Bad George

A few weeks ago, Ian put the capital into an investment of 100 Polo shirts from a supplier. They’ve never been opened, are in original packaging, and have a retail price of $52.50. We decided to resell them to try and turn a profit. And, regrettably, we went to the flea market. Charging $20.00 a piece, we sold $100.00 worth in shirts. Not too successful, given the surplus inventory we have. But what made the venture worth it was George.

George is a regular. 89 years young, he knows everyone by name as they do him, and he greets everyone with a smile. He admits that he moves at the speed of a 98 year-old, but mentally, he’s quick as a fox and twice as sly. He sells things you would normally find in a drugstore, you know – toothpaste and Mach 3 razors and the like. Until about 12:30 he sat at the booth next to ours, imparting immeasurable wisdom upon us.

First, it was about the flea market. After over 20 years he knows what’s too expensive, what will and won’t last, and the types of items that sell best. But then our conversations turned broader. We touched upon subjects of race, sex, religion, and age.

My favorite George-ism was when he explained interracial relationships. He thinks that every white young lady who becomes involved with a brother is bound to be beat. When asked why they stay with the abuser he answers, “They like that black oak.”

I will miss George. From now on, no more flea markets for us.

Cruel and Unusual

This being the last week of summer, I thought I’d go out with a bang.

But then I realized that I have homework due in less than a week. So, for lack of more exciting activities, I’m stuck reading the notes for All The King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren.

And you know what? I’m quitting after only seven chapters. The Sparknotes even make me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a used spork. When does summer ’05 start?

When Hairy Met Sally

I’m looking for a female volunteer to shave (or wax) my lower back. I was going to have my good friends Sharf and Trizis do it, but my idealistically masculine family poo-pooed that idea. My pop stipulated that it wouldn’t be gay if I got a girl to do it.

That being said, any takers?

Banana Phone

I met some folks at the beach today and, even though I took my cell phone out of my pants before getting wet, it still got waterlogged. Now I know where my next paycheck is going.

——

Update Sunday, July 25, 2004 – 3:44PM:
Turns out it wasn’t as bad as I expected. I think it was because I was a cute kid, but no matter. My service representative Jessica hooked me up with a new phone and battery for a mere $40.00. Much better than the hundreds I was expecting to have to pay.

You're all morons.

I think a grammar refresher course is necessary for about 70% of this country’s population. When someone puts quotes around totally random fragments of the sentence, I cringe. When someone mixes up “there” and “their,” I cry. And when someone puts an apostrophe before the “s” of a word they wish to be plural, I die a little on the inside.

I'm only sleeping

This summer, I’ve started to take naps in the afternoon. After a day of watching a bunch of kids, I can be quite tuckered.

If someone’s home with me at the time, I tell them I’m going to be napping as to reduce inadvertent sequences of awakening. Usually I say, “Good night,” but now I realize this goodbye is potentially inaccurate.

I take my naps from (roughly) 3:30PM EST to 5:00-6:00PM EST. Therefore, it’s not nighttime when I retire to my quarters.

What am I supposed to say, then? “Goodnight” doesn’t suit the situation, and “good afternoon” is typically associated with a greeting, not a declaration of absence.

You know it’s summer when I fret over silly things like this.

Won't you be mine?

I live in a house on the corner of a two street intersection on the south side of town. My family has never been overly friendly with our neighbor-types, but after a few years in this home, I’ve gotten to know a few of them.

First, there’s Steve. He lives across the smaller of the two streets from me. He’s a drug burnout that the seventies left behind, stuttering and drinking the day away. Day by day, he sits at the old wooden picnic table under his old oak tree next to his family’s 1978 Chevy pickup drinking can after can of some cheap domestic beer. Usually around 3:00 PM, he runs out of his brewskies and walks the two blocks to Walgreens for more of his Old Milwaukee. Whenever I see him, he’s already downed a case or two. This, coupled with his old partying days causes him to slur his speech and results in a certain incoherency between his brain and his mouth. So, whenever you see him coming, you’d best get in the house to avoid uninteresting, nowhere-bound conversation.

Next to him lives Gary, Steve’s brother. Gary is a 50-something year-old bachelor, aside from the fact that he lives with their mother. Gary is a mailman who owns a nice Harley. However, he only rides the cycle on Saturdays for about an hour. All the other time he carts around in his mail truck or Steve’s old, clanky pickup. Gary does most of the yardwork for his family and when he does so, he wears the same 30-year-old white shorts that come to about eight inches above his knee. It’s not a pretty picture.

Next door to my house lives the ancient Mrs. Elsie Grecko. When my mom was a kid, any balls accidentally thrown into her yard were gone. Forever. After her husband died, she took to tilling the land in her yard with a rake. Every day of the year, the old leather-like sack of skin would sag outside, rake in hand, and start beating. And beat the land, she would, until evening falls. She still does this every day, every so often stepping back to eye her work. At times, she can achieve a nice criss-cross effect in the dirt that used to be her yard with her rake marks, but that’s only if she’s pounding the land. Sometimes you can spot her whacking her driveway with the rake, but that’s only if she gets bored with her daily land cultivating campaign.

Caddy corner to the Duchess of the Dirt lives the Alexander family, the nicest folks you’ll ever meet. The patriarch of the family is Jim Sr., an ice cream store proprietor. I can only suppose his business isn’t doing well, because of the perpetual lack of cars in the parking lot, but Jim doesn’t seem to mind. Along with every serving of ice cream, you get some soul food to boot. Free gospel teachings, that is. And even if you didn’t want to listen to Jim, you’d have to. The man speaks (although it’s a bit nasally) with an uncommon loud air about him. About anything. The other night I was trimming the hedges in my back yard and he, out of the blue, says, “If you ever need a good grill, I’ll tell you what, you’d best get it from Wal Mart. Oh, it’s great. $57.90, already assembled. Yeah, best grills in the world. Better, even, than Home Depot! Seriously, you should get one of these grills. Best in the world. $57.90, installed. Best grills in the world up there at Wal Mart. Yeah.”

And across the larger of the two streets is an older couple, and though I don’t quite know their names, I do know what kind of people they are. Dirty rotten scoundrels, they are. The whole lot of ‘em. Since they’re older and unemployed, they have a certain scheme for money. Most every Saturday, they have a garage sale. Not the sort where you have a bunch of crap you need to sell, but the kind where you have the same outrageously-priced stuff that nobody buys week after week. They’re bloodthirsty about what they do, too. They take advantage of your directional signs. They offer to take them down because they use them, and then they leave you high and dry. They suck away the competition whenever you try to clean out your garage and make a bit of a profit. Useless, I say. Out of all of my neighbors, they’re the ones I think I like the least. Harmless drunks, crazy elders, and talkative ice cream salesmen I can take. Cutthroat pack rats? Now that’s another story.

Shopping

I went grocery shopping with my ole chum Ian for my mother this weekend, and as we romped around the local Publix, I realized that there are a few strange words associated with shopping.

Grocery – Since when did we pronounce the “c” as if it were an “sh?” I say (phonetically) “groshree,” but I can only assume it’s meant to be pronounced “groseree.”

Aisle – Who decided to put an “a” at the beginning of this word? I wasn’t called about it. They didn’t invite me to any U.N. vote on the subject. Did they just assume I would ignore the first letter and not pronounce it “a-iyle” because of the possible homonym clash with Gilligan?

Coupon – Some people pronounce it “coopon.” Others, “C-you-pon.” Me? I go with the former. But the inconsistency of dialect that coupons inspire is enough to irk me nonetheless.

Nothing Left to Say

In the past week, I’ve run into more people I know than ever before. Now that my friends all have jobs and can drive themselves places, my chances of meeting up with them has increased immensely. Not that I want to be antisocial, but I don’t like it. Not at all.

What am I supposed to say to the people I see? We have absolutely nothing to talk about. Usually, the conversation looks like this:

“Hi, how’re you doing? Good. Yeah, how’s the life? Uh, oh yeah – I’m great. No, nothing new since school ended. Yeah. Uh, goodbye.”

So, if I know you and we see each other and it seems like I’m avoiding you, I am. And if we’re forced to talk, let’s keep it short for lack of interesting conversation topic.

Roffle

I’m so glad Angus is home from the Motherland.

BucsMan5K (1:34:53 PM): brb i just woke up and i have to do my morning squatthrusts on the porcelan (dont know how to spell) throne