Old Man Frank took a stand Friday night, loudly declaring that he would never, ever, fuck no, with a gun to his fuckin’ head, watch Humpback Hill, because he’s a man and all he wants to stick it in is some hot housewife.
I understand where Frank’s coming from — having just finished watching Brokeback Mountain, and much like
Highlander made me want to chop people’s heads off, I found myself overcome by the desire to plaster posters of Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal all over my bedroom and go find some guy and fuck his brains out.
Oh, wait, no, it didn’t. Wait, you mean liberal Hollywood movies about gays don’t make people who watch them gay? Sssh! Don’t tell the religious right! And certainly don’t tell Old Man Frank — he’ll accuse you of being a victim of the zionist-masonic-liberal-shithead plot to undermine America.
(What’s really funny is that Frank’s minivan — er, Frank’s really really really fucking dirty minivan — has scrawled across the back, in addition to messages urging him to clean his really really really fucking dirty minivan, ‘I <3 Brokeback Mountain”).
Off my high-horse now, I’ll admit to fast-forwarding through the two love scenes. I watched the movie with a certain bit of apprehension — was all the hype about the film just that? Hype? Or was there actually something going on in this film that makes it worth watching?
I’ll say this - of all the newly-released recent movies I’ve seen lately (including the dreckful! King Kong, the sucktastic History of Violence, the good but not great Good Night and Good Luck, V for Vendetta, et al, Brokeback Mountain is one of the best.
If you can get past the film’s love story revolving around the taboo sexual relationship shared by the two men, and the affect it has on their families, you’ll find a movie that isn’t a good gay love story, but rather a good love story. If you still need a reason to see the film, how’s about getting a look at Anna Hathaway and Michelle William’s unclothed, bouncing breasts? (Dialogue between Gyllenhaal and Hathaway: “You sure do move quick!” “Gotta have the car back to daddy by midnight.”)
Watching Brokeback Mountain won’t make you less of a man. Alternatively, not watching Brokeback Mountain because you fear it’ll make you less of a man will, in fact, make you less of a man.
The snow dance, in particular, a certain ritual of elementary school, a hope that employing this tactic would yield a morning coat of snow that would delay, or better cancel, the next day’s slate of classes.
Wednesday night was a busy night. Moreso because I was the only driver with the new-guy who I might just be forced to nickname ‘brain-dead’ in future posts. Granted, there’s a certain learning curve that new employees, unfamiliar to a shop’s operations, have to overcome. That said, TFNG certainly didn’t pull his weight last night, which was fine by me, because I wound up with a triple to Blenheim as a result of his slowness on two very close runs, then a second triple to Summer Hill when he forgot sodas on his own double — mind you, he didn’t forget a soda to one house, but to both. I was grateful Chewbacca didn’t work Wednesday, because I wouldn’t have made close to the amount of cash I had. Walking out at the end of his shift, TFNG expressed amazement at making thirty-eight bucks over the course of the night. “That’s a lot!” I, on the other hand, had twice that.
Thursday night wasn’t nearly as busy, or profitable, even accounting for Chewbacca’s presence as the late driver. Tip average was higher than usual, which is particularly nice given the fact that all of the gas stations in the area hiked their prices another ten or (in once case) twenty cents (I suspect the BP in Jacksonville is bilking folks on account of the Exxon being all dug up). Frustrated as the clock in the store ticked down to ten o’clock, and wanting another delivery or three, I engaged in the ritual that most store inside employees hate.
If there’s one over all rule of pizza shops, and I’d imagine most restaraunts, it’s that just after you’ve gotten the store all cleaned up, the food wrapped up, the dishes washed, and the floor mopped, your shirt untucked, your hat thrown aside, and the goofy car top thrown into the trunk, the phone will ring and you will recieve an order which will require you to break out the food in the very back of the walk-in, that will force you to make enough of a mess that sections of the floor need to be reswept and mopped, and that certain dishes must be once again used and dirtied (and henced cleaned … again).
So as the clock began ticking down towards ten, I realized that if I was going to act, I had to do it quickly. I’d already had most of my closing chores done — the makeline dishes had been washed, dried, and reassembled in the empty makeline. I’d mopped the rear of the store and was waiting for Chewbacca to finish sweeping the front so I could mop that, too. I walked up front, looked at the clock, and declared in a very loud voice, “Boy, I sure hope we don’t get any more orders tonight.” Then I gathered all the dirty dishes as Zebulon scowled at me and dumped ‘em in the sink.
“Gosh, I’m glad we’re almost out of here,” I said again, loudly, as I walked out of the store, untucking my uniform and removing the car-top to the trunk.
Walking back in, “Oh, wow, I’m glad we’re almost closed, I’ve really gotta be home as close to ten as possible.”
Unfortunatly for me, the phones did not ring, and I had no further orders. Once ten o’clock came and passed, I finished my chores, mumbling to myself that now we were closed, indeed, someone would order. But no one did, and I left with one inescapable conclusion: that fucking snow dance never did shit.
