Monday, September 25, 2006

7-11 is Out of Control

7-11 is out of control. I have always found the all-night-always-there-for-you-when-you-need-a-friend convenience stores to be a little unstable, with their slightly cocky slogan, "Oh, thank heaven for 7-11," to their sandwich combos that defy reason, "Peppered beef with apple butter and rainbow sprinkles on rye anyone?" Personally, I thank heaven for when St. Jude's kids beat cancer and when baby pandas are born, not when I have somewhere to get a swiss and jelly croissant at 3am. And don't get me wrong, creativity is a wonderful thing. By all means, make doughnuts in the shape of swans. Go ahead, we really need slurpee straws made out of candy and aspartame. Creativity, however, has its limits. There are places that the imagination should never go, flavors that need not exist, yet they do. To illustrate this we look at the 7-11 "gourmet" coffee line and how it has been taken to new heights of bizarre.

When I saw the almond joy cappuccino, I was a little entertained with a sprinkle of disturbed, like when I saw that dog with no front legs that walks like a human on Opera. This spring the 7-11 laboratories brought us the peach a la mode latte. When I saw the sign, I died a little inside. The 7-11 powers were on a crusade to combine things that tasted perfectly good on their own with coffee. It was a time of lost innocence.

As new combinations were brewed I began to believe this was how things would always be, but like so many other times in my life, I was wrong, and would someday wish for the "old days." 7-11 would evolve, like so many other things: canaries, grapefruit, snow shoes. . . to name a few of my favorites. 7-11 now combines two things that taste good independently with coffee to make a combo that makes you question your existence and whether this is truth, or just another glitch in the matrix.

I give you the pumpkin cheesecake latte. As i write this i am considering another fast in order to morn the raping of the coffee industry. Nothing is pure, nothing is innocent, and is there even any such thing as pumpkin cheesecake in the first place? These are the things that keep me awake at night, not world peace or babies with cancer, 7-11 gourmet coffee combinations.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Slurpee Sex Etiquette

Since I work right next to a 7-11, I go there often to grab a sandwich, gum, water, a soda. . . you know, 7-11 stuff. Well about two months ago they hired this guy that seems to think i want to have his babies. See, it turns out I don't, but that has not deterred him from doing his best to attempt to persuade me to reconsider on a daily basis. At first his lines made me laugh, not a friendly laugh, like "OMG did you really just tell me I get more beautiful every day?" kind of laugh. I've since learned he doesn't pick up on the sarcasm. The compliments continued until I figured out what car he drove, an ugly 1980 something yellow blazer, and refused to go in if he was there. Solved.

Until he started working every night, or at least every night I work. I was determined to starve and dehydrate. Except over the past few weeks the salon needed laundry detergent, garbage bags, paper towels, toilet paper, batteries, tape, and a flashlight. . . and sometimes I needed a slurpee. . . and every time this guy all but humped my leg.

I thought it couldn't get worse. But it has. Now he gives me free slurpee's. Now, I know when you go to bar and a guy buys you a drink, you have to have sex with him, no questions asked. That is why when a guy tries to buy me a drink, I tell them I'm a camel and the one drink in my hand will last me 6 months and to check back then. But what is slurpee etiquette? Do the same rules apply? Did this guy find the loophole, like if he buys me five slurpees he gets to cash in his chips?

Today i just left the $1.20 on the counter when he tried to not ring me up. I glared too, and told him I don't like compliments. No slurpee sex for you ugly 1980 something yellow blazer guy...

Saturday, September 2, 2006

Up In Smoke

I raise my hands and voice as I dance with a few hundred of my new closest friends in the cool Monterey air. Smoke and love hangs over us like party streamers as we sing praises to our gods for the night: love, peace, and Reggae. All united, all loved and loving, all believed in and believing.

I love to believe in Reggae, I love to believe in stoners, I love to believe in the pursuit of peace. . . in short, I love to believe in illusions. The feeling of unity is a drug in of itself as we all sing for world peace and love that reaches over all creeds, all colors, and all classes; with the addition of actual drugs, the experience is nothing less than spiritual and communal ecstasy. A beautiful blonde Santa Cruz girl in the bathroom implores me to wait as she pees, so I can come smoke a bowl with her, and although I politely pass up on her generosity, one can not help but feel loved. As I walk back to the crowds, a very Lenny Kravitz looking black man greets me like we are long lost cousins. Well tonight, at least according to the MC, I suppose we are. As clouds of Marijuana become our new atmosphere, we are cut off from the rest of the world. We willingly trade truth for smoke and mirrors--an escape from reality that becomes almost believable.

I would love to believe that the artists are here to unite all creeds, all colors, and all classes, yet this is as likely as a Jewish group singing the praises of bacon and jesus. Their religion is not peace and pot, like many of us ignorant Cali's conclude, but a political, religious movement to raise up the Jamaican blacks and bring down hate and judgment on whites (all of them, even you), homosexuals, women, and all other religions, "but for American dollars, sure man, we sing of peace and love tonight."

I would love to believe that the continuous invites to Jamaica are out of a desire to share their beautiful country with us, chill on the sand together, and pass a peace pipe. . .which i'm sure is the image many of the messy haired, American Eagle clad kids are conjuring as they sing with maxi priest, "come over to Jamaica where there's lots of beautiful women." which is actually more of an infomercial. "Yeah, come over to Jamaica man, with American dollars, and go home so we can sing about how we hate you."

So, as I watch from the corner of my eye my friend take a blunt to her Christian lips, I realize that at $35.00 a head, the performers are willing let us believe anything we need to in order to help us make the lie taste real. Perhaps you need a good solid high to cover that distinct we-are-being-manipulated taste, because I felt like the only one watching all the bad little Pinocchio boys get turned into donkeys.