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RandumbKid111
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Name: Stephen
Location: Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
Birthday: 5/18/1989
Gender: Male
Interests: I'm an easily-interested individual.
Expertise: I'm pretty handy with a written word.
Occupation: I throw knives at people, and
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  RandumbKid111
Member Since:
2/2/2004
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| I know it's way late to be addressing this subject, but I figured any day is a good day to start writing useless entries on Xanga again.
There's been this "pregnant man" in the news lately (or like 2 weeks ago), and he went on Oprah or something, and I dunno what else. Everyone seemed so fascinated with it. "What?! Men can have babies?!?!"1?>2/11?" No, of course men can't have babies. This "man" is a woman. Let's examine the criteria:
"He" does not have a Y chromosome. Not one, in his whole body.
The fetus in question is growing inside this "man"'s uterus. Beyond the fact that there is a uterus within his body (which is quite a tell-tale sign), he must have not yet kicked his menstrual cycle since the sex change surgery, as without thickened uterine walls, the egg would neither be able to attach nor grow in said uterus.
Look at a picture of "him." He looks more feminine than half the women I know.
All that makes him a "man" is a dual mastectomy and a prosthesis, plus artificially raised levels of testosterone and whatever else from self-injections. I don't know anything about what goes into the sex change surgery, but I'd imagine this guy can just lift up his plastic dong and push the baby out vaginally when the time comes.
Whoa, a mammalian life form with two X chromosomes, a uterus, and a menstrual cycle that produces pregnancy hormones is actually capable of carrying out a baby during its gestation period? No freakin' way!
Derek: "Books"? What's a book?
Jen: It's like an instruction manual, except it's for fun.
Derek: What? That sucks!
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| I'm one of those people who's not only right-handed, but completely directed by the motions of the right side of my body. I snowboard right foot forward, I kick soccer balls way harder and more accurately with my right foot, I throw with my right hand and have coordination. Because of my increased comfort with using the right side of my body for things, my right arm has, over the years, become quite a bit stronger than my left, because of the fact that I use it to pick up and hold up things, throw things, pull things, push things, launch things, pick the guitar strings, and get my back up off the wall. These seemingly effortless random daily tasks cumulatively give my arm quite the exercise routine, and help me to maintain my right-handed health. My left arm, meanwhile, has nowhere near the strength and coordination of my right, and is therefore often neglected in favor of its more capable peer, being left in the shadows to slowly atrophy away. Two days ago, I said "Enough!"
I flexed my left arm, and scoffed at the pitiful, almost unnoticeable change in the appearance of my upper arm. My left bicep, shamed and scarred by my continued favoritism for his much more talented brother, quickly retreated to its hovel in the depths of my soft tissue to cry. But I wouldn't let him get off that easy. Not this time.
"Come back out here, you turd," I said. He cowered. "You've been a part of this team for 18 years now, and you're the only member not pulling his own weight. I've let you dwell alone with your failures, turning my attention to more productive team members. But now, this is changing. You, as you are, are unacceptable. This body has a standard of awe-inspiring musculature that is met by all my arms, except for you. You're a lazy maggot. You're coming with me!"
I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and flung him down the hall. I entered a room at its end, and sat Mr. Biceps Brachium down. I put him to work. One dumbell, over and over. After 50 repetitions, he started to whimper.
"What's the matter? Can't handle a little exercise? Feeling sorry for yourself? 'Poor me, I'm so weak cuz I never do anything. I won't ever be able to catch up to the other muscles.' Well, you're going to. Right now."
I made him keep going. 100 repetitions. 200. Maybe more. I stopped counting, I just kept pushing him, over and over and over, not allowing him to slow down or let up until he had no strength left in him.
"You did good today, kid. Now wash up, grab some lunch, and come on back down here. We have more work to do."
He grabbed a protein shake, downed 3 bags of beef jerky, and ate a whole bucket of cashews. Perfect. He returned to the room, and once again worked to exhaustion. And again. I broke his resistance, I killed his self-pity, I made a soldier out of him. It was a good day's work.
The next morning, he was at work in the kitchen. Though he was tired from the previous day's exercises, I knew that he could do more. I reserved for him special tasks that would push him to be as strong as the competition, if not stronger. Though it threw off the fluidity of things, he did make quite a bit of progress towards true ability and coordination. I was proud of what he was becoming.
Now, though, I have tendinitis in my left elbow. Figures.
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| Today, a state-wide smoking ban took effect in the state of Minnesota. Basically, state law prohibits smoking indoors in any public structure, private business, hotel lobby, etc., including even home businesses if customers or other employees are likely to enter the home. I usually wouldn't take any notice of things like this (I honestly didn't even know about it until about 5 days ago, when an ashtray on a table at Applebee's caught the eye of some friends of mine), but today at work I realized just how many of the people I spend nearly 40 hours a week with are tainting the crisp autumnal air.
The fact that seemingly everyone I know smokes does not cause me to sympathize with the habit; rather, it brings into focus its futility. As I silently thought to myself in the backroom, a thought formed: smoking is just like World of Warcraft, except really fast.
In WoW, you spend hours inactive in front of a computer screen, usually when you should be sleeping. When you smoke, you take in a lungfull of poison, helping you to acheive the same effect on your body as if you were missing sleep sitting idly all night, but in only a few minutes. When you play WoW, you get a little bit of enjoyment and satisfaction out of an 8-hour session, whereas with smoking, you get a little bit of enjoyment and satisfaction out of a 5-minute cigarette. WoW has a monthly fee to have an account online so you can waste your money effectively. Cigarettes have very high taxes on them so that when you smoke, you feel like the stick in your hand is worth something. In WoW, you can gain 10 levels or so really quickly, but each level gets harder to reach and takes longer to get to. When you smoke, you get a decent buzz your first few times, and then, as you build up a tolerance, it gets tedious, habitual, and unenjoyable, for the most part. When you play WoW, your social life consists increasingly of online chat with your guild members and conversations about WoW with other people who play it. When you smoke, you start to mostly talk to people you smoke with.
I don't get smoking tobacco. I just don't. Especially my generation. It seems so different when old people smoke. Like when they were brought up, it was cool, and then now it's been 30 years and they're addicted. No one thinks it's cool anymore, though, and there's entire educational campaigns against it, and yet almost every one of my coworkers started to smoke with, it seems at least, the same information I had. Its a drain on your wallet, your health, your social life (in some aspects), and the likelihood that you will ever be in a good mood again without having nicotine in your system. It makes your voice worse, turns your teeth yellow, and ruins circulation to your extremities.
I believe it is primarily a citizen's responsibility, and not the government's, to make the proper decision about things like that. But somehow, even despite my libertarian leanings, I can't say I oppose the smoking ban. People are fools.
Daily Quote:
After an encounter with a man who made a scene about a smear on his bumper, which ended up coming off without even the use of water:
Lance: Dude, that guy was flipping out over nothing!
Andy: I think you guys are missing one key element of the situation, though...
Lance and I both wait for an explanation, confused
Andy: He was driving a FedEx truck. He was wearing a FedEx shirt.
Me: ...So?
Andy: So... He went POSTAL!
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| One of those things that never gets any less interesting is the chemistry of the human body. There's always so freakin much going on. One minute you're a bit dehydrated, and then maybe you've got a hormonal mood swing going, and then your system's flooded with insulin and your energy just plummets. You eat a box of 36 brownies and feel sluggish all day, but then you take a Vitamin C tablet and within an hour, you feel the best you've felt in your life. You drink a half-gallon of Green Tea, your pulse quickens and your blood vessels constrict. Drink a Jamba Juice and you're set for the day. Taste the new Honey-Ciabatta Chicken Hoagy at Davanni's, and have the pleasure centers of your brain erupt. Everything you put into your body affects it far more than what is immediately apparent.
For the last week and a half, I've been experimenting a bit with my body chemistry. The most interesting experiment conducted was that of introducing relatively large amounts of THC into my blood stream last Saturday night. The interesting thing about THC is that it is less toxic than nicotine, alcohol, caffeine, and probably high-fructose corn syrup. You'll never need a kidney transplant or experience a liver failure from them over-working to get that out of your system. And yet marijuana is illegal. Why? If you were to brew an "herbal tea" with marijuana leaves and drink it, it would be less harmful to your body than drinking a glass of iced tea. Tobacco smoke is infinitely more harmful to your general physiology than marijuana smoke, and that's despite the fact that tobacco production and distribution is regulated by the government. And let me tell you, I would trust a half-insane pothead at the pinnacle of his intoxication more than the average, moderately-drunk alcohol-abusing individual. Nah'meen?
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| After working at the Edina Davanni's for a little over a year, I figured it was about time I headed to the site of the original Davanni's, established way back in 1975, at the intersection of Cleveland and Grand, where the sun is always shining and the air smells like warm root beer, and the towels are oh so fluffy, and the lepers and the shriners play their ukuleles all day long and anyone on the street will gladly shave your back for a nickel. Wacka wacka doo doo, yeah! Well, anyways, it wasn't long before my dream came true, because just a week ago, the C&G Davanni's store sent out an email to all locations saying that they needed help covering a few shifts this week, because they were slightly understaffed for the first week with all the St. Thomas students back on campus eating everything. So, naturally, I signed up for 4 lunch shifts on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, in addition to the 24 hours I was scheduled for at the Edina store. I drove over there, worked a couple shifts, and was blown away by several things.
First of all was the fact that it looked really nice. It's a part of a larger building (unlike our boring, ugly, stand-alone store) and is rather long and rectangular, with many booths and a rather diner-esque atmosphere, unlike our ugly, square place. The next thing that impressed me was that the head manager (who was a male, if you can believe it, and was named Rocco) knew just about every customer who came in by name. The customers, meanwhile, are nice and friendly and patient and good-natured (in short, everything that Edina (and parts of St. Louis Park that we deliver to) people are not). Most of the customers were also younger than 30, because the store is located between a bunch of college campuses, interspersed with only the most pleasant and humorous proffessionals, proffessors, and other more aged and refined individuals. I guess everyone in St. Paul takes themselves a lot less seriously than all the suburbanites I'm used to dealing with. No one complained when their food took multiple minutes to cook (the worst thing to happen was someone who very politely "wondered when
the food would be ready" about a minute before it came out), even if they had called ahead by 15 minutes and it wasn't quite ready when they got there. Fourth of all, the store seemed to run unbelievably efficiently, seeing as it seemed to be set up for the primary objective of being chill, with only a secondary objective of working as a place of business. They seem to have about 8 managers, at least, with at least 4 of them being guys (unlike our store, which has only had one guy manager ever, for about 2 and a half week), and they all seem like they're nice, cool, and into making jokes and having 5 or 6 of them on the same shift so they can all hang out. And, as if all of that weren't enough to completely shatter any commitment I hold to the Davanni's a half mile from my house, they have one more thing going for them: They still have Mello Yello in their soda fountain! Awesome!
So I put 16 hours in this week at this really nice store in Downtown St. Paul with nice coworkers, nice managers, nice customers, a chill atmosphere, and even talking to a couple people I know who are now attending St. Thomas University right down the street, such as Tom Durfee and Katie Dunlop. I also got to ask a bunch of people if they knew a kid named Isaac Jensen, but the answer was invariably no. Blast! So I spent most of my days mellowing out with Mello Yello, stocking chips, being helpful and smiley to customers, and talking to people I barely knew about the background music faintly floating amid the ovens and how it compares to other musical styles. It was wonderful. And Andy worked there with me yesterday, and Dani Karasov worked there with me today, and we went to Jimmy John's after, which was amazing. And then, I was harshly thrust back into reality...
My shift at C&G ended at 4 p.m. today, and my new coworkers and I exchanged tear-filled goodbyes, our eyes speaking words unsaid, wishing we could have somehow stayed together longer. Dani actually had to pull me out the door, kicking and screaming, so that we could go to Jimmy John's for lunch. After an amazing sandwich covered in any and every kind of delicious awesome thing, after using my pay stub as a napkin on which to wipe the oil vinegar dripping off every hair on my forearms, I dropped Dani at her car and hurried off to my shift at the Edina store, from 5:30 to Close. I arrived at the Edina store only to see it way too full, with Nikki there all stressed out and pissed off and having her hair all up in pins on her head and stuff. I urinated, washed my hands, clocked in, and got to work.
It was a usual night at Edina, but I was just utterly dismayed in comparison to the sheer joy and exhilaration that came from the C&G store, with its glass-paneled storefront, its big-screen TV flashing Hoagy of the Month and Zesty Southwestern Chicken Salad advertisements, and the beautiful weather that seemed only to grace that one beautiful street corner. But then, something happened. I went on break. I returned from break to begin work on my front close, where I worked rather quickly and efficiently, to the point where I had done most everything except cleaning the bathrooms, stocking napkins, and sweeping and mopping with 50 minutes to spare before it was actually time to close. This was looking like it would be excellent.
And then she came in. A lady. I won't be descriptive. She was with one of those Spanish guys who like to speak Spanish and kiss women in public and wear tight shirts, and two girls whom I can only assume were... some teenagers who were with them for some reason. They ordered a couple pizzas and some cheese bread to stay, and went and sat down in a booth in the end of the dining room where I had already wiped down all the tables, flipped up the chairs, and attempted to close down, while leaving the other end of the dining room unclosed for the express purpose of still having room for customers to sit if anyone was to come in. The fact that they sat there wasn't actually a big deal at the time, as it gave me a negligible amount of work I had already done to redo, but I mention it simply to characterize this lady, as far as my limited knowledge of her actions can serve to describe her.
As they wait for their food, I start closing up the opposite end of the dining room from that in which these customers are sitting, and I hear some joking coming from my coworkers in the kitchen. The particular subject matter, from what I heard, revolved around the film Snakes on a Plane, the most well-known line from that movie, and the sex scene that the snakes interrupted by eating one of the participants (I think?), including a comment by Pierre that, were he on a plane infested with snakes, he would ask someone to go have sex with him in the bathroom, because "what the hell?". Finding this somewhat objectionable subject matter, I half-jokingly went over to them and said something like "Guys, this is a family restaurant, and we have customers in here right now," as is customary when I don't want to sound like I'm being a buzzkill, and put on a sarcastic tone, satirizing someone who would be. Aside from that, I didn't hear most of what was going on in the conversation. It's all pretty standard at work, really. Then, when food is ready for the only other customers in the store at the time, the Spanish guy hears the name called, and mistakenly thinks it is for him. The first pizza for his party actually happened to be ready at that exact moment, so I attempted to help Señor Espagnol save face by pretending that he had noticed the pizza coming up rather than confusing someone else's order for his own. She, of course, accompanied him up, and Patrique carried out their second pizza as they arrived at the counter. The lady immediately asks me for Romano cheese and Crushed Red Pepper shakers. Having already emptied those for the night, I simply grabbed a couple of the packets we use for to go orders, and hand them to them as an alternative. The lady looks at me, apparently both indignant and highly offended, again asking for shakers. I explain that I had already emptied them for the night, at which point she exclaimed "We also had some Cheese Bread that we ordered!" I immediately set off to fetch it, found out it would take another minute or two, and politely informed her of this, to which she immediately demanded a refund because "It's an appetizer. We already have our pizzas, so what's the point now?" I was surprised, and somewhat dumbfounded, and I hope that the look that flashed across my face didn't betray the fact that I thought she was rather quick to become unreasonable. I went to fetch Nikki to ask for help and try to explain the situation to her, while Pat remained up at the counter. I learned later that she again demanded cheese and pepper shakers from him, and reportedly said it was "fucking absurd" that anyone would consider emptying the shakers before the doors were locked and the store was closed, and dare to present romano cheese and crushed red pepper in any other format when it was requested. When I returned with Nikki, she immediately apologized before even knowing what the "mistake" was (just like the Employee Handbook says to do first in any customer complaint, good ol' Nikki). The lady, taking that as a go-ahead to start making complaints and demands, started saying something like "This whole time I've been sitting here, listening to these kids talk about ganja and who-knows-what, and I'm waiting for my cheese bread." Pat tried to say something in response, and for a second I couldn't really catch what anyone was saying as the sounds jumbled, while Nikki was trying to apologize again. Then I heard the lady say something about "the store being run by a bunch of kids" in a clearly disdainful tone (though the main objects of her disdain seemed to be Pierre and Pat, who are both not kids, or particularly recently departed from childhood). Pat argued with her, most likely offended at the accusations of talking about "ganja," as well as at being called a kid. It escalated a little bit, to her saying something like "screw you" and him flipping her off, though her view was obstructed at that particular moment. Nikki ended up refunding her whole meal in order to get her to calm down enough for her to storm out of the store with her Spanard and children-of-unknown-relation in tow.
A little bit later, Nikki asked me why I hadn't asked her if she had wanted her cheese bread before the pizzas came out, saying that "that whole thing could've been avoided" if I had. She also made a new rule that at least two shakers had to be left full until close, in case customers came in. I suppose we could blame things like this on "mistakes" that employees supposedly made (i.e. trying to save the store labor costs by closing quickly and efficiently by trimming down tasks beforehand), or we could blame it on more significant factors, like the unreasonably-hostile reaction that the lady had to the supposed offense. I know that part of the "customer-is-always-right" ideal of the restaurant is that we'll gladly take money from anyone willing to give it to us, whether they're an idiot or not, but I honestly disagree with that ideal. I figure if a customer's going to be enough of a pain, I'm personally willing to lose that customer's business for life. Yes, maybe I should make it a habit to ask if people want their Garlic Cheese Breads Make Now. But, based on her actions, I would guess this lady may possibly have still found something else to complain about. On the flipside, if this lady made a habit of not flipping out about stupid things, that would guarantee that we wouldn't have had that problem at all. Tell me, am I wrong? Am I wrong? Am I wrong? ("No, you're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole!")
Daily Quote:
Pierre: "Scraping oven 1. Watch your heads!" He scrapes Oven 1, avoiding hitting anyone in the back of the head with the long handle of the oven scraper. He opens Oven 2, which is right below Oven 1, still holding the scraper. "Scraping oven 2. Your heads are safe this time, but I dunno what's not."
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