Friday, April 19, 2002
Terror on Purple Shuttle 2
Almost immediately, I knew something was wrong. Sure, the morning started off normal enough. I commuted my five minutes to work, parked a mile and a half away from my building, ran across the street to catch the Purple Shuttle, only to have it drive away from the stop even as I was running next to the bus, waving and shouting. As usual, I sat dejectedly on the bench to wait the 8.633333333333 minutes for the next one. That should have been the first sign, the next shuttle showed at exactly 8.4297 minutes later.
It wasn't, however, until we turned RIGHT instead of LEFT at Baton Boy (resplendent in his green velvet ice skating costume and fishnet stockings, twirling and twirling and twirling) that I knew Something Was Wrong. I immediately wrote "Help" in the condensation on the shuttle window-backwards.
Ron, the shuttle bus driver looked in the rearview mirror and said, "Who wants to go to work today? Anyone? Come on show me your hands." Nonplussed at the lack of poll participation he continued, "Who doesn't want to go to work today?" Sixteen hands went up. The shuttle suddenly lurched forward across the Metrolink tracks.
I looked at my fellow passengers. My fellow passengers looked back. Something Was Wrong. "Who wants to go to Jefferson City?" Ron asked. No one answered. By now, we're west of Forest Park and ambling at shuttle-speed towards the highway. "Jefferson City is the State Capitol. It has lots of cool stuff. And Politicians." At the last, I thought I heard a vague menace in his voice. It was then I noticed the Uzi behind his seat. "What's that for?" I asked.
"Oh that's nothing. That's just a symbol for my lord and saviour, John Ashcroft."
Miles down the road, a lady wearing brown tweed and patent leather pumps said, "Um, Ron? I have to tinkle."
Ron pulled into the Foristell 66 Truck Stop and let the 16 of us take a potty break and grab a pickled egg from the Buffet. I tried to use the payphone but the phone company wanted like 6 bucks to make a local call. Back on the bus, I used my cell phone to call the operator. "I think my bus has been hijacked," I said. Before I could say anymore, Ron was pulling back onto I-70 and I lost connection. "Let's roll" he said, humming the "Battle Hymn of the Republic."
An hour later, while I'm making honking signs to passing truckers, Ron spoke again. "I can't wait to show you all where John Ashcroft eats."
"Um, Ron? Uh, John Ashcroft isn't in Jeff City anymore, he's in Washington."
"Oh. Oh. OH."
A half-mile later, Ron pulled off onto Rte. 100 and drove to the Hermann Wal-Mart. Ron called the authorities. Meanwhile, the 16 of us hitchhiked to the Stone Hill Vinyard and drank bottles of wine and ate Brie.
Brie tastes like human feces, but on a cracker it has unlimitless appeal.
C. ONeill
(This was previously published at Uber)
Almost immediately, I knew something was wrong. Sure, the morning started off normal enough. I commuted my five minutes to work, parked a mile and a half away from my building, ran across the street to catch the Purple Shuttle, only to have it drive away from the stop even as I was running next to the bus, waving and shouting. As usual, I sat dejectedly on the bench to wait the 8.633333333333 minutes for the next one. That should have been the first sign, the next shuttle showed at exactly 8.4297 minutes later.
It wasn't, however, until we turned RIGHT instead of LEFT at Baton Boy (resplendent in his green velvet ice skating costume and fishnet stockings, twirling and twirling and twirling) that I knew Something Was Wrong. I immediately wrote "Help" in the condensation on the shuttle window-backwards.
Ron, the shuttle bus driver looked in the rearview mirror and said, "Who wants to go to work today? Anyone? Come on show me your hands." Nonplussed at the lack of poll participation he continued, "Who doesn't want to go to work today?" Sixteen hands went up. The shuttle suddenly lurched forward across the Metrolink tracks.
I looked at my fellow passengers. My fellow passengers looked back. Something Was Wrong. "Who wants to go to Jefferson City?" Ron asked. No one answered. By now, we're west of Forest Park and ambling at shuttle-speed towards the highway. "Jefferson City is the State Capitol. It has lots of cool stuff. And Politicians." At the last, I thought I heard a vague menace in his voice. It was then I noticed the Uzi behind his seat. "What's that for?" I asked.
"Oh that's nothing. That's just a symbol for my lord and saviour, John Ashcroft."
Miles down the road, a lady wearing brown tweed and patent leather pumps said, "Um, Ron? I have to tinkle."
Ron pulled into the Foristell 66 Truck Stop and let the 16 of us take a potty break and grab a pickled egg from the Buffet. I tried to use the payphone but the phone company wanted like 6 bucks to make a local call. Back on the bus, I used my cell phone to call the operator. "I think my bus has been hijacked," I said. Before I could say anymore, Ron was pulling back onto I-70 and I lost connection. "Let's roll" he said, humming the "Battle Hymn of the Republic."
An hour later, while I'm making honking signs to passing truckers, Ron spoke again. "I can't wait to show you all where John Ashcroft eats."
"Um, Ron? Uh, John Ashcroft isn't in Jeff City anymore, he's in Washington."
"Oh. Oh. OH."
A half-mile later, Ron pulled off onto Rte. 100 and drove to the Hermann Wal-Mart. Ron called the authorities. Meanwhile, the 16 of us hitchhiked to the Stone Hill Vinyard and drank bottles of wine and ate Brie.
Brie tastes like human feces, but on a cracker it has unlimitless appeal.
C. ONeill
(This was previously published at Uber)
Thursday, April 18, 2002
Beer Buzz
My neighborhood smells like cornflakes, the way cornflakes smell when you're sick and have to let them soak in the milk before you eat them. That cornflake smell.
This is a good smell, a comforting smell, not because it reminds me of my childhood but because I know it means that beer is brewing. And that means I can drink another, because like Bill Cosby said, "There's always room for beer" and Jay Leno's corollary, "We'll make more."
In its prime, my neighborhood boasted no fewer than 50 breweries. Every day, I walk on hallowed beer brewing ground. I find, still, ancient ring tabs in the spaces between the sidewalk bricks. (Despite the nostalgia, I do refrain from throwing them in my beer can-you can slice your tongue off that way, did you know that?)
It's a comforting thought that I can sit three blocks away from the brewery and drink beer while I smell beer being brewed. Mind you, I won't, I mean won't, be sucking down the beer being brewed today because it's Natural Light, and that's only one step up from drinking your own urine. I know it's Natty Light because I Know People Who Work At The Brewery. Natty Light's the only corn brew in these parts. The rest of them have rice as their main adjuncts, I'm told. But it's still comforting.
Not uncannily, Natural Light is the state beer of North Carolina. Seriously. I lived there. For 13 months. (Note the similar time frame to an average tour in Vietnam). My first weekend there, at a semi-upscale (read: no guns, concealed or otherwise permitted on premises) tavern, a young couple approached the bartender and asked for Natural Light.
"Don't have any. I have Michelob, though."
The couple looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders in resignation and nodded their heads, not without some obvious irritation. Undoubtedly, they were from Concord or Rockingham or some other town built around a NASCAR track. (I have found, even within miles of Anheuser-Busch's Flagship Brewery, that NASCAR and Natural Light go together. Maybe it's because sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble...)
Immediately, I felt homesick. The concept entitled Moving to North Carolina morphed into A Bad Idea, the Worst Idea Ever. Who are these people who prefer the scourge of Anheuser Busch rather than that crown jewel, the steadfast Budweiser? Are these people still so 18th century that they are afraid of anything that reeks of monarchy, even if it is just the King of Beer?. It isn't the price. Even in two-toothed bars in rural North Carolina, Natural Light is the same price as any other beer, despite the fact that even the brewery bills it as subpremium. In fact, Natty Light's only redeeming quality is that as the first light beer ever brewed, it paved the way for Bud Light (whose name was changed from Budweiser Light by marketing gurus, who in sampling the product, found the longer version unpronounceable after the equivalent of a 6-pack, which might hamper sales of the product in taverns).
My boyfriend, The Pissed-Off Bastard, often brings home Urine-in-a-Can. I'm not sure why. Except he is from south St. Louis, which is basically North Carolina with more teeth, more Catholics and fewer trees. With few exceptions, South City denizens are even fanatic about NASCAR. But probably, he drinks it because, unlike in North Carolina, Natural Light costs about 4 dollars less for a 12-pack than Bud Light and he's a Cheap Pissed-Off Bastard With a Drinking Problem.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not really taking any high moral beer ground. I'm drinking a Busch even as I write this. I eat gas-station burritos too. But, in doing research for this piece I could not find a single ingredient list for Natural Light. Drinkers of this beer should be disturbed by this. Perhaps they are hiding the fact that Natural Light really does contain urine.
(Warning: you cannot, I repeat, cannot, make your own homebrewed Natural Light by mashing up cornflakes and pissing on them).
C. O'Neill
(note: this was published at Uber on 4/22/02)
My neighborhood smells like cornflakes, the way cornflakes smell when you're sick and have to let them soak in the milk before you eat them. That cornflake smell.
This is a good smell, a comforting smell, not because it reminds me of my childhood but because I know it means that beer is brewing. And that means I can drink another, because like Bill Cosby said, "There's always room for beer" and Jay Leno's corollary, "We'll make more."
In its prime, my neighborhood boasted no fewer than 50 breweries. Every day, I walk on hallowed beer brewing ground. I find, still, ancient ring tabs in the spaces between the sidewalk bricks. (Despite the nostalgia, I do refrain from throwing them in my beer can-you can slice your tongue off that way, did you know that?)
It's a comforting thought that I can sit three blocks away from the brewery and drink beer while I smell beer being brewed. Mind you, I won't, I mean won't, be sucking down the beer being brewed today because it's Natural Light, and that's only one step up from drinking your own urine. I know it's Natty Light because I Know People Who Work At The Brewery. Natty Light's the only corn brew in these parts. The rest of them have rice as their main adjuncts, I'm told. But it's still comforting.
Not uncannily, Natural Light is the state beer of North Carolina. Seriously. I lived there. For 13 months. (Note the similar time frame to an average tour in Vietnam). My first weekend there, at a semi-upscale (read: no guns, concealed or otherwise permitted on premises) tavern, a young couple approached the bartender and asked for Natural Light.
"Don't have any. I have Michelob, though."
The couple looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders in resignation and nodded their heads, not without some obvious irritation. Undoubtedly, they were from Concord or Rockingham or some other town built around a NASCAR track. (I have found, even within miles of Anheuser-Busch's Flagship Brewery, that NASCAR and Natural Light go together. Maybe it's because sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble...)
Immediately, I felt homesick. The concept entitled Moving to North Carolina morphed into A Bad Idea, the Worst Idea Ever. Who are these people who prefer the scourge of Anheuser Busch rather than that crown jewel, the steadfast Budweiser? Are these people still so 18th century that they are afraid of anything that reeks of monarchy, even if it is just the King of Beer?. It isn't the price. Even in two-toothed bars in rural North Carolina, Natural Light is the same price as any other beer, despite the fact that even the brewery bills it as subpremium. In fact, Natty Light's only redeeming quality is that as the first light beer ever brewed, it paved the way for Bud Light (whose name was changed from Budweiser Light by marketing gurus, who in sampling the product, found the longer version unpronounceable after the equivalent of a 6-pack, which might hamper sales of the product in taverns).
My boyfriend, The Pissed-Off Bastard, often brings home Urine-in-a-Can. I'm not sure why. Except he is from south St. Louis, which is basically North Carolina with more teeth, more Catholics and fewer trees. With few exceptions, South City denizens are even fanatic about NASCAR. But probably, he drinks it because, unlike in North Carolina, Natural Light costs about 4 dollars less for a 12-pack than Bud Light and he's a Cheap Pissed-Off Bastard With a Drinking Problem.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not really taking any high moral beer ground. I'm drinking a Busch even as I write this. I eat gas-station burritos too. But, in doing research for this piece I could not find a single ingredient list for Natural Light. Drinkers of this beer should be disturbed by this. Perhaps they are hiding the fact that Natural Light really does contain urine.
(Warning: you cannot, I repeat, cannot, make your own homebrewed Natural Light by mashing up cornflakes and pissing on them).
C. O'Neill
(note: this was published at Uber on 4/22/02)
So, this is where I'm going to put odd bits of writing that don't belong in the journal. Comments won't be available until next week sometime, so email me if you have something to say!
Thanks!
Thanks!
