I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watchin' Me
As if I am not paranoid enough, I come home from work the other day to find THIS on my caller ID. What the hell?
Stuff you really shouldn't care about. Don't listen to me. I don't know nothin'.
I found a winged insect in my salad one time. I haven't eaten the salad bar since and have packed on about 10 pounds. Thanks a lot. You assholes ever hear of DDT?
The other day, however, Chef Indecisive went absolutely apeshit and I counted no fewer than a baker's dozen of different vegetables in my medley. Now, you know those environmentally-hostile styrofoam containers with the constructive layout of a Hungry Man TV-dinner tray? The big section for the "entree" and the two smaller sections, one for the "starch" and one for the "fucking zucchini and summer squash"? That one? Well, you know how small one of those smaller sections are. This is a list of vegetables I found there. In no order, other than numeric, numbnuts:
4. The Buffalo Chicken Calzone <===NEW ENTRY!
I just finished eating up this scrumptious delicacy. On the outside, it looked like a normal calzone. Now, what would you think would be on the inside of a buffalo chicken calzone? Well, buffalo chicken is a good place to start. Even these guys couldn't screw that up. Bleu cheese? Oh no no no. We draw the line of traditional buffalo chicken at...the buffalo chicken.
I do give them points for creativity by actually putting in small pieces of carrot and celery. Usually, the carrot and the celery is consumed separately from the buffalo chicken. I can't recall anyone ever making a buffalo chicken veggie sandwich with the wing in between a celery stalk and a carrot stick and eating the whole thing at once. But I do appeciate the effort for trying to interject SOME standards into the calzone, as perverted and completely idiotic as it may be.
But in cutting a little deeper into the calzone, I discovered two things I have NEVER seen as part of a buffalo chicken anything, nevermind a calzone:
What the hell is that? Was that crap just lying around? Who made this? Some bonged-out college kid? I expected the next bite to be laden with Fritos, mac and cheese, and some Ramen noodles.
5. The Dreaded and Cursed Vegetable Medley
I like vegetables. I really do. I just don't like the caf's bland, boiled cornucopia of virtually every vegetable under the sun. The usual medley consists of broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, summer squash, and carrots. I like 60% of the vegetables in that list. Invariably, 99% of my vegetable portion consists of the 20% of the vegetables from that list that I abhor. I swear that zucchini and summer squash must be cheaper to get around here than the clap, because they give that stuff out like it is going out of style. Zucchini and summer squash. Not the clap. At least, not to my knowledge. And what is it about those two vegetables? They go together like Ozzie and Harriet. Tom and Katie. Sigfried and Roy.
What the hell is this gip? No parsnips? No turnip? No swiss chard? What kind of racket are they running here?
Oh, and all of these things were bathing gently in a shallow pool of steaming water that had the vague taste of, you guessed it, zucchini and summer squash.
I should keep my yap shut. I know there are starving children in China. But not even they could possibly like zucchini and summer squash.
Can I just get some extra rice with that?,
The only person in your life who should look like Burt Young is your dad (only if you happen to be the child of actor Burt Young) and your cab driver, if you are fortunate enough to have one to call your own.
Your dentist should not look like Burt Young, let alone Burt Young with poor dental hygiene. Yes, my dentist's teeth were a mess. That would be like me being a hairstylist. Just wouldn't make you feel too good to have me coif your dome while looking like Yahoo Serious, would it?
Anyone who might wonder why I hate going to the dentist, really needs to watch Bill Cosby's Himself. As much as I lost Cosby when he ventured into the Land of Jell-o Pudding Pops and Amazing Techicolor Sweaters, he really does nail the dentist experience.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. The eye doctor.
So, I show up at the eye doctor and since this is my first time there, I have to fill out all of these forms, HIPAA agreements (sure, I give you permission to tell my answering machine that I have a sty)...you know, crap like that.
So, I finally get called into the doctor's office and I notice that he has all sorts of diplomas and memberships to various Eye Doctor clubs. But then I also notice that he has a framed poster for a band called Hi8us. Now, in researching this a little more, it appears they are a band who specializes in music that is "upbeat and danceable, a blend that is twisted with deep improvisational segments combining funk, rock, pop, Latin, reggae, hip hop and electronica. Bass driven, soulful grooves served up with an unmistakable pop appeal."
What? No polka?!
Anyway, in researching this, I think my eye doctor's son is in this band. I didn't know this at the time, so imagine what is going through my head when I see, among all of these prestigious documents, this poster of 4 silhouetted young men under the heading Hi8us, which, sorry, sounds like a boy band to me.
I'm getting antsy and hoping there are no anesthesia masks nearby.
Anyway, I sit in the chair and am told to look at the lines of letters with my glasses on. All's good. I can see.
Then, he starts making me think I am turning into Stevie Wonder.
I wish eye doctors would give you a warning like, "Hey, don't freak out. I'm going to do some stuff that's going to fuck your eyes up so bad, the smallest letter you will be able to see is this:"
But they don't, so I'm left with thinking I need to start picking up Braille.
The guy starts messing with my eyes and I can't see shit. You know the drill. Then comes the test I hate: "Which one is clearer? This? Or this?...."this? Or this?" Sometimes the dude would mix it up and really confuse me: "A? Or B?" "Two? Or Three?" "Jermaine? Or Tito?"
They all look the friggin' same to me.
Then, he gets up real close and shines a quasar in my eye. He's in such proximity that I swear he transformed into a Cyclops as all I can see is his one giant eyeball:
For some reason, this sends me into a Beavis and Butthead Sex Education Class giggle fit.
Then, he tells me to look at his ear (!) and then does some witchcraft which allows me to see the reflection of the backside of my eyeball, which looks like this:
I don't like seeing this. It makes me queasy.
But, in order to not sound like a wimp in the presence of a guy who has a Hi8us poster in his office, I decree that spying on the inside of my own head is "pretty cool."
Then, comes the fun part.
He tells me to put my face in this apparatus. Chin in this chin cup. Forehead against this padded thing. I'm expecting to hear "Bring out the gimp."
Instead, he gives me a kindly warning: "I'm going to thrust a hurricane-force puff of air into your eyeball. Try to relax."
Thanks man! How about, "Turn around. OK. I'm going to swing this machete at your head. Try not to move."
So, I'm sitting there, trying to anticipate this puff of air and closing my eyes. Apparently, this measures the pressure in my eyes. Mine is fine, despite withstanding 3 Gs of wind pressure from this torture device.
Then, the best part. Lie back...time for some "drops". He doesn't tell me exactly what these drops do, and he needs three office brutes to hold me down, because I hate having stuff put in my eye. He finally gets the drops in and then he tells me to go downstairs and look at new eyeglass frames while the drops "take effect".
Not knowing what "effect" the drops would have, I go downstairs and start looking at ridiculously over-priced frames. I knew I was in deep shit at this eyeglass place when I see a few frames I like and look up and I am in the "Anne Klein" section. Holy gender-confusion, Batman!
Anyway, after about 15 futile minutes of looking for new specs, I notice that everything is getting pretty blurry and I am getting dizzy as a result. I pick up some frames and can't even read the price on them. I'm starting to freak out, because I wasn't warned about this and all I can think of is that Hi8us poster and that this doctor slipped me a mickey and I'm going to end up passed out with my pants around my ankles and an eyechart taped to my butt.
Then, I look into a mirror and I look like this:
Only, my hair is brown, I'm not a girl, and also not a cartoon.
So, the doctor put some wacky ocular eclipse drops in my eye, because my eyes look like this:
That kinda freaked me out too, but the good doc then gave me the antidote after he looked around in my eyeball some more and all was eventually right with the world.
I got a new prescription and went on my way.
I landed myself at Lenscrafters and was immediately helped by this very patient woman who indulged my indecisiveness by showing me eyewear that made me look like everything from a welder to Dieter from Sprockets and everything else in between.
I end up settling on these bad-boys:
I know what you are thinking, but they look better in person. I think.
I also got some prescription sunglasses as well.
When the woman was filling out the form, she marked the eyeglasses down as "Trendy" and the sunglasses down as "Sporty". Apparently, I'm now an honorary Spice Girl.
And when I went back to pick them up, the 50-something woman who made sure they fit, told me countless times how "cool" they were. I don't feel all that great about that as she also said the same thing to the MIT grad who was trying on specs that looked like two movie screens connected at the nose. But I do swear that, if my wife wasn't with me, she would have asked me out to the Barry Manilow concert.
Oh, and a side note to any members of Hi8us that find their way here...your relative is actually a really good eye doctor. But that would have made for a boring blog entry, no? Keep rocking with all those genres!
Seeing clearly now, the rain has gone,
This team's mascot is modeled after an F4-F5 windstorm that killed 94, injured over 1,200, and left 10,000 people homeless. Go tornadoes!
Here's their t-shirt. I guess the image of a black funnel spewing debris all over creation wouldn't have sold a lot of souvenirs, so instead they settled on a basebat bat twirling spaghetti. Mangia!
Now, I don't harbor any ill-will toward the team, but come on. Someone gets a big fucking retarded F in Sensitivity 101.
Then there was a team in Birmingham, Alabama called the Birmingham Fire. They played over ten years ago in a league called the World League of American Football, which was also known as "What the fuck is the World League of American Football?"
Now, I don't blame these guys for not seeing into the future that some wacko would be going around setting churches ablaze in this area in 2006, but calling your team the "Fire" is just bad karma. It's like calling your team the Swarm of Locusts or the Death of the Firstborn. Bad things happen when you do shit like that.
So, what's next? A professional chess team from Boston called the Massacre? A minor league kickball squad dubbed the New Foundland Titanics? An amateur beer pong stable knighted the New Orleans Katrinas? A semi-pro badminton conglomerate monikered the Chicago Mrs. O'Leary's Cows? Oh wait...it already happened...
Go Flaming Cows,
I assure you, they spelled my name incorrectly. Mind you, I am now almost six years older and almost six times hotter. And to answer the riddle of the universe that you all must have after seeing this: I think the person next to me on the page is a girl.
Looking back at what they posted as my quote, it is more robotic than Jar Jar Binks. It's not like they put me down as saying "Meesa think Elliott putsa on a gooood showza!" They just made me sound like Twiki from Buck Rogers. I don't sound like that in real-life. I assure you I do not sound like that in real-life. It would not compute to sound like that in real-life. Danger, Will Robinson.
Anyway, I really said a bunch of stuff, but they pulled out three random sentences and arranged them to appear like a cohesive quote so I ended up sounding like an idiot. It could have been worse, I suppose. I'm sure they could have used these three random sentences instead:
"I thought Elliott's best song tonight was 'Junk Bond Trader'. I have to get up pretty early tomorrow morning. I really don't understand how some people can dig on rhubarb pie."
Thank goodness they didn't use that, or people would have REALLY thought I was a lunatic.
As harrowing as this foray into my missed 15-minute past was, it did have a positive bi-product. No, I didn't get a sense of self-empowerment because I was able to come face-to-face with a traumatic event in my life. I ended up stumbling across an old issue of Maxim with Elisha Cuthbert on the cover while looking for Rolling Stone! Sweet.
There's just something about my honesty that speaks to people,
That's right. I'm not in the issue with Janet Jackson, getting her yabs cupped by some guy behind her on the cover. Uh-uh. I don't get a scantily clad Britney Spears. I don't even get Springsteen, who is seemingly on the cover tri-annually.
I get Kid friggin' Rock. But not just regular old Kid Rock. But Kid Rock, who is wearing a goddamn tank top made out of the pulltabs from beer cans. What, they couldn't have had him codding a pit bull swaddled in the Confederate flag while kissing his sister outside his trailer while he was at it? And I'm not even going to comment on the Don Henley story.
But then, my disappointment turns to horror. I get to the page I am on and the headshot they took is OK-looking, but the quotes they decided to use from me were strung together in such a manner that it made me sound less literate than Jar Jar Binks. And then, the coup de grace: they spelled my friggin' name wrong. I have six letters in my last name. Consonant-vowel-consonant-consonant-vowel-consonant. Not that tough. They took the second consonant (an "n" in real-life) and changed it to a vowel (an "i" in Rolling Stone land), which not only ruined the whole thing for me, but also gave my last name a decidedly thick German sound to it, by which some of my elephant-memoried friends still call me from time to time.
Not sure why I felt the need to post this. Maybe, lately, I wish I was famous. Or just a smidgen more than I am. And I thought about the Foo Fighters show and, especially, my Rolling Stone debut. And it pissed me off.
So, remember. If some dumb-ass wants to interview you for a magazine article, do yourself a favor. Grab the pen out of his grubby little hands and spell your name out yourself in large, clear block letters. Lest your name ends up looking like that of an SS officer. Because that will totally ruin your 15 minute buzz.
Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy diggy said the boogie said up jump the boogie,