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Counter-Dwellers

One thing I absolutely hate is counter-dwellers. You know, those people who go to purchase something and then stay way beyond their allotted time at the sales counter, creating long lines and wasting everyone’s time.

I approach a sales counter with my cash in my hand and ready to leap away from the spot the instant my change hits my hand, allowing the line behind me to move in a friendly forward fashion. Sadly, not everyone in this sometimes shattered world shares my point of view. I’ve seen counter dwellers in all shapes and sizes, but I had an encounter with the worst counter dweller in God’s multicolored universe and if I ever see him in a line again, I will sprint out of that store faster than teeth falling out of a spunned-out, meth-head’s mouth. Here’s what happened.

There’s a Duane Reade drug store about two blocks from me on Sixth Avenue. I go there almost every day to buy something. What I love about the Duane Reade is that it’s got almost any item that’s essential to my life. Items ranging from waxed dental floss to 24 ounce cans of Budweiser and everything in between. Here’s some pictures of the diverse items waiting for your perusal at the Duane Reade on 6th Avenue.

Hey Liz, say hi to Jackoff when you get to celebrity hell!

Beer!

More beer!

Cheesy popcorn...mmmmm!

Entenmann's...mmmm!

Bunion cushions...hooray!

Not just dental floss...HIGH TECH dental floss!

Tons o' gums!

Loofahs! Hey is that Bill O'Reilly over there?

Quid pro quo, Clarice!

Underwear that's fun to wear!

Terrorism masks...hooray!

Yoo Hoo!

Sadly, they also stock some scary stuff. Behold the evil Snuggie!

Okay, now on with the story.

So last Saturday, around three in the afternoon after lazily laying about reading magazines all day, I got up to make my daily Duane Reade run.

I put on my boots, walked out, locked my door, then unlocked it, walked back in to check that I had turned off my space heater (OCD moment!) and walked back out and locked the door and went outside.

The cool fall air slapped me in the face as I strolled westward on 16th street and then up 6th Avenue.

Within minutes I was inside. I grabbed a blue plastic shopping basket and started roaming the store for daily staples. I got a National Enquirer—David Letterman Promised Stephanie Birkitt A Baby! John Edwards Wife Tells His Mistress, ‘I Hope You Die!’ Jen Drunk Dials Brad!—and went to the beer cooler and tossed three 24 ounce cans of Budweiser into the basket. Next I put a 32 ounce bottle of Powerade Zero Mixed Berry drink in with my other purchases. Then I ambled over to the Entenmann's pastry rack and wisely chose a pack of little chocolate donuts. I took stock of my items and decided I was ready to check out.

I headed towards the front of the store and saw there was a fairly long line. Then I realized there was just one cashier and it was the slow-moving Hispanic kid who’s eyes are always red as Heinz ketchup bottles and he always seems stoned. He’s got a stoner smile plastered on his face and I’ve seen people yelling at him about prices and whatever and he never loses his cool. I’m jealous of this kid.

Anyway, usually there’s at least two cash registers going, if not three, but not today. I got in line behind a short fellow with dark, greasy hair and a cowlick that refused to be weakened by the grease. He was wearing brown khaki pants and a camouflage jacket. Camouflage jackets make me think of Travis Bickle. Travis Bickle makes me think of Jodie Foster. Jodie Foster makes me think of John Hinckley, Jr. John Hinckley, Jr. makes me think of Mark David Chapman. Mark David Chapman reminds me that John Lennon’s last album, “Double Fantasy” wasn’t all that great and that always bums me out. So I don’t like to see camouflage jackets. And now I just did. Motherfucker!

Right after his jacket set off that quintet of twisted and bent memories he turned around and looked at me. He had a ferret face not unlike Major Burns on M*A*S*H, a little Hitler-like wispy moustache and pock marks from what look liked years of bad acne. And now he was staring up at me. It really made me feel uneasy. So I did what I always do when I get nervous, I started talking.

“Looks like somebody called in sick,” I said while pointing to the lone cash register clerk.

After I said that, he stared at me for a few more seconds, pursed his lips and gave me this superior look. Then, thankfully, he turned back around.

I thought to myself that he seemed like the kind of person that got the shit kicked out of him on a daily basis when he was a kid for being some kind of a know-it-all nerdnik. Now that he’s all grown up he’s probably a bitter man who wears a camouflage jacket and one day he’ll shoot up an entire Duane Reade drug store just to impress Jodie Foster. I was hoping that this wasn’t that day. I hadn’t watched the season opener of 30 Rock on Hulu yet, and didn’t want to miss it because some bitter, ferret-faced nerd blew me and twenty other people away while he mentally replayed the movie, “Foxes” in his damaged mind.

These are the thoughts I have while standing line at the Duane Reade and this is why I don’t like standing in line at the Duane Reade.

Ferret-face had put his basket on the ground and I surveyed the items in it.

There was a box of Wheat Thins, a large tub of Vaseline, a light bulb, a can of Chef Boy Ar Dee Ravioli and a bottle of A1 Sauce. I wondered if you combined all of these things you could somehow manufacture a bomb. Then I imagined him gleefully setting off his bomb suicide style at a Jodie Foster film festival at the Film Forum on Houston Street.

“Great,” I thought to myself, “now I’ll never be able to go there again.”

At least the line was moving and I tried to think about other things, like how it’s hard to spend over twenty minutes in a line at Duane Reade and not hear a Phil Collins song. Did anyone ever figure out what the fuck Sussudio means anyway?

Finally I was getting close to checking out. Ferret-face walked up to the register with his basket of homemade Jodie Foster impressing bomb supply stuff and an empty canvas bag in his left hand. I was glad to get a little distance between us. I decided if he pulled out a gun, I’d jump to the food aisle and start hurling cans of Dinty Moore beef stew at him and save the day. I imagined myself on the cover of the NY Post and Jodie Foster seeing it and being all impressed with me. Soon, my heightened spirits took a turn for the worse as the Hispanic stoner kid rang up ferret-face.

After the kid told him the total, ferret-face sloooowly took his wallet out of his camouflage jacket.

Granted, I was somewhat relieved it wasn’t a gun, but I was also somewhat disappointed that I wasn’t going to be hurling cans of Dinty Moore stew at him and impressing Jodie Foster. One thing I did know for sure was that this guy was a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool, counter-dweller. Motherfucker!

I took a deep breath as he methodically opened his wallet and then peered at it as if he could mentally will the bills out of it and onto the counter. After about a minute of staring he took out one bill. Then thirty seconds later he took out another one. Then he leaned in and looked at the total on the cash register and put his hands in his pocket and pulled out a massive amount of change and spilled it on the counter. And then he started to slowly move nickels, pennies and dimes around like he was playing some sort of arthritic shell game.

I heard someone sigh and somebody else was tapping their foot. Even the perpetually smiling Hispanic stoner kid seemed to be losing his patience. He started picking up the items ferret-face purchased, but hadn’t paid for yet and was going to bag them.

“I’ve got my own bag,” ferret-face announced loudly, holding up the empty canvas bag as evidence. Then he went back to counting his change.

Finally after what seemed two years past an eternity, he surrendered his money. Then he took his canvas bag and started tugging at the zipper on it. It wouldn’t open. Motherfucker!

“Do you believe this fucking guy?” I said to the woman behind me who had been sighing and saying, “Come on,” under her breath.

“We’re never going to get out of here, I know it,” she said in a nasal Brooklyn-accented voice that could cut glass.

Ferret-face heard us and turned around and angrily said, “Sorry I’m trying to be friendly to the environment!”

“It sounds like a lonely job, Capt. Ecology,” I mockingly shot back. The entire line laughed.

“You can all go to hell!” He screamed back.

“It appears we’re already there,” I lobbed back and once again the line laughed. Ferret-face was pissed. Now I truly hoped he didn’t have a gun in his Travis Bickle jacket.

Apparently he couldn’t think of a comeback, so he just rolled the items up in his canvas bag and stormed out of the store.

I ran up to the counter and said, “I finally made it!”

The Hispanic stoned kid laughed and then I threw in, “Can you please double-bag my items in honor of that asshole?”

Everybody laughed as he rang up my stuff. The laughter washed over me and it felt like napalm smells in the morning. Victory. Huzzah!

Glove Story

Every winter I notice single gloves littered all over the place. I used to wonder if it was Michael Jackson disgarding his unused ones, but now that he's dead, they're still showing up. I thought I'd start taking pictures of every single glove I come across this winter. Why? Well, because it'll be something to do.

Motherfucking Monday

I’m going to keep this short, because I have to be to work at noon. I hate working the dayshift and I’m not in a good mood. In spite of that it’s a good, but somewhat limited show today. I’ve got a new photo series called Glove Story, which I’ll explain in the post and this week’s story is called “Counter-Dwellers” and it also will include a mini photoblog of things you can buy in the Duane Reade drugstore.. And then I’ve got a fake ad. Ta-da!

I’m in a hurry, but I have to mention that “Boris” has once again created a classic piece of Home Page art for this week! I laughed right out fucking loud when I saw that one. If you want some custom-made artwork for your website, “Boris” is your man. He’s also available for CD and book cover art, custom logos, retouching and just about anything else. If you’d like to talk to him about freelance work, just send me an email using the form on the Home Page.

Okay, the Weekly Photo will be up in minutes and then the rest of the crap will be sprinkled throughout the day. Check the red links at the bottom of the Home Page for the most current updates. See (ya), Motherfuckers!

Sunday Videos

Pet Sounds

I first heard the album “Pet Sounds” by the Beach Boys when I was in 8th grade. The Beach Boys had a new album called “Carl and The Passions, So Tough.” The album was packaged weirdly and along with the new album they made it a double album and threw in the old “Pet Sounds” LP, but it only cost as much as a single album. So I bought it and was amazed at how the Beach Boys looked. The all had beards and long hair and there were now two black guys in the band. I wondered if they knew how to surf.

I put the new record on first and it was okay, but not the greatest thing I had ever heard. Then I reluctantly put on “Pet Sounds.” I was never a huge Beach Boys fan as a kid and thought this old school Beach Boys album would be a bunch of car and surfing songs. From the moment I heard the opening guitar loops of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” my mouth hung open and I couldn’t believe the music I was hearing. This was different than anything I had ever heard before.

I remember my brother Jim coming in to the room and I said, “You have to listen to this,” and we both listened and were amazed we had never heard anything about this album.

Later I read that Capitol records wasn’t happy with Brian Wilson trying to veer away from the Beach Boys “surf, cars and fun, fun, fun,” formula. Just a few weeks after they put out the experimental (for the time) “Pet Sounds” Capitol put out a “Best of the Beach Boys” album in an effort to bury it.

While the album didn’t do that well here in the states, in England it went huge and even made the Beatles stand up and take notice. In fact it spurred them on to make their groundbreaking album, “Sgt. Pepper.”

Here’s two videos that discuss how “Pet Sounds” influenced the Beatles and the third is my favorite song off “Pet Sounds,” “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.”

Enjoy!

Sunday Comic

Sunday Time Wasters

It’s Lazy-Ass Sunday, Dial This Shit Up On Your Computer And Waste Some Fucking Time.

I got up to 2077, till I got bored with it.

Musical balls!

The first snow of winter, I got up to 1222. Supposedly I’m the new regional champion, whoop-dee-fucking-doo!

This gets old quick.

Do you ever wonder what happened to Martha Quinn?

Unfortunately I didn’t really get what this was all about, maybe you will.

The prediction!

Ha ha ha! My new hero!

Do we really need this entry Wikipedia?

My goal for Sunday night: gambrinous!

The end.

Sunday Service

Quick Pope John Paul...whatever, to the Jesusmobile!

I don’t know, I seem to remember him as a guest on Make Me Laugh...or maybe that was Howie Mandel.

Virgin Mary: Griddle me this!

Hipster Rabbi, oy vey!

Soapy Satan.

Masturbation material for Fox News fans.

Jesus meets Jose Feliciano.

Lazy-Ass Sunday!

Hooray for my very favorite day and night of the week, Lazy-ass Sunday! I’ve got a nice little show lined up with all the usuals, the Sunday Service, Sunday Time Wasters, the Sunday Comic and a Sunday Video to start your evening off. And if I think of anything else, I’ll throw it in. Happy Lazy-Ass Sunday, Motherfuckers! Cheers!

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