Well... normally, I'd be bitching, complaining, or pointing out some other ridiculous situation I've put myself in recently, but I still can't get my head around the fact that it's been 7 years since I was stuck in my boss' apartment wathcing "Alive" with his wife at 3am. The subways and LIRR weren't running that day; I had no cell reception, and thusly nowhere to go. Joe insisted that I stay with him and his family until it was all over. Holy shit was that a mistake. Some part of me would have welcomed a confrontation with the Taliban just so I wouldn't be subjected to the antics of that entire fucked up family. Let me paint a picture for you:
We leave the office, sometime in the early afternoon and walk to his multi-million dollar apartment on Riverside Drive. The reason I noted the "million-dollar apt." is that upon entering the apartment, you would have thought this family was eligible for low-income housing. None of the furniture matched. There was a half-dead ficus in the corner looming over animal-destroyed sofa, and the 50" flat screen television was propped up by a broken wooden footstool. I shit you not - it was awful. I don't have a fraction of what these people have, and my Walmart linens are in better shape than this. We sat there watching the horrific videos of the towers and all of that looped CNN footage till I basically wanted to stab myself with the switchblade that was resting on the kitchen counter. (I don't know why it was there either.) His friend from Germany was planning on staying that night also which meant that sleeping arrangements were going to get a little tricky. I stayed awake watching bad television for most of the night when my boss' wife, Robin, couldn't sleep either. We sat up watching "Alive" on HBO or Cinemax or some shit. Granted, probably not the most appropriate thing to be watching, but at this point I need to find a happy place - even if that place is on a mountain in the Andes ready to fry up my best friend's ass cheeks for food.... it happens.
To make a long story shorter, I ended up sleeping in a twin-sized pink Barbie bed, complete with Barbie canopy. (The daughter left to sleep with her parents.) My fat ass could barely fit under the sheets, much less my feet, that dangled at the ends like two giant half-wrapped hershey bars. When I woke up there was a 3 year old that desperately wanted me to play 'house'. Fuck that. I gave it a go for about 10 mins before the reality set in.... I'm in my boss' apartment, desperately in need of a shower, and I have a 3 year old girl looking at me like I'm a fucking Teletubby come to life for the sole purpose of entertaining her. My shoes were by the front door so I had to tip-toe out without anyone hearing me. I instructed the little girl to give her doll a new hairstyle until I got back (clearly the makers of this doll thought it was 1988 - it was awful), so she was taken care of. I get about 4 feet from my shoes when I see freedom actually within reach until... about a foot away from the door knob, I step in a giant puddle of cold fucking dog piss.. Not warm, cold - apparently an overnight gift left by their little pooch. I took off my socks and stuffed them in the garbage can, grabbed my shit, and was almost out the door when I see Robin walking out of the bedroom. "I'm making chocolate-chip pancakes? Where you going?"... Fuck. Who am I to turn down pancakes... chocolate chip even. So, I sat and ate quietly still not believing like the events of the day prior had actually happened. Not the towers.. I slept in a fucking Barbie bed! Ok, yeah the towers. It was completely fucking surreal, and after I'd had my pancakes, I was getting the fuck out and on my way home where I belonged.
I actually have no memory of getting home, probably from the lack of sleep the night before. However, I will take with me this - If I EVER find myself in a situation like that again, national attack or otherwise, I will walk, steal, hitchhike, hijack a fucking car if I have to. Life's too short and if it's my time to go, it won't be in the presence of these crazy sons of bitches.
Over and out.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Shepherd One
At the risk of sounding mean (thought I should probably use that preemptive phrase at the beginning of all of my blog posts), does anyone else find it hilarious and rig-goddamn-diculous that the name of the plane that flies the Pope from Point A (Vatican City) to Point B (Anywhere else and vice-versa) has been officially named "Shepherd One"? I swear to god, I was waiting for X-Zibit to come out of the plane and show me all the plasma tvs and Vatican bling they've got on display, but no. Instead I got almost an hour of fucking news commentary.
I'm watching tv quietly on a sunday night after having just finished dinner, when I put on CBS to watch Big Brother (no judgments, please) and I get the view of the Pope's ass ever-so-slowly ascending the stairs to board "Shepherd One". Now, Shepherd One has a big fat airbrushed logo on the side of it that reads 'Alitalia'. Last time I checked that was an actual airline that flew out of italy. There was no crucifix on the wing, no little shepherd decals pasted on the inside of the windows... just a regular plane that happened to hold a lot of robed men with italian accents. Maybe it's because it was Sunday night and the impending doom of Monday wasn't far away, but for christ's sake, let me watch my show, please. I missed the entire thing and had to watch a re-aired version at midnight. It's all well and good that he came to visit and say "God Bless You" to the masses, but did every waking moment need to be televised?
I'm hoping SNL does a skit.
God Bless.
I'm watching tv quietly on a sunday night after having just finished dinner, when I put on CBS to watch Big Brother (no judgments, please) and I get the view of the Pope's ass ever-so-slowly ascending the stairs to board "Shepherd One". Now, Shepherd One has a big fat airbrushed logo on the side of it that reads 'Alitalia'. Last time I checked that was an actual airline that flew out of italy. There was no crucifix on the wing, no little shepherd decals pasted on the inside of the windows... just a regular plane that happened to hold a lot of robed men with italian accents. Maybe it's because it was Sunday night and the impending doom of Monday wasn't far away, but for christ's sake, let me watch my show, please. I missed the entire thing and had to watch a re-aired version at midnight. It's all well and good that he came to visit and say "God Bless You" to the masses, but did every waking moment need to be televised?
I'm hoping SNL does a skit.
God Bless.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Sevs
Just a few fun facts about good old 7-Eleven:
If you're from Long Island, you know you've begged your parents to take you for slurpies, and you've probably had a late night run-in (at some point) with a dirtydog (they call them hotdogs), some burnt coffee, or even one of the pseudo-meat sandwiches. Oh, and we can't forget about the congregation of one or two groups of people - the motorcyclists, or complete fucking losers who use the parking lot as a meeting place, or perhaps to induct new members into their highly elite little club. It is what it is, but thought you all might be interested in a little not-so-well-known info about the establishment:
The Busiest Location Is:
Samutprakarn, Thailand
The Busiest Location in U.S. Is:
East Quogue (Long Island), N.Y.!!!
Fun Facts:
There are over 7,500 7-Eleven stores in North America and 33,700 globally.
7-Eleven's birthday is on July 11 (7-11), and the stores used to operate from 7 a.m. to 11.p.m.
Who? What? Where? Who’s buying the most 7-Eleven stuff? The answer is – the most Slurpee® beverages in the world are purchased in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada; and for the United States, it’s the Greater Detroit Area; hot dogs in Washington, D.C., coffee on Long Island, nachos in Colorado, Big Gulp® drinks in Las Vegas and Utah.
If you're from Long Island, you know you've begged your parents to take you for slurpies, and you've probably had a late night run-in (at some point) with a dirtydog (they call them hotdogs), some burnt coffee, or even one of the pseudo-meat sandwiches. Oh, and we can't forget about the congregation of one or two groups of people - the motorcyclists, or complete fucking losers who use the parking lot as a meeting place, or perhaps to induct new members into their highly elite little club. It is what it is, but thought you all might be interested in a little not-so-well-known info about the establishment:
The Busiest Location Is:
Samutprakarn, Thailand
The Busiest Location in U.S. Is:
East Quogue (Long Island), N.Y.!!!
Fun Facts:
There are over 7,500 7-Eleven stores in North America and 33,700 globally.
7-Eleven's birthday is on July 11 (7-11), and the stores used to operate from 7 a.m. to 11.p.m.
Who? What? Where? Who’s buying the most 7-Eleven stuff? The answer is – the most Slurpee® beverages in the world are purchased in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada; and for the United States, it’s the Greater Detroit Area; hot dogs in Washington, D.C., coffee on Long Island, nachos in Colorado, Big Gulp® drinks in Las Vegas and Utah.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Wheel of Misfortune
I sincerely hate this show. The only real pleasure I get out of it is watching people make asinine mistakes and lose all of their money. Is that evil? Does that make me a bad person? I was laying down in the bedroom relaxing when I heard a loud gasp coming from the living room. It was John, horrified that this man, Scott, had just asked for an "N" after having landed on $3500 on the wheel. To his surprise, there were 4 N's. His $3500 wheel spin was immediately followed by a big fat honkin' BANKRUPT. (Insert gasp here) John comes running in to tell me what happened, and while I could honestly give a shit about Wheel of Fortune, I lept to my feet to see the expression on his face after having just won and lost $14,000 in a matter of 40 seconds. Sadly, I had missed it... and here I am... blogging about my joy in watching someone lose money that really wasn't theirs to begin with. Maybe I'm just bitter and wish it was me that won it. Maybe it's just that I'm exhausted from a long day of dealing with an office full of complete fucking imbeciles. Oh well.... I'm going back to the show. With any luck, Megan (barefoot and desperately in need of some rhinoplasty) will win a little cash. Looks like she could use it.
Death Bus
So there's this regular, or so it seems, MTA bus that makes it way around the corner at 157th Ave. and Cross Bay Blvd. Just about once or twice a month, I catch a glimpse of it on my way out of Blockbuster or CVS or some other irritating store I dread making the weekly pilgrimage to on my weekend off. This bus is never occupied by more than 6 or 7 people... who all look DEAD. Oh, I'm not kidding. They're not just old and lonely. They're not just tired from a long 10-hour stretch working the nightshift... They're dead. No one is under 70 years old. One man might be asleep with his face against the glass, another woman might be hunched over with what seems like her head in her purse searching for something, except her eyes are closed. I've officially named it Death Bus. Though technically, I believe its the Q-Something... Q17? Some regular NYC Transit bus, only occupied by those who've quite obviously crossed over. The bus turns the corner from 157th onto Cross Bay... continues on up and makes a right onto Nassau Pkwy never to be seen again.......
On an otherwise average sunday afternoon, I really get excited to see it. John thinks I'm psychotic, but I'm telling you the truth. He's seen it - he knows what I'm talking about. The MTA has made some sort of deal with the Grim Reaper. Maybe he got lazy and was tired of lugging that heavy fucking scythe everywhere - who knows. Alright... Maybe they're not actually dead, ok, but it is quite remarkable how these people look like every ounce of life has been completely drained out of them and all they're left with is this shell of a body and not much to look forward to except pushing that little red button that signals the next stop..... the fucking afterlife. Although maybe they'll hit up the bakery first. There's this really great italian bakery on Cross Bay Blvd. right next to ACE Hardware. If you ever get a chance, order the Cannoli Cream Pie. Mmmmm good times, but I digress...
Next time any of you are in the area on an otherwise dull Sunday afternoon, check it out. It'll make the trip worth every penny.... just don't get on.
On an otherwise average sunday afternoon, I really get excited to see it. John thinks I'm psychotic, but I'm telling you the truth. He's seen it - he knows what I'm talking about. The MTA has made some sort of deal with the Grim Reaper. Maybe he got lazy and was tired of lugging that heavy fucking scythe everywhere - who knows. Alright... Maybe they're not actually dead, ok, but it is quite remarkable how these people look like every ounce of life has been completely drained out of them and all they're left with is this shell of a body and not much to look forward to except pushing that little red button that signals the next stop..... the fucking afterlife. Although maybe they'll hit up the bakery first. There's this really great italian bakery on Cross Bay Blvd. right next to ACE Hardware. If you ever get a chance, order the Cannoli Cream Pie. Mmmmm good times, but I digress...
Next time any of you are in the area on an otherwise dull Sunday afternoon, check it out. It'll make the trip worth every penny.... just don't get on.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Pajamafication of Howard Beach
I'm curious...
When and who decided it was ok to fall out of bed and leave the house to run errands in the same stank-ass flannel pajamas you wore to sleep? Personally, I don't have this problem because I sleep naked. (Yes, perhaps too much information for some, but hey - this is my fucking blog) I go to the drug store, bank, pizza place, blockbuster - any of these places on Cross Bay Blvd and you see them. Now I don't mean to sound like I'm some cornerstone of fashion and walk around dictating to everyone exactly what's wrong with the way they look, but... well... C'MON! Put some fucking pants on. Jeans. Shorts. Something. Anything that makes you look like you actually showered this morning and aren't still wallowing in that haze of funk you slept in last night. Lie to me - just put on something, anything. I'm not exactly sure why it aggravates me - it just does. Maybe it's because I took the time and effort to put on actualy clothes that day, so why the hell should I be subjected to looking at your lazy ass who couldn't be bothered to even put shoes on. Have you seen the Slipperpeople? You know, the ones who not only wear PJs in public, but actual slippers. I'm telling you, they need to be quarantined and sent to Staten Island.... and don't get me started with that place.
I've even seen kids (teenagers) go to school like this. I don't get it. Maybe I should donate my old jeans (You know, that ones with the 32 waist, that my fat ass doesn't fit in any more) and leave a bin outside my apartment door. Granted, I'm in a building where there only about 4 tenants under 97 but hell... these people clearly need help.
When and who decided it was ok to fall out of bed and leave the house to run errands in the same stank-ass flannel pajamas you wore to sleep? Personally, I don't have this problem because I sleep naked. (Yes, perhaps too much information for some, but hey - this is my fucking blog) I go to the drug store, bank, pizza place, blockbuster - any of these places on Cross Bay Blvd and you see them. Now I don't mean to sound like I'm some cornerstone of fashion and walk around dictating to everyone exactly what's wrong with the way they look, but... well... C'MON! Put some fucking pants on. Jeans. Shorts. Something. Anything that makes you look like you actually showered this morning and aren't still wallowing in that haze of funk you slept in last night. Lie to me - just put on something, anything. I'm not exactly sure why it aggravates me - it just does. Maybe it's because I took the time and effort to put on actualy clothes that day, so why the hell should I be subjected to looking at your lazy ass who couldn't be bothered to even put shoes on. Have you seen the Slipperpeople? You know, the ones who not only wear PJs in public, but actual slippers. I'm telling you, they need to be quarantined and sent to Staten Island.... and don't get me started with that place.
I've even seen kids (teenagers) go to school like this. I don't get it. Maybe I should donate my old jeans (You know, that ones with the 32 waist, that my fat ass doesn't fit in any more) and leave a bin outside my apartment door. Granted, I'm in a building where there only about 4 tenants under 97 but hell... these people clearly need help.
Friday, January 25, 2008
The New Girl
To put it simply, she's useless. She sits behind Jennie and mumbles into a phone all day long and occasionally gets "trained" by Him (See blog entitled "The Frighteningly Long Pinky Nail"). I use the word "trained" loosely because their conversations seem to go something like this:
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "How you say... this is... how to find? Oh... amount in receivables, you must call.. we get the check."
New Girl: "Uhhhh... what? I don't understand what your saying *mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "Such headache... you call... or.. something like that to how you say...yabba dabba doo"
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble ...I don't... uhh what?"
This fucking shit goes on from 9am till 1pm when she leaves for the day. When the phone rings, she looks at it. She fucking stares at it as if to decifer some code or alien language coming through the constant ringing. *RINGGGGGGG.... *RINGGGGGGG.... She stares... then looks back up at her computer screen *mumble *mumble *mumble .
It's so weird. Jennie even tells me that she sits there motionless... soundless... for HOURS. Is she even breathing? I even swear there's a strange smell coming from her purse.
Her new thing is the coffee pot. Now, there aren't many pleasures I get from this place, but if there's one thing (other than a liquid lunch) that I look forward to, it's my goddamned coffee. She INSISTS on brewing a fresh pot the second she comes in. She barely takes off her coat, when she bolts for the kitchen. This, of course, wouldn't be a problem if her coffee didn't taste un-fucking-believably bad. I'm dead serious. It tastes like a cup of roasted dick. It's foul, muddy, and not even watering it down and adding extra flavored creamer helps. Here's the best part - she doesn't even drink coffee!
Something tells me there's something she's putting in there that probably shouldn't BE in there. Yes, perhaps a little far fetched, but all in all completely plausible. I drank a cup today solely because its about 35 degrees in here (that's another story). As a result of ingesting this sludge, I'll probably end up growing hair in places no hair should be growing. Oh well... I've got a razor.
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "How you say... this is... how to find? Oh... amount in receivables, you must call.. we get the check."
New Girl: "Uhhhh... what? I don't understand what your saying *mumble *mumble *mumble "
Pinky: "Such headache... you call... or.. something like that to how you say...yabba dabba doo"
New Girl: "*mumble *mumble *mumble ...I don't... uhh what?"
This fucking shit goes on from 9am till 1pm when she leaves for the day. When the phone rings, she looks at it. She fucking stares at it as if to decifer some code or alien language coming through the constant ringing. *RINGGGGGGG.... *RINGGGGGGG.... She stares... then looks back up at her computer screen *mumble *mumble *mumble .
It's so weird. Jennie even tells me that she sits there motionless... soundless... for HOURS. Is she even breathing? I even swear there's a strange smell coming from her purse.
Her new thing is the coffee pot. Now, there aren't many pleasures I get from this place, but if there's one thing (other than a liquid lunch) that I look forward to, it's my goddamned coffee. She INSISTS on brewing a fresh pot the second she comes in. She barely takes off her coat, when she bolts for the kitchen. This, of course, wouldn't be a problem if her coffee didn't taste un-fucking-believably bad. I'm dead serious. It tastes like a cup of roasted dick. It's foul, muddy, and not even watering it down and adding extra flavored creamer helps. Here's the best part - she doesn't even drink coffee!
Something tells me there's something she's putting in there that probably shouldn't BE in there. Yes, perhaps a little far fetched, but all in all completely plausible. I drank a cup today solely because its about 35 degrees in here (that's another story). As a result of ingesting this sludge, I'll probably end up growing hair in places no hair should be growing. Oh well... I've got a razor.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Balls
It was bound to happen, and I wasn't even the first. Countless tales of masseuses, yoga teachers, former employees, prophylactics strewn throughout the office. A good two weeks have passed since the incident, so I feel I now have the stomach to recount the ordeal in as much detail as I can muster without vomiting. It was 9am and there was a sign outside the office door saying "Yoga Practice till 9:20". Irritated, I waited in the front office and made coffee for myself. About five minutes later the yoga teacher walks in to get water from the cooler. Now, I assume then that the practice is over so I walk on back, say hello, and proceed to my desk. (It's a railroad office so I have to go through my boss' office to get to my own.) Then I see him sitting on the floor, legs crossed, in a pair of skimpy powder blue short-shorts.
Yeah.....
So, I apologize, excuse myself, and turn around to head back up front.
"Hey Alf! Check this out, she's gonna torture me. You've got to see this pose."
Now, I can't tell you how much of my morning coffee had already backed up at at this point. I stopped and said "That's ok. I'll just wait up front 'till you're done."
"No Alf, you've GOT to see this. She's gonna torture me - you'll love it."
I have to admit, the thought of him in pain did intrigue me, so I briefly turned around. The yoga teacher grabs the cup of water, which I mistakenly thought was for her to drink. Oh no... it had become lubricant. She rubbed his shoulders and forearms, then his thighs and calves with the water. He sits indian-style and proceeds to put each arms through his crossed legs then wrap them back up and around to the opposite arm. If you're having trouble visualizing this - just imagine a wet unbaked pretzel with a tuft of curly grey hair in front... only the top of the pretzel is a head and at the bottom - a crotch. He's now locked in position. The yoga teacher then grabs his shoulders with both hands and proceeds to roll his body around the mat like a fucking beach ball! I'm not even kidding. She started rolling him forward, backward, back and forth and he's all knotted up like a roll of fucking yarn. Is this a normal yoga practice? Does one have to sign a waiver before attempting something like this? I watch this entire scene play out in utter shock. Joe glances at my face and loses it. He starts laughing and she stops playing "ball" for a moment. She stops him with his torso facing me, he lets one leg loose and BLOOP! There it is. My boss' left testicle in all its glory. (Note: "Bloop", in my head, is the sound that a nut makes when hitting the floor - sort of like when one retrieves a power pellet playing PacMan.) I'm not going to elaborate, but I will say this. If ever anyone out there reading this comes into several million dollars at some point in there life, or perhaps not... if anyone out there never sees that kind of money and ends up selling carnations on a highway off-ramp, please... for the love of God.... trim. Surely this man has enough money to have someone do it for him if he's physically incapable of doing it himself. That's all I'm leaving you with.
I immediately turned away and told him I'd wait up front. He was still laughing when I closed the door and walked up front barely able to blink. It's not like this was his first show. He flashed his furry gonads to a coworker about 3 years ago during a photoshoot - I can guarantee she still hasn't fully recovered.
I haven't.
Yeah.....
So, I apologize, excuse myself, and turn around to head back up front.
"Hey Alf! Check this out, she's gonna torture me. You've got to see this pose."
Now, I can't tell you how much of my morning coffee had already backed up at at this point. I stopped and said "That's ok. I'll just wait up front 'till you're done."
"No Alf, you've GOT to see this. She's gonna torture me - you'll love it."
I have to admit, the thought of him in pain did intrigue me, so I briefly turned around. The yoga teacher grabs the cup of water, which I mistakenly thought was for her to drink. Oh no... it had become lubricant. She rubbed his shoulders and forearms, then his thighs and calves with the water. He sits indian-style and proceeds to put each arms through his crossed legs then wrap them back up and around to the opposite arm. If you're having trouble visualizing this - just imagine a wet unbaked pretzel with a tuft of curly grey hair in front... only the top of the pretzel is a head and at the bottom - a crotch. He's now locked in position. The yoga teacher then grabs his shoulders with both hands and proceeds to roll his body around the mat like a fucking beach ball! I'm not even kidding. She started rolling him forward, backward, back and forth and he's all knotted up like a roll of fucking yarn. Is this a normal yoga practice? Does one have to sign a waiver before attempting something like this? I watch this entire scene play out in utter shock. Joe glances at my face and loses it. He starts laughing and she stops playing "ball" for a moment. She stops him with his torso facing me, he lets one leg loose and BLOOP! There it is. My boss' left testicle in all its glory. (Note: "Bloop", in my head, is the sound that a nut makes when hitting the floor - sort of like when one retrieves a power pellet playing PacMan.) I'm not going to elaborate, but I will say this. If ever anyone out there reading this comes into several million dollars at some point in there life, or perhaps not... if anyone out there never sees that kind of money and ends up selling carnations on a highway off-ramp, please... for the love of God.... trim. Surely this man has enough money to have someone do it for him if he's physically incapable of doing it himself. That's all I'm leaving you with.
I immediately turned away and told him I'd wait up front. He was still laughing when I closed the door and walked up front barely able to blink. It's not like this was his first show. He flashed his furry gonads to a coworker about 3 years ago during a photoshoot - I can guarantee she still hasn't fully recovered.
I haven't.
Friday, January 4, 2008
It's been a while...
It has. And why I've decided to blog now when I can barely feel my fucking fingertips - I don't know. (It's about 20 degrees outside - maybe 25 in here.) So our company offices are moving to midtown in the next 3 weeks or so. If nothing else, it'll be a nice change of scenery. Mainly because the "scenery" that exists here consists of used sexual paraphernalia on the floor and in coffee mugs, and a creepy little employee with horrific hygiene.
Is it wrong that my main concern is what kind of food is available in the area? I've become accustomed to the Upper West Side, as much as I've complained about what actually IS available to eat here. For some reason, I find a restaurant that has great food, at decent prices, and the motherfuckers close on me within a year! Don't they know who I work for? Show a little compassion. My coworker Jennie and I found this place called the Silk Road Palace a few months back. Now don't let the name confuse you... it's far from a fucking palace. It's a small sea of tightly-packed, rickety little tables that are sometimes topped with some sort of residue, but all in all, not that bad. You walk inside and are greeted by one of three people. There's "Evil" (the angry skinny little woman with tight, thin lips who scowls at you when you order), "Wine Guy" ( the delivery/busboy/wine poorer who has since become our best lunch friend), and "Tranny". Tranny is a cross between a little hard-working boy, and... well... a small set of breasts. She takes your order, usually is at the register when you leave, and basically is helpful only when you need more soy sauce. You do not ask Evil for soy sauce. We've seen her get very upset with customers who complain about food or want extra anything. She'll stand over them and if you look very very closely, you'll see tiny horns peek out of her temples when she's particularly angry. The Silk Road Palace is usually filled with very old men and women.... and then there's us. We order the same thing every time, for the most part, so we try and make the visit as pleasant as possible without upsetting the beast. Did I mention the main reason we go there is you get a free carafe of wine with your lunch special? Oh yes... it's advertised as 1 free carafe of wine per customer, per meal. Wine Guy gives us 4! He usually grins at us when we come in.. like there's something "special" in the wine he's serving, but we don't care... we go back to work good and buzzed, and had a great-tasting greasy chinese lunch to go with it.
Lately, I've become concerned. We went into Silk Road as usual, and were seated. Evil comes to our table and says 2 beef chow fun, spring rolls, scallion pancake, no rice right? Then...... she SMILED at me. Jennie's eyes pretty much said it all. Now, it wasn't that she had major dental issues that would have normally frightened away a hungry customer, but it was that the smile had this sinister "I'm going to put you in tomorrow's spring roll if you say another word" effect. It made us both extremely uncomfortable - the smile AND the fact that she remembered what we order. Wine Guy gave us more wine and I even got a smile on the way out. After months of going there, what would possess Evil to do this? She's actually YELLED at me before. Twice!
1. I had asked if we could have more chow fun noodles instead of the rice that comes with it. I thought she didnt understand me when she said "uhh.. no comes with rice", so I repeated myself, and I got a very stern NO, accompanied by an "I will gouge your eyeball out with my teeth" look that made Jennie want to leave.
2. The next time, I tried to pay with a credit card.... for the second time. Yes, ok my fault. I was told the first time I went that they didn't take credit card, but I had forgotten... maybe it was the wine. So I put the card on the table. "AY! CASH ONLY!", she shouts from across the room. I cowered in the corner and sifted through my pockets to find the cash.
In short, I don't know what her deal is. Maybe she knows we're leaving the neighborhood and there will be no more Fun to be had. Jennie and I generally talk about how much we hate our jobs, and often how much her service sucks while we're there for the hour. Oh, I love Fun. Fun and wine is what gets me through a typical Sporn week. That and watching Jennie get busted for coming back to work shit-faced and flushed. Joe will tell her, "Wow, it's smells like alcohol in here... have you been drinking?" Jennie looks confused, "Ummm, no why?" I love it. Hopefully midtown will have it's own version of Fun. Something tells me it's a lost cause. Maybe I can convince my boss to hire Wine Guy. He's hard-working, foreign, heavy handed, it's perfect... maybe he cleans mugs too.
Is it wrong that my main concern is what kind of food is available in the area? I've become accustomed to the Upper West Side, as much as I've complained about what actually IS available to eat here. For some reason, I find a restaurant that has great food, at decent prices, and the motherfuckers close on me within a year! Don't they know who I work for? Show a little compassion. My coworker Jennie and I found this place called the Silk Road Palace a few months back. Now don't let the name confuse you... it's far from a fucking palace. It's a small sea of tightly-packed, rickety little tables that are sometimes topped with some sort of residue, but all in all, not that bad. You walk inside and are greeted by one of three people. There's "Evil" (the angry skinny little woman with tight, thin lips who scowls at you when you order), "Wine Guy" ( the delivery/busboy/wine poorer who has since become our best lunch friend), and "Tranny". Tranny is a cross between a little hard-working boy, and... well... a small set of breasts. She takes your order, usually is at the register when you leave, and basically is helpful only when you need more soy sauce. You do not ask Evil for soy sauce. We've seen her get very upset with customers who complain about food or want extra anything. She'll stand over them and if you look very very closely, you'll see tiny horns peek out of her temples when she's particularly angry. The Silk Road Palace is usually filled with very old men and women.... and then there's us. We order the same thing every time, for the most part, so we try and make the visit as pleasant as possible without upsetting the beast. Did I mention the main reason we go there is you get a free carafe of wine with your lunch special? Oh yes... it's advertised as 1 free carafe of wine per customer, per meal. Wine Guy gives us 4! He usually grins at us when we come in.. like there's something "special" in the wine he's serving, but we don't care... we go back to work good and buzzed, and had a great-tasting greasy chinese lunch to go with it.
Lately, I've become concerned. We went into Silk Road as usual, and were seated. Evil comes to our table and says 2 beef chow fun, spring rolls, scallion pancake, no rice right? Then...... she SMILED at me. Jennie's eyes pretty much said it all. Now, it wasn't that she had major dental issues that would have normally frightened away a hungry customer, but it was that the smile had this sinister "I'm going to put you in tomorrow's spring roll if you say another word" effect. It made us both extremely uncomfortable - the smile AND the fact that she remembered what we order. Wine Guy gave us more wine and I even got a smile on the way out. After months of going there, what would possess Evil to do this? She's actually YELLED at me before. Twice!
1. I had asked if we could have more chow fun noodles instead of the rice that comes with it. I thought she didnt understand me when she said "uhh.. no comes with rice", so I repeated myself, and I got a very stern NO, accompanied by an "I will gouge your eyeball out with my teeth" look that made Jennie want to leave.
2. The next time, I tried to pay with a credit card.... for the second time. Yes, ok my fault. I was told the first time I went that they didn't take credit card, but I had forgotten... maybe it was the wine. So I put the card on the table. "AY! CASH ONLY!", she shouts from across the room. I cowered in the corner and sifted through my pockets to find the cash.
In short, I don't know what her deal is. Maybe she knows we're leaving the neighborhood and there will be no more Fun to be had. Jennie and I generally talk about how much we hate our jobs, and often how much her service sucks while we're there for the hour. Oh, I love Fun. Fun and wine is what gets me through a typical Sporn week. That and watching Jennie get busted for coming back to work shit-faced and flushed. Joe will tell her, "Wow, it's smells like alcohol in here... have you been drinking?" Jennie looks confused, "Ummm, no why?" I love it. Hopefully midtown will have it's own version of Fun. Something tells me it's a lost cause. Maybe I can convince my boss to hire Wine Guy. He's hard-working, foreign, heavy handed, it's perfect... maybe he cleans mugs too.
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