Category Archives: Random Story

GIVE LADIES FRONT POCKETS

I’ve always wondered at the phenomenon behind why women keep their cell phones in their back pocket.  What if you forget about it, and sit down on a hard surface?  Crack.  There goes the cell phone, gotta hit up the mall, at one of those kiosks.

That’s a weird word.  Kiosk.  Sounds Native American.

That reminds me.  Never make eye-contact with people at a mall kiosk.  They’ll sucker you in with a beckoning smile, and there goes spending $500 on some skin cream.

I digest.

I’m mean, digress.

So yeah, ladies with their cell phones in their back pockets.  What’s up with that?  Ah…but then I had an enlightening conversation with the opposite sex, and she informed me that women’s pants usually have no front pocket.  What?  No front pockets, you say?  Why is that?

And then the answer becomes clear.  If you don’t have front pockets, where do you put your cell phone?  Well…in your back pocket.  Duh.

These designers of women’s clotherie need to get together, and figure out how to make these front pockets happen for the ladies.  Maybe they just haven’t figured it out yet.  I know those guys have those front pockets, why can’t we!  It’s SEXUAL DISCRIMINATION.  I mean, they said we’ve come a long way, baby.  We get to vote.  We get to work jobs.  But where’s OUR front pockets?!?

I mean, it can’t be that difficult, can it?  Make the pants, then put the pockets on it.  Think of all the cell phone screens those front pockets will save.  They won’t have to make all those trips

TO THE KIOSKS!!!!

-Clint

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Where’s The Wave?

It’s 8 in the morning, I’m driving the kids to school.  I stop at the stoplight on 44th, and Franklin, there’s a car in front of me, with their left turn signal on.  The light turns green, and I wave to the person in front of me, that they can go first.  She does so, then I take a right, following behind her.

We’re driving halfway down the block, and I realize, I didn’t get “the wave.”  You know, when someone is kind enough to let you go in front of them, you give them the wave.  I am a staunch supporter of the wave, and practice it religiously.  Not only will I wave, but I go as far as rolling my window down, sticking my arm out, and dramatically wave my hand, just to show how EXTRA appreciative I am for their kindness.  But with this woman…WHERE’S THE WAVE?!?  Nada.  Nothing.  WHO does she think she is, not giving the wave?  Taking my enormous generosity for granted. She may have been sitting at the light an extra 4 seconds if it wasn’t for me.  For all I know, she may have been almost late for work, and because of ME, she won’t be now.  How RUDE!

I get the kids to school early, I pull up in front of the school.  Good luck, have fun.  No dad, pull around to the back of the school, drop us off.  Why?  You got two legs, get out and walk 30 feet!  No dad, just go.

These people.  You know when I was young, I walked four miles…in the snow…

Yada, yada, yada.

-Clint

Men Sharing Dessert

I’m at lunch today with my old boss Amedeo Rossi. The man of the hour, Mr. 80/35. We’re at HoQ, a “farm-to-table” restaurant in the East Village.

Our server comes over. What would you guys like? I say, I’ll have the lamb Gyro. Deo says, I’ll have the same.

C’mon, bro. We can’t get the same thing! Peeps be getting ideas about us.

The server says, you guys ok with the fries? I’m like, yeah, perfect, love the fries, but then Deo says, how about…could I get some salad?

Great. He pulls the old, I’m gonna eat something HEALTHY. I CAN’T EAT THE FRIES WHEN MY BRO BE EATING THE SALAD.

Dang it. Yeah get me the salad, too. Sheesh.

The salad comes, and, guess what?!? The salad be having BEETS in it. Homey don’t play that. Beets be super nast. I can’t even stand smelling beets, I’m out the door.

Deo, you want my beets?

He says, nah. I don’t like beets.

We eat. We talk. We’re like old grannies playing Bridge gossiping. Where dah men at?!?!

(Looks around)

Not here!

We finish the meal, our server comes over. You want some dessert? Dessert? Deo says, no thanks. I’m like, hell, yeah! I want CAKE. Bring two forks.

(Hm…is it ok for two heterosexual men to share a dessert? Fuk it. I don’t care.)

The dessert comes, and we dig in like piggies at a trough.

On my third bite, there’s a long hair in the dessert. I hold the fork aloft to Deo.

There’s………a hair.

Deo grabs the hair delicately, tosses the hair to the ground.

I ask, understandably, do we finish it?

As MEN do in this situation, we MEN shrug our shoulders,

And dig back in.

-Clint

 

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You’re Welcome

I’m at Horizon Coffee Shop in glorious Downtown Des Moines.  I have a Caramel Latte, hang out for a couple hours doing work.  I get done, pack up my bag, grab my empty coffee cup, take it up to the counter, set it down.  The Hipster Barista with a Beard says, thanks, man.  I look at him in the eye, and say, you’re welcome.  As if I had just done this monumental thing for him.

I like to do that to people.  When they say “thank you” by rote, I like to say, you’re welcome.  As if I had just saved their puppy from being hit on I-235.  It’s a hilarious thing to do.  Especially when someone is saying the thank you, and they’re not deep in it.  So the “you’re welcome” comes off a bit extravagant.  When in the past I’ve said thank you, and someone gave me the you’re welcome, as if they’ve done this great deed, I’ve wanted to say, you know what, bud? Relax with the you’re welcome.  I just said thank you because I have to.  I could’ve picked up your damn empty coffee cup myself.

-Clint

 

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BANKSY REVEALED!!!

I’m at a cigar lounge in Chicago, Illinois, I get into a conversation with a guy. Mexican dissent, good-looking guy, tells me he’s an “Artisan.” I like art, I ask, what’s your medium? And he tells me. Painting, sculpture, etcetera. I say, you have any pictures on your phone? He pauses, then says, yeah.  He gets out his phone, looks for pictures. He’s across from me, with a big coffee table between us. He finds pictures, I get up, we meet halfway around the table, sit down. I look at his art, it’s legit. We’re talking museum quality. I don’t ask him how much, bc it would be uncouth, and I know I couldn’t afford it anyway.

We get to talking, he asks me where I’m from, of course, we know some mutual people. Insert: It’s a small world. We talk about our mutuals, he knows an ex-girlfriend of mine. His wife worked with her at Prairie Lights Bookstore in Iowa City back in the day. I tell him a fond memory, Nell taking me to Prairie Lights before prom, it’s closed down but she has keys, and set up in there, is candles, rose pedals, champagne and strawberries. Nell, if you’re out there and reading this, thank you for a wonderful night I’ll never forget.

We get to talking about the art world, he name drops famous artists he knows. It’s ok, bc I’m eating it up. So I ask him the big question:

Have you ever met Banksy?

He says, actually, I have.

I say, please tell me more.

If you don’t know anything about Banksy, you live under a rock, with a lot of moss growing on it.

Fine. I’ll tell you what you need to know to appreciate this story. He’s a famous graffiti artist, and no one knows who he is. Ok I’m sure some do, but no one like myself, some random dude who bartends in Iowa.

My new friend says, so…my art dealer picks me up for lunch, and on our way, he says, I have to tell you, we’re meeting a friend of mine for lunch. It’s Banksy. Please don’t ask him any questions about his work, he won’t like it.

Holy shit. For me, this story is turning into the Holy Grail of stories. I’m about to find out who Banksy is. A HUGE interesting GLOBAL mystery for years since his brilliant work started showing up on dilapidated walls in England.

He says, we get to lunch, I meet him, and he’s just this regular guy. Looks kind of unkept, with long hair. He seemed very blue collar. Working class. And I thought it made sense. He didn’t seem like this revolutionary guy.

I say, but his work is very revolutionary.

He says, true. And I’ll put something to rest for you. He’s NOT the Massive Attack guy.

This is a HUGE thing for him to reveal, bc if you read up on the Banksy mystery, there’s been researchers that are convinced that Banksy is a guy from a band called Massive Attack. We’re talking, a guy wrote a BOOK on this, and his conclusion was such. I’m here at this cigar lounge that’s MET HIM, and in one stroke, debunks the whole theory.

My mouth is salivating, I’m getting goosebumps, I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and I ask the million dollar question, as nonchalant as I can muster:

So…what’s his name?

He takes a pause, then says,

….THAT I can’t tell you.

Now don’t get your panties in a bunch fine people. Bc there’s a little bit more to this story.

I say, actually, I’ve done a bit of research on this subject, and I have a theory on who Banksy is. He says, is that right?

I say, what if I show you a picture of this guy I think is Banksy? You don’t have to confirm it, just, maybe, give me a smile.

He thinks for a second, then says, …maybe.

I get out my phone, find a picture of the possible Banksy, hand him my phone.

He looks at it. Then touches the screen with his fingers, to expand the picture.

He looks closely at the picture, looks up after a moment, hands me back the phone,

And smiles.

-CC

 

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The End Of Worrying About Where’s Your Stuff

OK, you know what I’m tired of?  Keeping track of all my STUFF.  I know you have to find a home for everything, but, c’mon.  Where’s my keys?  Where’s my wallet?  Did I leave my debit card somewhere, it’s not in my wallet.  Where’s my phone?  Where’s my sunglasses?  Where’s my watch? Where’s my stocking cap and gloves?  Where’s my CHARGER?!?  I had two damn chargers three weeks ago, now none.  (Thanks kids and wife).  I gotta go outlet to outlet looking for the damn things.  Kitchen, then den, then living room, then bedrooms, then basement.  It’s a constant struggle.

In Heaven, I imagine a place without worrying about where’s your stuff.  Where’s my phone?  No need.  You can read everybody’s mind.  Want to meet up with Marilyn Monroe for a coffee?  Hang on a sec, I’m texting her right now with my mind.  Where’s my keys?  No need, baby.  Climb into any DeLorean on the side of the road, start it up with a snap of your fingers.  House keys?  Again, no need.  Walk into any house, crash out in whatever fancy bedroom you want.  Who’s going to steal in Heaven?  Imagine your dream home, and in two secs, there it is in front of you. With all of the accoutrements.  How about clothes?  You don’t need clothes in Heaven.  You walk around naked.  It’s always 82 there, and check out my six-pack.  I just thought about it, and I look like an Adonis.  No gyms in Heaven, perfect health and awesome muscles with no effort.

Ok, maybe there are cell phones in Heaven.  I don’t know why.  But if there is, and you want to go old school, the phone doesn’t need charging, or a charger.  It’s always at 100%, baby!!!

And of course, you don’t need a wallet in Heaven, or a bank card you might leave at some restaurant, or gas station.  Everything is free in Heaven!  You want something, you think about it, it’s in the palm of your hand.

But until then…  my cell phone is on 10%.  Where’s my wallet, where’s my keys?

Oh, and who needs a car?  You fly everywhere!  Or close your eyes, imagine you’re on top of the highest mountain, with the most beautiful sunset,

And there you are, with Marilyn Monroe snuggled next to you, seeing you for the Adonis you are.

-CC

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