Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Getting With The Program

"Motherfucker", screeched Mr. Scoop as he bolted upright in bed, trying to free himself from the tangle of sheets. Spiders. He'd been dreaming about the spiders again. Despite the rabbit pulse throbbing away in his ears and every fiber of his being screaming at him to purify the room with fire, he woke up enough to realize that setting the bed aflame with his Zippo would have been A Bad Idea. Not only was I in the bed, but we probably would have gotten in trouble with the nice folks who ran the Holiday Inn. Probably. The hotel was undergoing renovations and, for all I know, the wing we were staying in may not even be there when we go back next year.

Anyway, I slept through the whole thing. I only know about it because Mr. Scoop told me about it the next day while he was mainlining coffee in an attempt to offset his inability to get back to sleep after the spiders. He blamed all the fresh air and California sunshine for upsetting his balance. He could be right. It was having the exact opposite effect on me. Whenever I am exposed to sunlight, it sucks the life out of me like...some great sucking thing. Any movie with Jessica Simpson, for example. Sends me right to sleep. An angry sleep where I grind my teeth a lot. I think I'm allergic or something.

Although I've now been back home for several days, I can't quite seem to shake California time. Eight days I've been back. Eight days that I can't quite make myself get to bed before midnight and even then I'm watching tv until I eventually drift off. Sleep deprived, I've been dragging myself to the Professional Development programming my school has been offering for the mandatory recertification requirements instituted by the state. Because, no matter how many classes I take, I'm just not qualified enough to teach your children. So says the state. All hail the great and mighty state. The professor teaching the class appears to have caught on to my lack of enthusiasm and pointed out that my tone seemed "somewhat facetious" during the "peer editing role play" that was the product of my involvement in enforced cooperative activity. You'd think that a course that was about being sensitive to varied learning styles would be more inclined to let me learn by working by myself. With an online option that lets me attend class pantsless, hungover and, most importantly, alone. Then I wouldn't worry so much, when I discover I'm sitting next to a relation of one of the district administrators, that I might smell like whiskey.

Sunday, August 05, 2007


"It's good to be a gansta", opined Mr. Scoop.

We had just arrived at our favorite sushi place after taking in the Simpsons movie. We arrived white, which made Mr. Scoop's comment a bit silly. There have been no documented white gansta's since Eminem. The entire Mafia notwithstanding. Besides, there has been a certain amount of pop culture that points to the idea that "it's hard out here for a pimp". I confess that I'm not entirely sure of the difference.

You know. White and all. I need "Street For Dummies". Or to care.

Still, as we sat down, they plied us with wet naps, beer and sake. We have a well enough established relationship with the place by now that they don't care that we are filthy human beings (hence the wet naps); they've memorized our booze preferences and begin to ply with with alcohol from the moment we sit down. I'm fairly certain they'd offer us women, if they thought they could get away with it.

It's a good thing. As the saying goes.

My sake always comes in a carafe like the one in the picture. I don't care that the sake is actually marked up by 200(ish)%. (My sake = Ozeki...which equals $7 per 750ml, retail. You work out the rest of the math. The carafe holds about 200ml. I'm drunk and am switching to Sauvignon Blanc because that's what's in the house.) It comes in a neat vessel that keeps it cold without watering it down. I'm going to buy the carafe online at some point. When I'm sober enough to work PayPal.

I appreciate that the restaurant doesn't seem to mind when Mr. Scoop tries to tattoo "Thug Life" across his abdomen using their soy sauce and a rusty safety pin. They clearly care about us, the customers. And the way that our sake and beer purchases will help their bottom line.

They've apparently been keeping some kind of spread sheet on us in the back. They've pegged us as customers whose visits work out to about once a week. Mr. Scoop will have 3 large Orion beers, whereas I will...usually pay. Plus I have at least 2, maybe 3 large carafe sakes. And Mr. Scoop and I go dutch. But that's not on the books. Or as funny. Shh.

When we engage in behaviors that deviate from their ability to meet the bottom line, they will ply us with free things. Since we were absent for a week, as we were in San Diego and all, we were immediately plied with a free salad of mango and crab. Although we (and by "we" read "Mr. Scoop") were initially concerned that Mr. Scoop might be allergic to mango (he has weird allergies to raw melon and banana that lead to mouth hives), the salad turned out to be good free eats for all involved. Later we got all kinds of free desserts. Just enough to make me feel guilty and buy another round of booze, thus getting me up to max of 3 sake carafes and Mr. Scoop up to 4, yes 4!, large Orions. That's like 8 normal beers.

Mr. Scoop isn't normal.

Right now, as I type this, he's downstairs playing "Marvel Ultimate Alliance" on the X-Box 360. Wearing Spiderman Underoos.


I didn't say nothing.

(And, I'm in my Batgirl ones. Ssshhh. Dammit.)