Friday Blue

Black Friday

Have no fear, gentle readers. I’m not dead. Nor was I swallowed up by the hoards on Friday. I’m made of tougher stuff. Having worked a theme park job for two summers in a row (Fourth of July and Christian Concert Day, anyone?), and also surviving the launch of the Numbtindough Gii just a few days before (that’s a separate post that’s so long I might never get around to posting it), Black Friday (or, as one very confused customer called it, Friday Blue) was a cakewalk.

Of course, with Christmas being closer, people were much pissier than usual. “I want to see a manager!” seems to be the shopping credo for many of the good folks in the Supercity X area. The girls at the register took the brunt of it, mostly because they don’t know how to “play dead” when a rabid soccer mom or stereotypical Supercity male (rotund, hairy, moustache, and thick accent) comes careening their way. I mean, no matter how you say, “I’m sorry, sir, but you bein’ ignint,”—it just seems like that would only make things worse. Fuel to the fire. Best thing to do is just smile sweetly and take the wind out of their sails.

But all the smiling in the world couldn’t help me with one customer.

An older man in a beret approaches me at the Numbtindough Gii station I’m manning. He’s pleasant and friendly and asks me several questions about the system and how the wireless controls work. I explain as best as I can (“There are sensors! Sensors inside this thing that sense what you’re doing with the controller!”). He asks me about the new Selda game. I tell him a little bit about it.

“You see,” he says to me, “We have a grandson in Central America who heard about this video game system and he said nothing would make him happier than getting a Numbtindough Gii and the new Selda game.”

I smiled sweetly at the touching story and thought quickly of a few things that might actually make him happier than getting a toy, but those thoughts went away when the gentleman called his wife…Mama…over.

“How much is?” she asked in a very thick foreign accent.

“Is—er—it’s two-fifty.”

“Ah. And with tax. Is two-eighty, no?”

“More like two-seventy.”

“Ahh. Two-seventy. And this…this Selda. How much is?”

“Fifty. All the Gii games are fifty dollars each.”

“And with tax is fifty-five. And plus the two-seventy is…” She mutters to herself, doing the math.

“Is more than three hundred dollars! For toy.”

A disgusted, superior look washes over her. She raises a finger and wags it at me.

“No! NO! We do NOT want! We buy things for poor grandchild in third world! We do not SPEND our money on this! Is TOY. Is ca-ca! Is for rich people in Ameeee-dica! We go!” She sweeps out of the store.

Papa says softly, “She will change her mind,” and follows.

I’m left standing there completely dumbstruck, eyes wide, but sweet smile still plastered to my face.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? I thought carefully about what Mama had just said. She was absolutely right. When your rent is almost $2,000 a month, you don’t have a lot of money to just throw around. And still, I set aside a couple hundred bucks to buy games and accessories for my new gizmo—a toy that will keep me entertained and sedate instead of getting my butt out there and making a difference for the world!

An abrupt wake-up call.

NOW I’m ready to really celebrate Thanksgiving. Where’s the turkey?

Gamey

I wish I could submit blog posts by writing them in my mind and sending them via brainpower.

After all, as your elementary school librarian might tell you, the human brain is the greatest computer of all. Of course, you shouldn't believe her for one minute. The brain does not have high-speed internet or Microsoft Paint.

Numbtindoughland is great fun, folks. In fact, there are times when I forget that I ever was an actor. Then my feet start to hurt and ANOTHER person tells me, "I already KNOW how to play this game!" when they DON'T and I'm brought back to reality.

Stritch

The readers have spoken!

It looks like we're in all this trouble because of--guess who?--Elaine Stritch!

When it comes to placing the blame for all the turmoil around the world, point that finger of yours at the last of the great Broadway divas! She deserves it!

Whose Fault Is It Anyway? (text version)

Due to the limited capabilities on BlackBerry Jamiqua, I can't post snazzy pictures with these. I can't even center the text. Still, you know what to do.

Whose Fault Is It Anyway?
All-Text Version

Is it...

Donald Rumsfeld

Elaine Stritch

Cheesesteak Factory

Dumb Video Game Console Names (Numbtindough Gii)

Chicked Fried Steak and French Fries

The Cotton-Eyed Joe

Katrina

Cuddly Baby Penguins

Little Mexican Children ("Mommy mira...!")

"Temp Work"

or our previous reigning champion...

Bare Ankles

Time to vote! Polls close at midnight on Sunday! Happy weekend!

Sick Joke

Sometimes, when I'm very, very hungry, I pause for a moment to remember the many culinary delights I left behind in Dallas. Specifically, the ones cooked up at the all-around greatest restaurant ever conceived: the Cheesecake Factory. There's nothing finer than the Thai Chicken Pasta, except for maybe the Spicy Cashew Chicken, the Jumbo Chicken Chop, the Factory Famous Meatloaf, the Orange Chicken, the Santa Fe Chicken Salad, the Louisiana Chicken Pasta, the Pineapple Upside-down Cheesecake... the list goes on.

So imagine how excited I became...

I was walking around the City one evening when I saw a sign that made my heart skip a beat. Could it be? Does New York City really have a Cheesecake Factory? Yes! Yes!! YES!!! I was running a bit late for some "Temp Work" but that could wait. I turned on my heels, crossed the street, and found myself washed in the warm light of the bright neon sign, enveloped in the arms of a dear friend from days gone by. I was finally home.

Then I looked a little closer.

Is this somebody's idea of a joke? Because if it is, I'm not laughing.

If I Can't Take...My Coffee Break...

...Something within me doesn't DIE, but something DOES find it much more difficult to stay awake.

Yes, folks. Somebody buy me some teeth whiteners because I, humble blogger and freelance poet, Forky Fourchette, have finally succumbed to "the coffee thing."

For a while I was nervous about getting addicted to the stuff. You know--getting horrible headaches because I didn't get my caffeine fix for the day.

Fortunately, I know to ask for half decaf.

I know, that sort of defeats the purpose, but when you've been practicing caffeine abstinence as long as I have, it doesn't take much to give you that jittery feeling in your stomach, the clarity of thought, and the wide, wide eyes that are all part of what we know to be the caffeine high.

Thing about asking for half decaf is that most of the street vendors here don't have a very good grasp of consonants (when was the last time you heard an illegal immigrant use their consonants? I rest my case) and they think you're asking not for half-decaf, but for half and half (or trans-fat cream, as I like to call it). They say, "Gracias senior" and, with all the flourish of a matador, they pour a pint of liquid lard into your cup.

While I'm new to the whole coffee thing, my tastes are developed enough to taste the difference between vendor "coffee" and the corporate stuff. And I'm here to tell you that, as much as it pains me to say it, the corporate stuff tastes worlds better. I don't know what kind of steroid bacon grease they put in the pot to make their coffee taste so much better, but dang. It goes down so much smoother than the metal-tinged dregs from the rusty tin pot at the vendor's on the street corner.

In other news, my futon bunkbed must be magic lately because I sleep like a ROCK these days and have some really twisted dreams. Last night I dreamed my late Grandfather walked into the room with my Grandmother clinging to him with these wild eyes. I asked, "What's going on here? Granddad died months ago." I think it was my mother who explained that doctors sometimes make mistakes and all he needed was for someone to give him a good shake and he woke right up. Everyone had a good laugh, but I kept feeling uneasy about the way my Grandmother was hanging onto him. Nevermind the fact that he wasn't supposed to be alive.

Isn't that weird?

Maybe I need to play more video games.