the silent alarm

Stop!  In the name of the lawd.
So I didn’t write again yesterday. I’m having to change my writing model since things are getting busy. I’ve seen this happen several times before where my life got busy and my journal suffered. Heck, I wrote so infrequently in college that I considered scrapping the whole journal idea altogether. I don’t wanna do that, I enjoy writing and posting. So I plan to change when I write, to give me a better chance of coming up with good stuff. Part of the missed two days this week is that there’s really not that much going on.

I’ve been watching clueless people get their hearts and spirits completely and utterly shattered by learning they really can’t sing… that’s always widely entertaining. These poor people look to be on the verge of suicide when they are, apparently for the first time in their lives, told that they can’t hold a tune. A fundamental truth that they believed about themselves has just been torn down in front of a national audience, and you can almost see the instant that their hopes and dreams are dashed. It’s awesome. I am, of course, talking about American Idol. While I’m not a big fan of the show once it gets into the serious competition phase – I love the slit-wrist-inducing audition episodes. Other than that, I’ve been watching the glorious spectacle that is the OC. There are so many miniskirts on that show it’s, as Pat put it, like a wonderful cancer.

While it may sound like I watch a lot of TV from the preceding paragraph, I don’t really. I watch the news, and the occasional show – but more often than not I’m only half watching while I work on the computer or otherwise fiddling around. I did watch Kill Bill again the other night, and the second time was better than the first – can’t wait for the second one now. But in reality, I try and watch as little TV as I can? I have some irrational dislike of being locked down in from of that thing for all my free time. Even though reading a book is just as sedentary, I feel better for doing it over TV. I try to model my life after the Unabomber. Except for the crazy part where he mailed bombs to people, of course.

When I was 16 I worked at Subway. Yeah, the sandwich place. I proudly earned my “Sandwich Artist” badge by, among other things, correctly knowing how many ounces of lettuce should go on a foot-long sub. I advanced through the ranks quickly, mostly because the “ranks” were just a bunch of drug-doing do-nothings who were all having sex with each other and sniffing coke off the prep tables. Nevertheless, I was soon single-handedly closing the store at 2am, balancing the daily books, making bank drops, etc. I even had my own set of keys to the joint.

Rewind to my first month or so working there. I was restocking the cups we kept under the register, and while down there noticed a small pushbutton hidden along the inside of the cabinet. For some reason, I decided to press it and see what it did. Nothing happened. What a boring button. About a minute later I asked my senior coworker what “that little button under the counter by the cups” did. The first words out of her mouth were, “You didn’t press it, did you?” “No,” I said, “just curious.” “Oh good,” she replied, “that’s the silent alarm. Press that and the cops will be here in minutes.’ I think at this point she saw my expression and followed with, “You pressed it, didn’t you?” “Yup,” I said, head hung down. There wasn’t much we could do, the police station was only a few blocks away. Only a minute or so later, two cops edged in the door, guns drawn and creeping along in spread-leg I’m-about-to-shoot-someone fashion. They weren’t happy, and neither was the store owner. It was pretty funny though, although embarrassing at the time. We had a lot of fun at that place: locking people in freezers, stealing sandwiches, burning the drive-thru down… twice. Ahhh… first jobs.

OK, OK, I wrote! I took time and wrote. Dave out.


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