“I’d rather you not.”
“Why not? I used to love this stuff.”
“Cause you are drunk and I don’t know you.”
“That's valid enough.”
This is an actual conversation that I had with Peter in the pasta isle last night. I think there is really only one good time to go shopping at a super market; 4am. And only one state of mind to be in; drunk.
On the weekends, I work for a big band that plays weddings, and corporate galas, and fundraisers, and other posh events. After a 10-12 hour day, I will get out of work between 2-3am and I usually head straight home to read a few pages of Greek mythology and crash in an exhausted blob of over stressed muscle mass while listening to the lullaby of my ears ringing from blasting September to old happy white men who dance out of time with huge smiles on their wrinkled faces. That ringing has become my friend as it seems to drown out a lot of the pointless conversations that I am forced to have with people who insist on talking about how wonderful the Christmas decorations are and how much they love Christmas. If you didn't know, I fucking hate Christmas. Here's last years edition of my Christmas Hate List. This year's main reason for wanting to deck the halls with Molotov Cocktails is due to the heavy handed NEED to get the economy back on track with Christmas shopping. All I hear on the news is, "there are more shoppers this holiday season, but people are spending less at the checkout." Good. Maybe spending money that we can't afford to spend is what financially screwed the ENTIRE WORLD a little over a year ago. So, I say spend less this holiday season, in fact, spend nothing, write a letter, bake some bread, write a song, take a photo, make something everyday as part of Project 31 and then give them all away to your closest (or nearest) 25 friends. Or if you are going to spend money, at least spend it on booze. Which brings me back to my original point.
I got home from work and didn't go to sleep last night. Instead I went to The Green Mill, Chicago's most prestigious jazz club. I had a few drinks that, even on ice in the middle of winter, burned a bit on the way down. When I got home after some hot jazz and a cold walk, I realized I had nothing to eat. I grabbed some reusable shopping bags (let's save the world, people) and headed out to the overly colorful Jewel supermarket, which is where I met Peter, who didn't let me restock the Hamburger Helper. I love that little glove guy, especially when he's wearing a fake sketchy Italian mustache. I remembered to bring my sunglasses as it seems that modern day food packaging is meant to burn out your rods and cones while giving you eye cancer. There I was, cruising the isles with a great bourbon buzz, a steady hum in my ears lulling me off to sleep, an achy back and bloodshot eyes hid behind $4 cheap-o sunglasses over my normal glasses, deciding between diced canned tomatoes with green chillies or canned stewed halved tomatoes with jalapenos, all the while watching the salt of the Earth restock the Crispix, the imitation crab meat, the Hungry Man Salisbury Stake TV diners, the Pampers, the dog food, the eggs, the fabric softener, the Pepto, and everything that a 21st century digital man could want. I got a pineapple and some bologna.