, when some Rainbow people came in. Now, you should know, among these Rainbow folks hygene is not a high priority. You can usually smell them before seeing them–and I did.
I smelled them over by the bananas, then smelled them over by the tomatoes. I put them in my sight and watched them, afraid they might be thieves. It annoys the shit out of me when people steal from my store. We have no security and corporate policy prevents us from confronting thieves, due to lawsuit fears, so what we do is just follow them around, really close, until they leave.
Me and Tanner in Produce are all about loss prevention. No one else, including management, even gives a shit.
“Did you see the size of that empty purse?”
“I’m on her.”
Now, I don’t know if Rainbow people are, by and large, thieves, but around here I’ve heard everything (none of which was positive). My rational self views them just as another large group of people: some are dicks, but mostly they’re alright. Still, my South Dakota self eyeballed them. Had they been ordinary people, I would’ve moved in closer, but they were far too fragrant for that.
Health first, then job.
They went over to the wet rack, where open heads of cabbage and lettuce reclined. They stood there, seemingly waiting. One of the girls looked at me and smiled. I was standing probably twenty feet away by the bulk peanuts. She smiled and waved at me and I suddenly became self-conscious. I immediately turned and pretended to be doing something. The big plastic scoop for the peanuts, it just wasn’t situated right!
When I looked up again, thirty seconds later, she was still smiling at me. Just then the wet rack misters came on, spraying water on the vegetables below, and all five of them them thrust their arms into the water and began washing off. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was paralyzed, my jaw hanging. Luckily, Tanner was on the floor, too, busy arranging apples into Egyptian pyramids, and saw the whole thing as well.
“Hey!” he yelled at them. “You can’t do that!” He walked aggressively toward them, an apple in each hand. “Go! Get out of here!”
The Hippies ran away, laughing. Finally, I was able to move away from the peanuts.
“What the fuck was that?” I said to Tanner.
“I don’t know know, but it was fucking gross.”
Much of the wet rack was compromised. They had even washed out their pits!
“I’ll get some carts,” I said, and went to the back room. Obviously, we were going to have to toss the entire section of wet rack where they had “bathed”.
As we worked, pulling cabbage and kale and scallions and lettuce and leeks, the story of what had happened made it around to the rest of the store. A cashier, Nate, came up to us and said the same thing happened at Safeway.
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s a scam.”
“A scam?”
“Yeah, they come in and wash under the veggie misters, so everything below has to be thrown away. Then they go wait by the dumpsters. Free food!”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
After we got everything replaced with new product, me and Tanner went out back and looked at the dumpsters. Sure enough, there they were.
“Hey!” we yelled to them. “Our discarded produce goes to Bear Country!” We LOL’d.
“What?” It was the girl who had smiled at me. She was walking up to us.
“The produce we throw away,” I said. “It doesn’t go to the dumpsters. We save it in a cart and Bear Country comes and gets it.”
“What’s Bear Country?”
“It’s a wildlife preserve, for bears, about 8 miles south of town.”
“Oh, yeah, I think we drove past it.”
“No free food today. Sorry.”
“So all we did was feed the bears?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s cool.”
And you know what? It was.
July 3, 2015
I notice I have several new followers. At some point they will...
I notice I have several new followers. At some point they will get angry with me and unfollow me, but in the meanwhile. Hi I’m Mike. Fuck you.
I use to date an opera fan
It was my initial attraction, even. After all the dolts and dipshits and loud computer pop fans, it was nice to look someone in their eyes, whisper “Kardashian”, and have have them stare back blankly.
She played the oboe and, at the time, I didn’t even know what an oboe was. The idea, though, that she played an instrument I had never heard of made her even more attractive.
I was all about this girl. She was like no other and, honestly, isn’t that what you want in a girl?
It’s what I want, anyways.
We dated. We had some background, in the classical music field anyway. My mom was a classical pianist. The first music I ever heard was Beethoven, per my mother, who insisted on such.
“When you were a baby, all I played you was Beethoven.”
I hear the Moonlight Sonata in my dreams, but nevertheless became a punk fan.
She tried. Give her that.
This girl, though, obviously reminded me of my mother. Smart, accomplished, musical, classical. I was hip to the whole Oedipal thing right away.
She was different from my mother in many ways. She was blonde, my mother had black hair. Um…
Trust me. DIFFERENT!
Living in South Dakota I was pretty safe from operas–until one day some “troupe” that had performed in New York City and San Francisco (as if those places were special or something) was going to be here to perform Pagliacci. The cast was, like, all the seconds in the real show, or some shit.
$90 a ticket and she bought for both of us, without even asking me. Just assuming.
The whole time I’m thinking, is sex really worth this?
Anyway, the day came and I told her I was sick.
“Sick? All of a sudden you’re sick?”
Yeah, she didn’t believe me and we broke up.
I really liked her, too. I did. She was so smart and talented. And sexy. Oh boy I didn’t talk about that above and won’t now, being a gentleman, but yeah.
I miss her, but, hey at least I didn’t have to go to a fucking opera.
*weak fist pump*
