justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My ring-tone is the Benny-Hill song. Seriously. BGM: "Dooley" - The Dillards If you're laughing at me it means you already know the song, so fuck off. Bluegrass rules. It might not come as much of a surprise to many of you that I talk to myself quite frequently. I relish any and all opportunities to vocalise my inner monologue, so a house to myself is all the soap-box I need, most of the time. Anyway, I had this... conversation?... before, while playing Bejewelled. My life is a firestorm of excitement, by the way. 'Well, this certainly ain't easy. Much like pimping. I think it's pronounced pimpin'. Right, right. Sorry. Ooh, I'm 'bejewelling' in the desert this time. Who's idea was it to add the backgrounds? Let's call him Charlie. --wait, 'bejewelling?' Did I just make a word?' and so on and so forth. Two songs later I got up from my chair to dance around my room like an epileptic mime [Ed: ...?] for a little while. So for those of you wondering, that is why I need to move out. I need to be able to do that sort of thing 24/7 without fear of being walked in on. Most people my age live in fear of their parents walking in on them doing drugs or having sex. Me, it's talking to myself, interpretive dance, and impromptu performance art/kareoke that set me on edge. You have to understand, I need this kind of outlet for my less publically acceptable urges. It's where I work, you see. There are no normal people at Tony shoes. My parents say I should write a screenplay or book about the place, but I have my reservations. I don't think any reader would believe that there are people out there who actually communicate with each other that way, to say nothing of their actual behaviour. Allow me to ellaborate: here would be your cast of characters. Tony himself, the head-honcho. He looks a little like Oswald Cobblepot (Google it, trust me) cleaned himself up real good and gained about a foot and a half. He speaks in constant cliche, or else repeats whatever word he says last in some manner of exaggerated accent which-to him-is hilarious. "Attitude is ALTITUDE, you undertand? Altitude! And you need that if you're going to get anywhere in this world. Altitude!" And then he says altitude like a drunken frenchman seven times or so. He loves to say "you understand?" I think it makes him feel sagacious. He likes to feel like he's helping. And then there's his son. I am not exaggerating this at all, this is a verbatim quote. "Nick, I don't know what to do." "*grunt*?" "It's my girl. She wants to have sex ALL THE TIME. And she's too hot. She's so gorgeous it's unbeievable, I swear. Last night I had to have sex with her four times before she would go home." And then he went on like that for about twenty minutes, before berating me for not being productive enough. You can bang all the imaginary hot ladies you like, mister, I ain't gonna be working in a shoe store in twenty years. Or the Barber. It's hard to put on paper and get the full effect, you really have to experience it for yourself. I'll do my damndest, however. First he will tilt his head away from you comically, and start sniffing, as if you might have a nougat center, or perhaps are made of tasty, tasty hamburger. Then he will say one of three things: "Beeeeeeep!" it fades away at the end, so it's kinda like a really obnoxious anthropomorphic car is speeding away. or "Uh huh" for no particular reason, which proper etiquette dictates, for some reason, you are supposed to return in kind. And my personal favourite: "Ah? Ah." He uses this tone whch says he just figured out one of the mysteries of the universe, and had called it from the get-go. Like maybe he won a bet with Shivah, or something. Then there's Manny. This man is like a mix or super-hippy and super-jew all wrapped up in one low-price package. He has one of those creepy old guy haircut/no shave combo where the scraggly hair on his chin is the exact same length and consistancy as the scraggly buzzcut on his head which makes him look a little like a clam for some odd reason. Anyway, he likes to sing either really old songs(his favourite is "I'm the morning DJ on WOLD"), or sing the ones on the radio in the lamest, whitest, way possible. And then giggle at you like you two just smoked a giant bowl and are sooooooooooo hiiiiiiiiiiiiigh, maaaaaaan. He also always calls me Nicholas Nickleby. Which isn't funny anymore, for the record. Oh, and when you need to pass by the guy in an aisle? No freakin way, man. He's in the zone. He's stayin' put like a Chinese kid in Tienaman. (sp?) The there's Chuck. Charles Winter, posessor of the porniest name I have ever heard. Not so much in the looks department, though. Imagine an orangutan. Now shave it, with your mind-razor. Now give it a really jingly tin of mints, a set of reading glasses, and that squishy-face scowl that old people get when they try to read something that's at eye level with them. It's not just the looks, either, it's the way he MOVES. I swear to god, when he goes down a set of stairs, he puts his arms above his head, wrists turned in and everything. It's EXACTLY like an orangutan. And here are the only four things I have ever heard him say in my years at Tony Shoes. -"I'm pulling my prick with this shit." or, to spice things up, jerking me off with this shit. -"If I make this sale I'll pull your prick on Peel and Ste Catherine's." Always the same corner. Every time. -"Naah, you're alright. When I grow up I want to be just like you. You're alright. OK?" This one is always out of nowhere. or "Drek" If he IS going to say something, he has to say it in some kind of fucked up snoop dog/pig latin bastardisation which I can only asume he thinks is endearing. It turns "She walks in at six o'clock, ok? what a drek." into "She walks in at seeyizix o-cleeizock, o-keeyizay? What a dreeyizek." He seriously does that. Like, a lot. What reader would buy that? Then there's Howard. Howard is the most dyslexic person I have ever met, and in complete denial. He comes to the stock room, asking where he can find the shoe "Clarissa." We spend about twenty minutes looking, and I finally make him go get the shoe so I can see the tag. You know what it was actually called? "Cinch." fucking Cinch. How do you manage that? And the way he sells shoes, sweet Jesus. He once sold a woman wth a size eight foot a twelve with four insoles in it. "She'll be cripled in a week." he said with a laugh. The woman must have been about eighty. And then there's the big guy. How do I begin? OK, first, the hair. Remember shining-time station? Scheemer. That hair. No? OK, well then imagine someone made a wig by gluing some pubes to vaguely wig-shaped pad of steel wool, then greased it up with vaseline and black shoe-polish, and threw in the wop-curl for good measure. There's his hair. And then put it on a man who is about six two, large, covered from head to tow with acne scars, and very, very shiny. I don't know if it's grease or what, but baby, he shimmers. And there's the fact that he works three jobs. One at Tony's, one as a janitor in a hospital, and one as a mafia enforcer. Not kidding. He spends all this money on strippers and prostitutes, and often spends upwards of "about eight bills" in a night, just on women and booze. Did I mention he lives with his mother? Or his rain-man-esque affinity to sports trivia? Like, ANY sports trivia? Here's a typical dialogue for him: "What'd you eat last night, stud?" "well, I--" "Yeah right. Look at this guy. Who taught you how to lie?" "I had a sandwich." "OOOOOOOHH!!! You're crazy, stud." "It was just a sandwich!" "What are you going to eat for dinner?" "I don't know." "Another liar." "You--" "I'm nuts, eh? sick in the head. Look at this guy. Slick, sly. Slick-sly. Stud. Nice comeback, stud." He calls everyone stud, and slick, and sly, and slick-sly, or my favourite, slick Willy. The best is when he's hung over. He'll usually say "I've got a big buyer from ________" and then insert some kind of funny place name like Oxnard to try and get you to laugh, but when he's hung over he just gives up on english entirely. Here is yet another verbatim conversation: "Bo-bo la-bo" ".....what?" "bo-bo-la-bo, bobolabo." "....are you alright?" "Nu-hah! Bobo-labo. Bo bo, nu-haah. Stud." And then, obviously, I laugh. It is not wise to anger the giant mafia enforcer when he's in leave of his senses. When you do laugh, looking at him like he's nuts, he'll say "I'm nuts, eh? Stud!" Like that explains everything perfectly. He's in his late thirties. Now guess how old his girlfriend is. Go ahead, guess. eighty-three. Yep, that's the guy. And he's still with her. He tells us stories that I am loath to repeat, but suffice it to say they will haunt me for the rest of my days. And there, good people, is your candid look into the life of Nick. When the VH1 special comes out, you will all be able to say "I was then when..." Excelsior. 7:10 p.m. - 2006-05-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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