A British couple came in the other day and had the usual struggle with unfamiliar currency. The gentleman didn't mind our coinage, but the paper bills annoyed him no end.
"They're all the same, aren't they? Same size, same color....it's very confusing. And such small denominations...our smallest bill is a ten pound note. And the bills are different sizes, with braille on them so the blind can tell them apart. Our coins all have different edges too, for the same reason."
I should have asked him what he thought of the the EU currency...
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
Customers: Spare Change
There's this one lady who buys stuff off the sale cart every few days.
She's a borderline case, not batshit crazy, and she's got some job that requires here to wear a blue apron and isn't that fussy about her personal hygiene. But I get the feeling she could slide over the edge real easy.
So she buys a couple of books today, and it comes out to $2.15
She fishes around for change.
Finds a wadded-up dollar in one pocket.
Fishes some more.
Finds another wadded up dollar, in a different pocket.
Fishes some more.
Comes up with a nickel from yet another pocket.
Fishes some more, same pocket this time.
Comes up with two more nickels......and a cigarette butt.
Victory!
She's a borderline case, not batshit crazy, and she's got some job that requires here to wear a blue apron and isn't that fussy about her personal hygiene. But I get the feeling she could slide over the edge real easy.
So she buys a couple of books today, and it comes out to $2.15
She fishes around for change.
Finds a wadded-up dollar in one pocket.
Fishes some more.
Finds another wadded up dollar, in a different pocket.
Fishes some more.
Comes up with a nickel from yet another pocket.
Fishes some more, same pocket this time.
Comes up with two more nickels......and a cigarette butt.
Victory!
Sunday, August 7, 2005
Power of the Press
Given the proper frame of mind and a platform to shout from, you can transform a violent, parasitic, mentally ill homeless paranoiac into a kind of wandering philosopher king.
The subject of this particular bit of hagiography was a local "personality" who I've had the pleasure of kicking out of my store after he flipped off my wife on the street.
In fact, my brother-in-law kicked him out of HIS place of employment after Gibson let it be known to mutual acquaintances he was going to "kick his ass" (that bold talk went out the window when he was confronted, and he fled down the street like a whipped cur).
And then there was the time another friend not only kicked him out of his store, but was forced confronted him in the street outside with a baseball bat because Gibson threatened to "kill him" over the phone.
That particular scene ended with Gibson on his knees in the street, crying and begging for forgiveness...coward to the end.
Going further back, he repaid the kindness of the slight, effeminate male hairdresser who let him live in his apartment for a while by beating him unconscious.
He stalked three women (that I know of).
He abandoned the dog Piglet, which gets such play in the article, several years ago. Piglet ended up living with another friend of mine.
My eulogy for Gibson wouldn't fill up the column inches quite so well, but it has the twin advantages of being both succinct and far more accurate than the New Times flavor:
Good Riddance, scumbag.
The subject of this particular bit of hagiography was a local "personality" who I've had the pleasure of kicking out of my store after he flipped off my wife on the street.
In fact, my brother-in-law kicked him out of HIS place of employment after Gibson let it be known to mutual acquaintances he was going to "kick his ass" (that bold talk went out the window when he was confronted, and he fled down the street like a whipped cur).
And then there was the time another friend not only kicked him out of his store, but was forced confronted him in the street outside with a baseball bat because Gibson threatened to "kill him" over the phone.
That particular scene ended with Gibson on his knees in the street, crying and begging for forgiveness...coward to the end.
Going further back, he repaid the kindness of the slight, effeminate male hairdresser who let him live in his apartment for a while by beating him unconscious.
He stalked three women (that I know of).
He abandoned the dog Piglet, which gets such play in the article, several years ago. Piglet ended up living with another friend of mine.
My eulogy for Gibson wouldn't fill up the column inches quite so well, but it has the twin advantages of being both succinct and far more accurate than the New Times flavor:
Good Riddance, scumbag.
Sausage
Well, during my stint in the sausage industry (yikes, they have a web page now! In the interest of accuracy, the current owners are not the founders, they bought it from a meatcutter and his wife I worked with at Williams Brothers...and why are they still calling it San Luis Sausage? Their mailing address is in Orange and the area code is 714!)...wait, where the hell was I?
Oh yes.
Strawberry Milk Sausage!
Genius!
Oh yes.
Strawberry Milk Sausage!
The texture and flavor of the sausages are reportedly close to those of regular fish-meat sausages, with the exception that the aftertaste of strawberries remains.
"It's an unexpected combination, but a taste that children will like," a Nissui official said. "Strawberries go well with minced fish."
Genius!
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