Just call me Jonathan Frakes

Because I just got shoved back to number 2 on The Bridge.



I checked up on the job that I applied for, and sure enough... I'm no Patrick Stewart. Who once was the number one pick for the job got beat out by someone unknown. Apparently prettier and most likely has more hair.

So I won't be working the shift I told everyone about that could possibly rocket myself up Ballard Avenue. I got beaten to the punch. During the phone call to the lady that gave me the interview she said something along the lines of, "But we'll be training you."

To lucks fate another server went ahead and put in a notice. An undisclosed time notice. As in it could be a day, it could be a week or three or a month. Wasn't the standard two weeks? Who does that? And who beat me to it?

I'll keep you posted. I wish I had whiskey.

Dangnabbit. Want some comedy? This is just about the only thing that brought a smile to my face aside from compulsive brushing and Listerine.

The Bastard of Barnes & Noble... or STFU

I really don't know who in Seattle hasn't been to the University Village Barnes & Noble. It's been around since I was thirteen or so, so easily over a decade it has stood. Proudly and easily the cornerstone when University Village turned from quaint shopping center of North Seattle where all you really needed was an Ernst Home and Lamonts, now it boasts big chain names and unnecessary symbols. And apparently the second busiest Starbucks in the entire world.

I heard you gasp.

A few years ago while unemployed I made a really awesome habit of hanging out at the second floor near where the old computer annex used to be. They tore down a few unnecessary shelves and added a bunch of big comfy chairs where, I suppose, people are supposed to preview books. This was where I read The Da Vinci Code in less than six hours one afternoon, and tore through House of Leaves in the span of three. Afternoons, that is.

Well now that I'm still unemployed (the tap and grill in Ballard hasn't called me yet) I decided to commemorate the event this afternoon by checking out what I could tear through in an afternoon.

Sufficiently caffeinated and armed with a $1.50 Metro card, I rode the 65 down to North Seattle's clock tower.

Making my way up to the second floor I failed at really getting into a Cormac McCarthy book, so I picked up Jeff Lindsay's latest Dexter in the Dark. I bought this book for someone for Christmas this year but never got around to reading it.

As I'm reading about sixty pages into it, there's a guy, a smelly guy, talking loudly trying to woo two art students not but five and a half feet away. They relocated when he got up to go smoke a cigarette.

One hundred forty five pages.
An Asian kid sits across from him and out of fucking nowhere - hey-you-look-like-you-want-to-talk-politics! Smelly and Asian guy start talking. Now excuse me. But if you're in a public commercial space that has books and you happen to be in a common area where people around you are either studying or reading, wouldn't you too adopt a library like mentality? Does Smelly?

Six pages and fifteen minutes later.
I look up at him. "Hey buddy?"
"Am I talking too loud?"
"Yes, but-"
"OK I'll stop."
I thought that would end it. Granted he did talk quieter. For about...
Two pages and ten minutes later,
I just stand up. "Was I still being too loud?"
Me: "Obviously. I think a cafe would be a better forum for your politics."
"I'm sorry-"

I really hope karma bits that guy hard on a bus. If he's reading some political science or art history book, I hope some obnoxious Juggalo sits right down next to him and blasts shitty music through his ear buds. I'd never wish that on anyone. Except for a few. You people know who they are if you know me.

Have fun making up that hour tonight guys.

Shammed again

Mavis Beacon just popped into my head. I was in an IM conversation about how much of a speed demon I am when it comes down to my WPM. And then I thought about the nice lady on the box that taught me how to type when I was a tyke. Hell, I don't think "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog" would have even have mattered to me if it wasn't for Beacon. So I was just going to make a quick little blog about Beacon, like "Quit freakin'..." when I stumbled across something totally harrowing.

Our beloved childhood friend Mavis Beacon doesn't exist. I'm not trusting bank tellers again.

2 Urns 1 Cup

Thirty minutes before the Van Gogh closed today, I gave up on the crosswords. That's the NYT syndicated in the PI and the NYT itself. I was totally bitch-slapped. Heading to the coffee bar to refill my last drip coffee, one urn bubbled and spat the bottom of the pot. Refusing to give up and not leaving without a full cup of coffee, I headed to the other... the "French Roast". Not quite the even close competitor to its superior neighbor the "Sumatra", always my first choice. I pushed down on The Thing. Groaning, it gave easy evidence that, this too, would be expelled of all its sweet delicious nectar in the next few moments. A few more presses. The cup almost full.

Few more. Sputter. Spat.

The cup almost teeming. The percolator gave its final hurrah, the last ounce or so splashing.

I let out a small cry of victory careful not making myself a spectacle. No throwing both arms up in victory or anything, but just enough to let the two people in the cafe that I was triumphant. I grabbed the coffee pot and set it behind the danish tray.

"All done, huh?" The blond behind the counter asked. Presumably rhetorically.

"Two urns, one stone," I smiled. "Hasta luego."

I don't think she got it. But I thought it was totally awesome.

Spacey-free

I know. Overload. Today has been pretty busy on this little blog, huh? First the overhaul on the template, the added videos to the right of ya, and this is my third blog of the day? Well, I just found someone that I just had to share with every single one of ya... which is probably a total of six. I know most of you don't share the same love of splatter flicks as I do, but I just wanted to point out that one of my all time favorite sites just happened to break a few stories that I wanted to bring to the masses. Of six.

Bloody-D broke a little story that perked my ears. One of my all time favorite horror films is a little known movie called Suspiria. Remake in the works? David Gordon Green? I am so there.

And now? And yes I know this is a lot to take in....

Zombie strippers. Thanks Jenna!



The Varsity Theatre on 14th Ave NE is hosting it on April 18th. Which is right next to my favorite place to get a Tanqueray and tonic.

Enough links. Enough blogs. Enough Spacey.

Googlenarock

Just like any of you I've googled myself. I've also go ogled people on a lazy Wednesday afternoon. But just to try to see how many other "wagnarocks" are out there. I know there's quite a few "wagnaroks", the original spelling of the handle. A few seconds ago I found this. Yeah it's in French. I don't understand French. Spanish I can manage to understand, but French? I strain my ears.

Look down. Further. Around seventh from the top.
"Non , c'est wagnarock"

WTF.

I took it all the way back to the beginning of the thread and found this.

Figures. The only type of medium that could inspire an amalgamation of the Nordic Apocalypse and some other word to become a namesake would be a couple of Frenchies that get their kicks out of a MMORPG and a Denny's employee. Looks like you can milk the cows too in Renaissance Kingdoms, that sounds like fun. Mining for milk.

On the topic of online namesakes, go back to the French forum. There's a moderator that goes by the handle of Kayser Sauze. Like my handle, close but not quite. Though the surname makes me want tequila, not Kevin Spacey.

Oh BTW, name another blog that can fit in two Kevin Spacey references in a week. Do it! I dare ya!

Confidential to Shannon: That last link was for you. I had a feeling you'd need some explanation. No hard feelings.

In other news: Roland Emmerich has a new movie out.

It's no surprise I'm a fan of the SLOG. I enjoy harping on my sister and getting the news. I read The Stranger at least three times during the week over and over and over. Reading the blog just kinda helps to quiet the times I don't have a marvelous book to keep in my back pocket.

Speaking of which Dean Koontz, whom I hate, wrote a new book which I'm currently reading as my form of counting sheep. It's not a "hey, look at me, I'm happily displaying my waste of thirty bucks on a hardcover" kind of public reading. It's called The Darkest Evening of the Year. It's about golden retrievers. And it's supposed to be scary? I can't wait for the sequel... When the Frisbee Comes Back.

Anyway, back to my point. I read the Slog to get my hyperlinks on. That's right I steal content for the few people for the moment that read this thing. I love you all. Really.

Which brings me to the news story of the day. Smoking gets hilarious.

Overqualified, a la Spacey

So, who's seen American Beauty? You know that movie that won Best Picture back in 1998 or 1999? Remember when Kevin Spacey first hits his midlife crisis, quits his job and then hits up the equivalent of Mickey D's and applies for a job?

"I believe you're a bit overqualified, sir."

I got that today.

Now, I didn't post on this earlier, but last Sunday, not two days ago, but a week ago...
-----------.

Yeah, well the old man at the Denny's I was toiling for is a real piece of work. I won't slander in a public forum, but if you want to hear my side of the story, you'll know where to find me by the week is over.

So I had my first interview at a nice little joint in my old neighborhood of Ballard. And I got the line with the manager staring over my resume.

"You're kind of overqualified."

Imagine the dumb grin that spread like Oleo (but not so fake) across my face.
I'll keep you all posted, and sorry for the lack of hyperlinks and jumps. I'm kind of watching Nip/Tuck right now.

Muldersniffic

Fox Mulder sure looks like he's gone lupine....

Promo still from the upcoming XF2 movie

OH NOES!

Get Julie away from those kids!

Hasselhoff'D!

The term is nothing new.

But how the hell can the Seattle Design Commission and the Landmark Preservation Board trade in a Trans Am for a Mustang and adding to the uglification that is becoming Market Avenue? How can the LPD put up a fight to retain the right to look at a "landmark" just to have the sucker torn down and then re manufactured? How hysterical is it that by adding a Denny's to the top of a condominium is basically forcing the old Ballardians that have been going to said store for years are now forced to wait two years and have to listen to ungodly elevator music on their ascent for a Grand Slam?

Not to mention the elevators are going to be treated like the old Ballard D's toilet stalls were.

OK, that might be reaching just a little bit. But I've seen some crazy things happen over pancakes.

I feel sorry for David Hasselhoff. I really do. First his Wendy's advertisement was a total bomb, then his name becomes synonymous with shaving with a chandelier, and now the Knight Rider remake? About time ole Dave goes back to Germany. Where he can get the chance he truly deserves.

Service. With a smile?

Okay.

I'll just divulge what I do. I'll just put it on the table as, I dare say, I put over medium eggs on plates. I'm a server at an outrageous family-orientated restaurant. I like to think I'm an honest-to-God bartender. I make good money for the store, considering I'm doling out pancakes and extra syrup. I figure if I'm going to blog, I might as well blog about my mundane, but maybe your entertainment.

Take a look at my job's latest ad campaign.

Last weekend I'm serving this two-top(I'm also going to have to publish a glossary for the lingo). This deuce is an older pair, I'm guessing mid fifties-early sixties. Denny's has place mats. Said place mats suggest that a "real breakfast isn't served with a spork."

Now check this. Mr. and Mrs. Matlock look up at me confusingly as their coffee arrives, "What's a spork?"

Fuck me running.

I bounced this story over to one of my favorite baristas and she suggested this.

You guys got served.

"Nothing quite as breathtaking..."

Shaved.

I've been watching this show starring Fox Mulder or Zalman King( OK, but he WAS on Red Shoe Diaries, but not the movie). Its called Californication, that Showtime show that nearly got raped from Flea and his band mates. Basically the show is just tits and ass, but for a half an hour you get David Duchovny ( I almost spelled that right the first time ) playing a burnt out has-been writer living in LA drinking and getting laid a lot. And he's surly.

He's basically Tommy Gavin, but without all the heartwrenching death.

The only thing I really don't like about the show is the really dumb opening. The show is centered around a character who loathes himself for being who he is in what age he's living in. He's a writer in the blog world. The opening credit sequence looks like a bad early 90s grunge video. But with no singing. If Fox Mulder were to star in Singles 2: Electric Boogaloo, it's already been made. Roll credits.

Confidential to Cass: Hollah.

Matt Damon for threesomes

It's not a mystery that Sarah Silverman is one of the funniest girls out there. Though if someone reached that conclusion only from Jesus is Magic, I'd probably scratch my head. Nevertheless, Sarah Silverman showed up on her pillow pal Jimmy Kimmel's show either last night or the night before with an awful truth.

Febru-arrrrrrr-y

I get first dibs on the new month.

Dibs.

Who wants to go drinking on the 29th with me. Promise it's not cheating. The day doesn't even exist, it's like the prologue to March. And who writes a prologue nowadays? It's called a PREQUEL.