Sinister: Work is for suckers.

[Rinaldo Thatchez]

This is all I can think today, my penultimate Friday at this job. I have to. 
It makes me feel better because with the economy in the U.S. being what it 
is coupled with the havoc and the layoffs and soon the fighting, I fear I 
might not ever get a job again. Once again, my timing is impeccable. Due to 
the dread of an involuntarily extended and unsubsidized unemployment I was 
actually considering enlisting in an almost half-serious way recently. It 
strikes me that the armed services could make a killing (oooh, did I just 
say that?) at the enlistment offices by using the converse of their old 
recruitment slogan, i.e. "It's not just an adventure; It's a job!"

Did I mention I'm not doing so hot today? Well, I'm not. I got my ya-yas out 
a little bit last night and now I feel terrible. Real terrible. Tired and 
terrible. I feel the kind of terrible that makes every third word to pass 
through my thoughts 'Jesus'. As in, "I hope I . . . Jesus, . . . don't miss 
the . . . oh, Jesus, . . . bus. I really don't . . .oh, help me Jesus . . 
.want to be late. Oooh, Jesus. My head. Jesus."

I am gaining a whole new awareness for my body today. I had no idea I had 
the capacity to feel so much pain in so many distinct ways and in so many 
places at once. I now understand the infinity of inner space. That is the 
only way to explain how I could contain so much hurt. What am I doing here? 
Who are these people and what do they want from me?

But anyhoo, this is my first post since going to THE GIG so I thought I 
should mention something about it. I was both impressed and underwhelmed, 
exultant and disappointed. Impressed by the musicianship and ability to 
recreate the records so well and by the goshdarned attractiveness of just 
about everybody on stage (why so camera shy?). Underwhelmed because, well, 
I'm underwhelmed a lot. I tend to build up lots of excitement for things so 
that they can never live up to expectations. Exultant though, because, 
despite their inability to fulfill my incredibly tall order, it was still 
THEM, the event I'd been waiting (and waiting, and waiting) for. I think I 
grew extra body hair just so it could stand up. Disappointed though because 
they didn't play some of my favorite songs but what band ever does (although 
sometimes they do and it's magic then, isn't it?). It is also now my firm 
opinion that Jonathan Richman is a very fine guitar player and most likely 
capable of winning over even the most hostile audience. Not that we were but 
he's just that winning. And that Paramount theater sure is a beautiful 
place.

Big ups to the Seattle meet up crew who were surprisingly small in number - 
basically me, Jen, Elise and Jen's friends - but long on charm and chock 
full of drankin' and gambling spirit.

Okay, now follows a 100% true story that I wrote about the time I cleaned up 
after a living legend and a goddamned genius. Just something I typed up 
recently and I felt like sharing cuz I ain't doing lick of work. If you 
don't want to read it but you are a Ken Chu fan, scroll down. I've uncovered 
something you might find interesting.

The Time I Picked Up Brian Wilson's Poo
by Rinaldo Thatchez

When I was in high school I worked at a small, one-screen movie theatre in 
Malibu. Brian Wilson would come in fairly regularly and He had a very 
specific routine at the movies. Immediately after pushing through the 
turnstiles, He would get an extra large diet coke with no ice. Depending on 
how early He was for the movie he might be back for a refill before the film 
even began. On this particular occasion He did not come back for a refill 
until about fifteen minutes into the film.

Given that He doesn't come out for his first refill until the movie has been 
on for 15 minutes or so, I and my work companions (usually a three man crew) 
have already had the opportunity to clean up the lobby and the bathrooms 
following the rush so that everything will be perfect again when they emerge 
from the film. I am standing behind the concession counter alone while Seth 
and Todd, the Frank brothers, are up on the roof smoking a bowl. You see, 
Brian Wilson is not the only one with a routine for being at the movie 
theatre. Generally, on the days when there was no manager around (most of 
them), whoever has weed takes one guy up to the roof to get high while the 
third mans the helm. When they come down, they pass doobage and 
paraphernalia to the third guy so he can go to the roof.

So while I'm waiting to go up there, Brian Wilson comes out and passes me 
his cup for a fresh, extra large diet coke with no ice. During the course of 
a typical film he will do this three to four times. Not surprisingly, each 
trip to the concession stand is combined with a trip to the restroom and 
this time is no exception. While I fill His cup at the concession stand he 
goes to fill ours in the restroom. I am positively dizzy with the thought of 
the continuously flowing liquids that surround this man, from the ocean of 
his songs and life to the diet coke that seems to be constantly flowing from 
one vessel to another and finally, through Brian Himself, the final vessel, 
only to rejoin the ocean, and begin the cycle again. And I wasn't even 
stoned yet.

When Brian comes back out I hand Him His refill and He goes back into the 
movie and I go back to wondering what's taking Seth and Todd so long and 
whether there will be anything left for me - an unspoken rule that, being 
unspoken, occasionally gets broken. A few seconds later, a guy comes out and 
uses the bathroom. He comes back after about a #1 length of time and says, 
"hey, you've got a little cleanup to get to in there."

I look halfway up from my magazine. "What did you do?"

He gives me this really disgusted, offended look. "I didn't do it," he says.

"Well, what are you talking about?"

"You'll see," he says, walking back into the theatre. . .

It is then that Seth and Todd return from from the roof, Todd punching Seth 
in the back of the head and Seth threatening to turn around and "work" Todd. 
I tell them about what happened. They agree with me that it is impossible; 
we cleaned the bathrooms perfectly. Then they ask me what the first guy in 
the bathroom had looked like. I told them it was Brian Wilson and they 
immediately start wildly speculating what "that fucked up old barney" might 
have done in there. They have zero respect for Brian because he never really 
surfed.

Wanting to end their irreverent, unfunny and frankly unlikely suggestions 
about what particular brand of nastiness He might have committed in our 
commode and also wanting to hasten my trip to the roof, I charged ahead. My 
assumption was that He was either a messy hand washer, got the toilet rim a 
little with His 'creative juices', or, worst case scenario, had Himself a 
case of the 'rea and didn't flush. Armed with bucket and mop I go in and 
check for all the expected accidents but things are as we assumed, every 
surface gleaming white and sparkle bright. I am thoroughly confused.

I take a peek to make sure it isn't a number two in the urinal, which 
happens on rare occasions and totally surprises me every time. I mean, it's 
a physically difficult operation for one and, secondly, there is like zero 
privacy. Anyone could come in at any point and find you with your ass 
against the wall, probably spreading the cheeks with your hand to keep from 
messing yourself in such an unconventional position. What do you say then? 
The stall was dirty? I am from Europe? I don't think there is much that is 
going to work. I check the toilet dispensers just in case He was a foul 
enough individual to soak the roll.

At this point I am actually still thinking that it was the other guy and he 
was just trying to deflect the blame. This is denial, I realize, when I see 
what he was talking about. Brian Wilson's struggles with, well, sanity have 
been well publicized and clearly what I saw before me was not the work of a 
well man.

At first I didn't quite understand what I was seeing. It looked more like a 
a slug than anything and if I could have believed that a slug could have 
gotten in there I would have thought the complainer to be pretty squeamish. 
But I figured it out quick enough. It was a turd, about eight inches from 
the front plane of the urinal. Just a wee dollop of a turd, but somehow its 
smallness seemed worse, dirtier. This was not  a healthy by-product of 
natural human digestion. This was a sick, insidious health hazard that had 
no right to be there. Worst of all, it was Brian Wilson's. I liked to think 
that he was pulling himself together and though, admittedly, liked diet coke 
a little too much, was basically okay. Not so.

It didn't take a forensics expert to reconstruct the crime scene. I stood 
next to the turd and found myself perfectly centered at the second urinal 
with my left heel just next to the turd. If I had been wearing long 
trousers, like He had been, the leg would have been hovering just above it. 
Obviously he came to relieve Himself and got a little too relaxed. Whether 
it slipped down without His knowledge or He had to shake it out a little bit 
I don't know but the basic circumstances are clear.

There are those who would say that Brian Wilson's creative output, while 
once brilliant, has dried up over the years. I can vouch for that statement 
personally because I've been watching a small piece of it shrivel up and 
grow flaky in a jar on my bookshelf since 1991.

The End

CHU ALERT: Have you been to his website yet? Every fan's duty. No mention of 
DDR though. Curious.

http://www.seweb.uci.edu/faculty/chew.html

Take Care Sinister,

-Rinaldo

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