…I’m feeling a “K” here… maybe a “G” or an “C”…
…okay, no “C”… Also, the spirits are giving me something else… something good… beer?
…ah, yes, I see it IS beer…
…I predict…
…that I will be at the infamous Keith and the Girl Live Show tonight at the DEKK. There will be… wait… yes, much foul language. But beer!
THE SPIRITS HAVE SPOKEN!
EDIT:
Now and again I’ll get an email from someone that for some unhealthy reason wants to probe the inner workings of my mind. Yes, I realize that I should have immediately reported them to the authorities, but on account of one of my hidden motivations I decided to entertain their silly questions before they suddenly disappeared off the face of the Earth leaving only a ‘last known photo’ behind. One of the many insightful questions that the eventual ‘missing’ person asked was:
What does The Retropolitan secretly think is funny?
I thought to myself: that’s a pretty good question to waste your last words on! It really made me think, as I too-calmly searched my lair for the well-worn hacksaw. What do I think is funny that no one knows about?
Well, I’ll tell you:
Meerkats.
Meerkats are small burrowing creatures.
Unexploited comedy goldmine.
Anyone else have any questions?
Generally speaking, I’m not a hateful person. I know a lot of people that start off nearly every conversation with “You know what I hate?” but that’s not me. I spend an awful lot of time blabbering on about things that I think are awesome, or neat, or just stupendously cool, because I’m a huge geek for tons of things. I even like Jeff Goldblum’s Transylvania 6-5000. One thing that I think is especially NOT awesome is leaving voicemails for people who don’t answer their phones.
Let me give you the list of things that I hate:
1. Global Thermonuclear Warfare*.
2. Leaving voicemails.
3. Adam Sandler films.
See? I really fucking hate leaving voicemails.
It’s awkward and embarassing, especially if you’ve never spoken to the person before. I have a voicemail theory of communication, and it goes something like this:
You are charming, funny, and intelligent in person. You pick up the phone and dial, and the phone rings and rings and rings and then… you become a cross between Sloth from Goonies and Albert Brooks, meaning that you can barely form intelligible sentences, but you just keep talking and talking and talking anyway. Then you get paranoid that your voicemail will be replayed in front of crowds ad nauseum as a testament to what a loser you are, which with the NSA in operation is actually pretty likely.
I can never figure out what to say when I leave a voicemail, which is a curse because the only times I ever leave voicemails are when I have something specific to say. Do I just leave a message with my name and number, or do I go further into detail about what I wanted to speak to them about? A smart man would go with brevity; The Retropolitan goes with endless rambling that devolves into pointless tangents and futility. Every. Single. Time. Even when I write down EXACTLY what I want to say beforehand. I really have no idea why anyone lets me use a telephone unsupervised.
I’ve had to leave three or four voicemails in the past couple of months, and now I think I’m going to give up on voicemail altogether. Instead, I’ve found something better. It might cost a little extra, but I’m willing to pay the price to salvage my dignity.
*”Would you like to play a game?”
Every once in a while, someone I know from either the real world or the blog world will tell me a story about how they were mistaken for a celebrity of some sort. Sometimes, it’s a local newscaster, or just some walk-on actor from a little-known show, but I bet it’s a nice feeling to have that little tingle of fame. It may not be real, but it’s about as close to being famous as most people are ever going to get without being assaulted by Naomi Campbell. Unfortunately, no one thinks that I’m a celebrity. I’ve had people ask me if I’m an actor, but that usually precedes something like “so can I have a dollar?”
Mostly, people just think I work here. Anywhere. Wherever ‘here’ may be at the time, because I constantly have “hey, do you work here?” pointed at me. Pretty much anywhere I go where the employees are not in top-to-bottom uniforms, some helpless customer will gravitate to me like light being sucked into a black hole, regardless of the lack of nametag, earpiece, smock or other identifying mark. Sure, I wear a tie to the place where I actually work, but I’m far from the only one in New York waltzing around with a necktie on. In fact, even as far back as high school I was being stopped by confused consumers who just couldn’t find their way to the Showtunes section of Media Play. Over and over and over again, and I don’t even have one of those shirts that says “SECURITY” on the back.
It’s bothered me for years, but I think I’ve finally figured it out: I have an immutable look of exasperation whenever I’m in public. I have the expression that says “I am a manager who can’t understand why his employees cannot figure this shit out.” I may only be looking for that rare album with music from Double Indemnity on it, but the look of annoyance and frustration must translate into “please, ask me for help. I am here to assist you.” That, and I have an OCD habit of rearranging video store shelves which does make me work at most video stores by proxy.
I used to get more annoyed by it, but I’ve since learned to embrace it. More malicious people than I might abuse this power and start sending customers to the wrong aisles and generally being jerks, but I try not to. I’ll help if I can, but if I’m unable to I’ll openly admit that I don’t actually work there. It’s like a good deed, I think, karma and whatnot.
Plus, I get the employee discount, and I’m accidentally producing the next episode of “Law & Order.” They probably won’t notice until it’s way too late.
I know virtually nothing about food, other than that I keep it in my kitchen next to the chemicals I scrub my bathtub with. The (former) Lady Retropolitan was almost a gourmet chef, regularly concocting delicacies the likes of which I could not begin to understand. She would walk into the kitchen, and then five minutes later exit with a platter full of exotic edibles and extraordinary treats. On the contrary, I would walk into the kitchen, and then five minutes later exit.
Basically, I’m a guy known for either not eating or eating too much Ramen.
That’s why it was a shock to me two months back when my doctor told me that because of my high cholesterol, my family history of heart disease, and the fact that my heart actually hasn’t been beating in several years, I would have to do the unthinkable: change my diet. Not only that, but… no more red meat. At all. No more delicious steaks, no more burgers, no more teacher’s dirty looks. IF I absolutely HAD to have meat, I was allowed “some chicken or white meat, on occasion.” He never actually got around to telling me what I was allowed to eat, but after a few days of desperation I found this whole new section in the supermarket that I’d never even seen before: the produce aisle.
Coming from a guy whose previous diet consisted mostly of steaks and nachos, eating vegetables really isn’t so bad. Initially I was disappointed that no one had grown a meat-flavored plant, but I got used to it after a few weeks, replacing all the bad-for-me stuff with things like salads, salads, and salads. I eat a lot of salad. More than just vegetables and fruits, I made larger shifts: everything else I buy is fat-free, low-fat, no-fat, cholesterol free, pretty much down the line. All of my salad dressings are fat and cholesterol free, sorbet instead of ice cream, fat-free yogurt instead of… well, I didn’t eat pudding anyway. I even use fat- and cholesterol-free cheese to put on my cholesterol-free Boca and veggie burgers. Or, as I like to refer to them, “soy protein patties.” I like to refer to a lot of things as “soy protein patties,” but this is the only time it’s really appropriate.
And you know what? I’m completely happy with this diet. In fact, I even get kind of turned off by stuff like real cheese now, because it just tastes so… well, gooey and fatty. The fat-free cheese tastes like milder regular cheese, and now the real cheese tastes like I’m eating pure lard. I don’t want to go back. Also, I’m now getting enough fiber to to power a rocketship.
There’s no point here other than saying man, aren’t tomatoes GREAT?
I think they are. Totally.
EDIT: Of course this post reminds me of this thrilling tale from Dinosaur Comics. Especially the end.