David Alan Dedin
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Fantasy Football

10/27/2013

1 Comment

 
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Waaaaaaaay back in 1984, I was dragged - I repeat, dragged - to every Goddamn game that the Fighting Illini played in their home stadium in Champaign, Illinois.  It was a year that the team made it all the way to the Rose Bowl….and for a young gay man who didn't give a fuck about sports, it was a year that was no less than absolute hell.  

I was fifteen years old at the time, and my family lived in Springfield, Illinois.  As mentioned in previous blogs, my Father managed the local 7up franchise, and 1984 was the year when 7up won the contract to sell soft drinks at Champaign's Memorial Stadium during the football season.
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I've been thinking a lot about that time, as the weather changes and the nights get cold in Aurora.  I remember those weekends - those agonizing Saturdays & Sundays - when we'd get up early, pile into the car, and drive for two hours from Springfield to Champaign.  

I remember the tent.  It was long, rectangular, and black & white striped.  There were large,  foldable tables - and folding chairs to seat almost 300 people.  And of course, there was the "kitchen" - a food-service area with sandwiches, chips, and pop - at the end of the tent, as soon as you walked in.  And there were banners: "7UP SUPPORTS THE FIGHTING ILLINI," as well as Rose Bowl-themed pictures, stats, and balloons.  There were prizes, free jackets, free cases of pop; there were also free footballs - emblazoned with the 7UP/Illini logos - which my father took from my own sports gear in our garage, because I hadn't played with them once.  Luckily - for the prize winners - their balls were in pristine condition.

It must have sucked to have had a gay son in the 80s; had I been straight, I'd have jumped at many opportunities…especially with those that Father offered.  But little did anyone know that even at that age, my brain was starting to assemble Goodbye to Beekman Place - a choppy story, with just the opening scenes.
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Anyway, as mentioned, the Fighting Illini went all the way to the Rose Bowl in 84'.  Father had secured us the absolute best of tickets - corporate-sponsered seats, on the front line: I could have reached out and touched the players as they ran by…which they did, frequently.  Apparently clobbering their opponents.

But at the time, I didn't see any of it.  In the later games, my head was buried in Alan Dean Foster's The Clash of the Titans.  I recall being cold, and being pissed that the crowd was being so LOUD.  Apparently, our team was winning, and game after game, weekend after weekend,  their cheers grew louder - like recent Chicago Blackhawks events.

In hindsight now, I regret not appreciating  it more. 
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I remember being furious that the crowd on the field in front of me made so much noise when they tore the goalposts down (fifty feet away), that I couldn't focus on reading my book.

I still don't know how Clash of the Titans ended, but as an adult I now suspect that I missed more than the ending to a so-so book.
1 Comment

Toilet Wine, Spiders, and the Elf on the Shelf

10/26/2013

4 Comments

 
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NOTE:  Sorry for not blogging in awhile.  I've had two really bad depression months, and I can't write in that state.  That being said, I feel better today.  I blog about depression on this website, under the tab: "Shh, No Talking."  But for now, Let's jump back in to the fun stuff:

So, I passed up my chance to try Pruno today...and in hindsight, I missed an opportunity.

It happened when I broke down and cleaned the breakroom refrigerator - because the hairs stuck to the doors were from people who didn't work here anymore.  I don't know why employee fridges get so disgusting, but I suspect it's laziness - and unwillingness to respect other people's things in the same way we do our own.  Or, maybe we're all just assholes.  Coin flip.

Anyway, the refrigerator's contents proved absolutely disgusting: moldy lasagna, corpse-colored chicken, something orange and separating, raisins (formerly blueberries), sliced beets with what I hope to God was cheese, fuzzy purple water in a sports cup, and three bags of grapes - which were rapidly becoming Pruno.  Behold the note that I taped to the fridge after the deed was done: 
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All three bags of grapes were liquid, and two had the distinct smell of alcohol. In a twisted sort of way, it was a spread of 5-Star delicacies: fresh Pruno, aromatic black cheese (from the lasagna), caviar (blueberry/raisins), and chicken as aged as a supper club's beef.  Not only did I miss trying toilet wine, but I missed the feast that clearly went with it.  

And to think I opted for McDonalds instead.
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SCENE CHANGE:

So, I'm walking through the bookstore's receiving room this week, when something large & furry runs across the floor.  "Do we have a mice?" I asked Ernie - our Receiving Manager - as critters sometimes find their way into the building when the weather turns cold.  "Nope," he said, pointing to a pile of arachnid guts that he'd squished on the counter.  "They're SPIDERS.  I've been finding them in the boxes."  Ernie then gestured around with his hand,  towards the many cases of newly-arrived Christmas merchandise.  Apparently, our corporate shipping department/building is also the set of Arachnophobia.  

Ernie emphasized this fact by smashing a spider on the wall with a copy of Barbara Streisand's My Passion for Design.  When the book came away from the wall, Babs had spider juice on her tits.
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"That's unpleasant," I told Ernie, as I pulled apart spider webs like curtains and headed for the receiving desk.  The webs were everywhere, covering boxes of books like sheets over furniture.  In fact, the whole receiving room felt like a haunted house - or a creepy castle of some sort, with floor-to-ceiling spiderwebs.  Something was tugging at my shoelace.  I looked down to see a hamster-sized Black Widow, trying to run up my slacks.   It popped when I squished it.

"Do I need to call an exterminator?" I asked, as the spiders overhead started dropping from the ceiling; they looked like little insect-marines, attacking the lair of a James Bond villain.  "No," Earnie said, sweeping the spiders off his desk with a broom; he too had spiders crawling up his pants, but it didn't seem to bother him - he was apparently used to it. 

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Brushing spiders out of my hair - and untucking my shirt to shake out the ones who had fallen into my collar (and down my back) - I asked Ernie if he needed any help unpacking the boxes with movement under the styrofoam peanuts.  Before he could answer, a rooftop heating unit kicked on with a shudder - and caused a spider-downpour to fall from the ceiling.

The air went black with arachnids
KIDDING.

In all actuality, we don't have a spider problem.  Sure, a few critters have popped up in opened boxes, but that happens every year.  No biggie.  We're used to it.  But by pretending that we have a spider infestation this year, we keep employees on their toes…and most importantly, Receiving stays clean: "Spiders like to hide in the piles of books that employees sometimes leave because they're lazy."  It's amazing how clean our receiving department has been this year.  Almost like people are afraid to stick around...

Insert maniacal laugh: Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...
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SCENE CHANGE TWO:
Like many Barnes & Noble's, we've gotten an onslaught of the Elf on the Shelf  kits for Christmas this month.  The Elf is a clever idea - a remnant from the 1950s, a charming little way to keep kids on their best behavior in December.   It's like Santa's Little Helper, NSA surveillance for the kiddies.  Not only does he see you when you're sleeping, he films you too - and records your phone calls, texts, and emails.   

That being said, I made my own Elf on the Shelf last year.  I had just taken out the evening's trash at the bookstore, and I found an old mannequin - propped & posed on the side of the dumpster.  I snagged it immediately, and hid it in a closet for a couple of days; I brought it out on a night when I closed and left it in our manager's office - dressed in red, with a skeleton's face.

It was positioned in a place where opening manager wouldn't have noticed it right away.  Just a little glimpse of RED, out of the corner of his eye, while he counted tills.  And when he looked up, BOO!
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The Elf on the Shelf is definitely watching…you!
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