They say you reveal your true self when tossed into the crucible of adversity, gentle reader, and I think I may have experienced some adversity yesterday afternoon. While walking to the parking lot, two fellows who trailed me out of the store accosted me, demanding that I hand over my possessions in broad daylight.
The exchange started amicably enough, with one guy asking to “borrow” my cellphone. When he grabbed my arm and forcibly attempted to “borrow” my phone, it occurred to me that he may not, in fact, have wanted to borrow in the traditional sense.
“You don’t want to mess with me,” he said as I retained my grip on my phone.
“I actually need to make a phone call,” I told him, and right there is Tip No. 1 for self improvement: don’t be condescending. I’ve been told that I’m polite, considerate, and all the rest, but it just goes to show that you never can tell for sure.
After failing to take my phone–bless Verizon and their horrific calling plans–he transitioned into the typical “Give me your money!” shtick.
“No,” I said. And there’s Tip No. 2: talk more. I’ve been told that I’m pretty quiet, an assessment I’d agree with, but in this case it would’ve been smarter to shout for help. Oh, well–hindsight and all that.
Having been foiled yet again, he made a grab for my shopping bag. We played tug-o’-war a bit, and much to my dismay I lost. As he and his buddy walked toward their car, I let fly with the classic rhetorical question.
“So can I have my stuff back?”
The two bumblefucks actually stopped a moment to think about this, giving me ample time to memorize their license plate. They ultimately ignored me, however, and peeled off into the sunset. Tip No. 3: ask more rhetorical questions.
I promptly called the fuzz, and so began an exciting evening filled with surveillance footage, not one but two big binders of mug shots, helpful personnel, and an honest-to-goodness detective. I’ve opted to prosecute Bumblefucks 1 and 2, so it promises to be a hot time in the old courthouse. I’d offer more concrete details, but you never know when the criminal element might steal a computer, run back to steal an optical mouse, and log on to Google. And type in “Secondhand Rants.”
I started reading this article yesterday, gentle reader, and it struck me as one of those pieces that goes great with any beverage. By no means am I close to finishing, as the article spans a good forty to fifty pages (with nary a picture in sight), but the journey seems worthwhile.
It’s about the New York Times, specifically about the inner workings of the company, and it introduces an important voice to the recent plagiarism scandal. It goes without saying that this isn’t the final word about NYT, but even though it’s not be-all and end-all, it’s still a great tell-all. While you should have access to the full online edition soon, you might want to pick up the print edition now. For those of you who subscribe to the five-finger discount theory, you could also slip a copy inside the NYT for some truly poetic shoplifting.
Whenever you sit at a Rainforest Cafe or a TGIF, gentle reader, do you ever wonder why the walls are decorated so? Perhaps you’re holding some fries in mid-dip when a gorilla suddenly roars against a chorus of stampeding wildebeest, sending you into a convulsive, teaser traileresque vision of a remade Congo. Or perhaps you’re munching on some Buffalo Poppers at TGIF when it dawns on you: how on earth did they manage to affix that bike to the wall, all the while balancing vintage Oreo tins on its frame? Or maybe you’re feeling positively plebeian after looking at your Potbelly’s receipt and noticing its self characterization as a “First Class Dive.”
You’re in luck, wouldn’t you know it, because I happen to be a culinary entrepreneur. Before you ask me how I got started, let me tell you that I don’t really know. Culinary entrepreneurship has always flowed through my veins like coagulating nacho cheese through a Slurpee straw, if I may heap such graphic imagery onto your metaphorical plate. In fact, one of my earliest childhood memories paints a sweeping panorama of a sun-drenched, windswept summer’s day: a bustling block filled with sweating adults and the children who would fix this travesty with pitchers of poorly mixed lemonade. I never peddled that vile stuff, of course, and instead found refreshment aplenty in a nearby drainage ditch. Actually, let me clarify myself. I found refreshment aplenty for others in a nearby drainage ditch.
You see, one of the keystones of successful leisure food marketing is presence. Take spring water, for instance. At the end of the day, all of it really hails from the same shitty source. It’s just a matter of who pisses in which body of water, and the prospect of having a gaggle of deer piss into a “secured source” is that much more comforting. And since when did polish springs automatically qualify as clean? Isn’t that racist? Yet the siren song of crisp-sounding names continues to hold its appeal, and just today my fears of impure water were quelled by a picture of a bona fide frozen mountain.
I digress, however, and shame on you for that. Really, I think my ascension to corporate superstardom began that fine summer day. I knew the value of a short, hip product name with an umlaut in tow, and so I called my cocktail Räin. It sold like liquid hotcakes, but not without some deft maneuvering on my part. My first customer was a tough one.
“Wait a sec, son. Is this–? No, it can’t be,” said a wiry old man as he squinted at the concoction. “Is that dirt floating in my cup?”
“Not at all,” I said with some trepidation. “It’s actually earth…chocolate.”
“Never heard of that, but it must be good. Heck, I paid $2.50 for this cup.”
He threw back the drink, swallowing it in a single gulp. A satisfied smile slowly spread across his face.
“That was pretty good. Can I have another?”
At that moment a soccer mom cut in front of the aging fellow, hell-bent on securing my wonderful elixir for her brood.
“How much for the whole shebang?” she asked, waving a fifty in my face.
“I really don’t know,” I said with a wistful sigh. “Each cup is different. Each one is its own collector’s edition.”
And with those two magical words all reason soared to the heavens.
“Hurry up, let me have some!” she exclaimed, pushing a fiver into my hand.
“Calm down, lady,” I said in a firm voice. “Do you know you cut this gentleman?”
“I don’t care!” she screamed.
“I don’t care either,” the old man chimed in while rolling his tongue around the roof of his mouth. “Mmmm, earth chocolate. Great aftertaste.”
I took another disposable cup, dashed around the corner to fill it, then returned to the waiting woman.
“Finally!” she said as she snatched the cup from my hand. “What took you so long?”
She brought the cup close to her lips and suddenly stopped.
“What’s that? Is that…a worm?”
“That’s exactly what it is,” I replied calmly. “For a woman as busy as you, I’d recommend unwinding with a nice cup of my alcohol-free tequila.”
“Oh, is that what this is?”
“You bet,” I shared in a conspiratorial tone. “You know–for after you put the kids to bed.”
A middle-age man promptly elbowed his way to the woman’s side. Maybe he was her husband, I don’t remember.
“How exactly do you make this stuff?” he demanded in his best “informed consumer” voice.
“I can’t tell you the specifics, but I can tell you that it’s all-natural and organic,” I explained. “It’s like Mother Nature cried just for you.”
I quickly followed up with a free sample.
“Here, try some.”
“Is that a leaf in there? It sure looks like a leaf.”
“I believe ‘prize’ is the term you’re searching for. Limited edition, or so I’ve heard. Did you get the ‘Maple’ run? You did? Wow. Rare.”
He looked positively giddy. I almost felt guilty, but guilt had yet to be invented for twenty years.
“I guess it’s my lucky day, eh?” he said with a satisfied chuckle.
“Yes, yes it is.”
See? It’s all in the name. It’s what you might call presence or, as I like to call it, Prësence.