I spent last weekend in Douglas, MI, playing board games and eating with Kevin and his family. In case you didn’t know already, his family rocks. Also, I’m very good at Pictionary.
But Kevin’s family, wonderful though they are, is not what I am addressing today. The topic of today’s lesson is RPC, “Reckless Public Clowning”.
First identified by the Superfriends (who know who they are), RPC is more than just public silliness or misbehavior. If you don’t know what I mean, I present the following account of what I did Sunday.
Kevin and I left Douglas Sunday morning to meet people in Michigan City, IN for some hardcore outlet store shopping. Having never been there before, I didn’t know what to expect in terms of shops, clientele, etc. I certainly didn’t expect it to be so f**king hot, but there you go.
The first instance of public clowning occurred when we were walking out of a kitchen supply store and the offender (who I will not name, out of respect for his/her privacy) said the F-word very loudly. Several senior citizens and small children looked taken aback, or maybe it was just the sun in my eyes.
The second instance took place in the Brooks Brothers store. Kathy had purchased a *lovely* camping chair, appropriate for trips to Ravinia and such. Jorge had noted that the chair made her look like a runaway. To which Kathy replied “Well, I don’t liked to be tied down.”
At this point, the offender loudly remarked “I do”.
At that point, we all fell over, laughing hysterically.
I don’t think that anything else said that day could even come close to the RPC-ness of that comment. If any of the SuperFriends present that day would like to offer their own comments, please do.
In other flip news, I haven’t worked on bola-bola.com since the last e-mail. I’m still thinking about what it’s supposed to be. Additionally, askauntjazzy.com is at a standstill, but will be getting more content shortly.
The weather is kinda ass, but considering that I spend most of my time in a/c, I guess I can’t really complain about much, huh?
What I can complain about is the endless barrage of Trixies who insist on coming to Wicker Park on the weekends to flood the bars and restaurants with their highlights, platform sandals, and Kate Spade knockoff’s. I don’t care to give them the benefit of the doubt, I don’t trust anybody whose thighs don’t touch and that’s the end of that.
Nadine says hi. She’s in the middle of her bartending course. The head of her school looks like William Shatner. I’m so jealous. Why can’t any of my co-workers resemble has-been actors? I would love it if, for example, Jeremy really *did* look like John Stamos. I suppose that you can’t have everything, but Jeremy, if you decided to get a mullet, I’ll be your best friend forever.
Andrew has finally left for the University of Minnesota. Once I stopped crying hysterically, I organized a going-away dinner for him at Cafe Iberico. We had a good time, even though I forgot to get a table in the smoking section. The service was good, the sangria flowed like water, and we didn’t have weird billing issues like we had at Kamehachi.
Andrew took the opportunity to give us the contents of his pantry — while Kevin and Michael relieved him of his Bombay Sapphire and other luxury alcohol, I got a box of Grandma Selma’s yellow cake mix, Manischewitz brand. It has this really scary-looking old lady on the front. Andrew always gets me the coolest presents. When he vacationed in Berlin last year, he bought me a gray t-shirt which read “You are now leaving the American sector” in English, French, German, and Russian. He got me the Ford Family paper doll book for my birthday this year. He is the best, and I know that you will all agree with me. Well, those of you who know him, anyway.
My parents have not made good on their threat to come visit. I have to admit that I am a bit sad, but what would I have done with them? Taken them to work? Gone clubbing? I don’t know any other Filipino people, so they wouldn’t have had anybody compare me to. There *are* my three Filipino co-workers, but none of them speak Tagalog either, so I guess we are all lost souls.
FYI, this week’s Filipino swear word is anak ng tinapa (“son of a smoked fish”), a milder version of anak ng puta (“son of a whore”).
The hookers in my hood have taken to working in pairs, which is just so nice because you have someone to hold your shoes while you run from the cops. Maybe something about the lovely ladies of the night is starting to rub off on me, as cars will occasionally honk at me while I’m waiting at the bus stop in the morning. I’m not quite sure if I should be flattered or not, so I’ll just leave it alone.
Well, that’s it. The anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death is upon us, so I hope that you will celebrate it in a somber yet uplifting fashion. Myself, I’ll be crying over a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. I finally got my “TCB” logo pendant. It looks great, and I can feel my lips curl into a sneer everytime I touch it.
“Alright, now you can go ahead and help yourself to that cognac if you want, but remember that Courvoisier does not grow on vines, ok?”