Everyone who works at the old Guitar Center is male. Everyone. Of course, since the whole staff is dudes there are certain gross things that are tolerated, things that never would be tolerated with women present.
One such thing is farting. Farting to dudes is high-larious, so much so that it has become an integral part of our funny day. And all the dudes at GC have their own farting style. There's Jimm, who is a leg-lifting squeaker; Joey, a wet flapping arch-backer; Ron, a facemaking boomer and me, the silent and deadly type. My farts are sneak attacks and tend to cover a large amount of area. The nickname I've earned?
The other day while I was working at the GC I had a guy come up to me and ask about a Les Paul. This was a very good thing, since I'm a commissioned sales whore and a Les Paul costs a lot of money (in this case about $1,300).
Anyway, during my conversation with the guy everything was cool. He was a little rednecky, but whatever. I like motorcycles enough to fake my way through a NASCAR chat with the best of them, and bad teeth never made me too upset.
After ten minutes or so he decided he would buy the guitar, but asked me "So, how much can I Jew you down on this?" and laughed like it was the funniest thing EVER.
Here's where the quandary comes in. I was pretty shocked and appalled not only that anyone still thinks this way but also that anyone thinks you can say something like that out loud to a complete stranger.
And so, I knew I was faced with a decision. I could a) tell him he was an asshole and jeopardize the sale or b) half-smile, get him a good price and sell the guitar while tacitly being party to his racism.
Needless to say, I hate confrontation and chose b, but now I feel bad about it.
I think that I'm finding out that the key to becoming an adult is to stop being such a puss about everything and to just do the things you need to do.
Case in point, I hate laundry. I used to wait until I hads piles and piles and wads and mountains of dirty clothes before I'd run a wash. Eventually, I would pick up whatever clothes smelled least like B.O. and would wear those. Not a good way to live.
I'm trying now to be a little more proactive about things like laundry, bills, groceries, etc. Today that involved picking up a dead mouse and throwing him outside without whimpering like a little girl about it. Progress comes in stages.
Ok, let's cut the crap, shall we? I hate not being in the band Fooled By April anymore. I mean, I fucking hate it. A lot.
Maybe it's my old age, staring down the barrel of thirty as the bullet of middle age mediocrity gets closer, but the further I get away from the group the more I realize how great it was. I mean, we hated each other a good part of the time and things weren't always easy, but as I meet new people in Rochester and tell all the old stories I realize just how special an experience it was.
Is it wrong of me to want to have to pick up Jordan and Pete in a faraway Ohio town after they spent the night with some trailer trash girl?
Here's an example of something you shouldn't do because it's really really really dumb.
The other night I was making a spreadsheet of Ladywife Sarah's and my finances. Not good. It seems that the pittance I'm getting from the old Guitar Center is not going to cut it for our current living situation (i.e. bills).
Anyway, I got up in frustration and headed to the office to put my computer down in a huff while cursing self righteously. Unfortunately, I only made it about three steps before I tripped and flat out dropped the stupid computer on my hardwood floor, making the monitor explode in a multi-colored array of acid flashback trippiness. Bye bye computer.
Getting back into the groove of writing the journal has certainly been good for me. I think if I didn't have another linguistic output my ability to actually use words might go away. Why? Well, here's a typical conversation at the good old Guitar Center:
Me: Hey man, what's up? Guy: Not much dude. Me: Cool, dude. Looking for something? Guy: Maybe a Gibson? Me: Sweet. Guy: Fucking rad, dude. Me: Cool. Guy: Cool. Me: For real. Guy: Sweet, dude.
To an outside observer it must look like two chimpanzees in valley girl human costumes. More gets communicated in grunts and "dudes" than in actual conversational language. By the end of the day I feel like the only words I know are "dude", "man", "cool", "totally" and "sweet".
I mean, don't get me wrong, I love guitars and I like it there, but sometimes I come home and have to turn on PBS just to hear people speak in complete sentences.
Today I take another foray into one of my specialties - The Tribute Post. Rarely popular, always sentimental, these posts have been a backbone of this blog for years. Anywho, on with it.
Sarah Spencer Welsh (On her 29th birthday)
Today is the birthday of my one and only, the woman I am amazingly proud to call Mrs. Welsh.
Sarah and I have been entwined in each other's lives for 11 years now and every day she shows me something new, gives me a different perspective on the world or just helps me get through my day. You see, this is what Sarah does. She is incredibly smart, talented and compassionate but refuses to hold any of these qualities back. Instead, she showers them on everyone she knows, taking care of everyone around her. And, of course, no one has been a greater recipient than I have. In some ways I feel like a wounded animal she picked up one day and nursed back to health. That's how profound her influence on me has been.
There's nothing more I can say. I love her with all my heart and count my blessing every day that she somehow was bamboozled into this marriage arrangement.
So, sometime today, raise a glass to Sarah Spencer Welsh.
The jobs are done and I am back. I apologize if you've had to fill your blog reading time with the miserable tripe over at Brendo's journal. I kid.
Anyway, I'm back and I'm lost all at the same time. This move has been traumatic on me in ways I couldn't have predicted. I mean, I expected to be lonely and to miss living in Boston, but I really don't. Rochester is a fine place with nice people, and my job keeps me surrounded with cool people all the time. On the other hand, I thought staying in touch with everyone from home would be easy and that I'd have no problem doing it. This has proven to be wrong. Working so hard and living so far away has made it nearly impossible for me to spend time with my wife, nevermind the yahoos (I use the term "yahoos" affectionately)back home.