Adventures in Railway Travel

I'm in South Carolina visiting Amy. I got here via Amtrak. Long gone are the visions of yesteryear when railways were steeped in victorian grace and style. The only things that haven't changed are the Stations, and most of them I've seen are worse for wear if not in complete disrepair. The journey started simple enough. It began with a bus.

Tampa Union Station is being refurnished, having long passed it's expiration date. The service there is akin to that of the Wendy's on East Hillsborough Avenue - people who generally could care less about actually performing their job so much as collecting a paycheck for whatever their weekend vices may be. I'm betting with this lot it was cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon followed by an evening of leering over strippers and/or child pornography.

The bus driver was possibly the most competant employee in the Amtrak stable, with excellent timing and a somewhat genial attitude. Upon arriving at the comparatively modern Orlando Union Station, I was treated to a sleazy looking nacho vendor who was doing his best to peer through the windows of the building and ogle the women or men or children and a train that was close to an hour late. The temperature and irritablility were rising quickly as the stench of perfume, cologne, deoderant, body odor, cigarettes, and spicy spanish cooking intermingled.
When the train finally did arrive, the second most competant Amtrak employee ushered us in, assigning everyone a seat. As I went to the number I was to sit in, I found there was an elderly gay gentleman already sitting there. This was a bit off-putting. I walked my way back to the usher, and told him of the situation.

"Well, you the one I assigned to it. I'll tell him to---wait a minute. My mistake. Just take the next seat." So, in a train car full of empty seats, I'm seated next to "a gay" that keeps looking at me oddly. I don't have anything against gay people. I'm not even uncomfortable around them usually. This guy was giving me the creeps though. As soon as the train starts moving, I head to the Lounge Car, get a Sam Adams, and head to the dining car. This is where I met my new friend Ashley. After finishing a flavorless chicken sandwich and she a cheesecake that was apparently quite good, I made my way to the Lounge, and she to the restroom to take a smoke break. (For those of you planning to travel by train, Ashley clued me in to the almost flawless method of smoking in the bathroom. There's a fan that sucks air outwards, so if you just blow the smoke into it, noone will be the wiser.)

The train continued, and as it proceeded further north, the clientel boarding began to look shadier and shadier. I attempted to watch a few movies on my lap top, but apparently a large part of working on a train involves sitting in the lounge car, talking loudly, then complaining that your movie is too loud and interrupting the conversation.
We entered South Carolina at about 8pm, Ashley went to grab some dinner and brought another new friend back to the table with her. Her name was Inot (sp) and she was from Israel. We shared stories about how effed up the US Foreign Policies have become, the pros and cons of rail travel compared to train travel, and various other interrupted conversations.

The interruptions came from another table in the lounge, where a 48 year old wigger (I shit you not) was in a heated discussion about how his life is blessed and that 50 is the new 40, and some how these two items are related. Thankfully, the train arrived at my stop. I bid my new friends farewell and began my weekend in Charleston, SC.

Unfunny.

Saturday morning's class is Audio Visual study. Essentially we're learning how to make and edit film, which is great, because that's sort of the area I want to get into. It's an interesting class, the instructor is awesome. Our first day, we watched 12 Angry Men followed by Dark Star. If you've never seen Dark Star, it's Mystery Science Theater 3000 fodder at its finest. Anyway, after viewing this, everyone was talking about how bad it was, when the teacher said "Guess what? You think you can do better, you're getting the chance to prove it." This weekend, we were split into groups and given a small script to film, and it took our group roughly 1/2 an hour to get what will break down into about 1 minute of film.

This class would be awesome were it not for the slovenly bastard sitting near me.
I've referred to him as the unfunny re-animated corpse of Chris Farley. Same delivery and off-timing of Farley, with only 1/4 the comedic content. That, and he can't complete a sentence without saying "fuck" at least twice.

During the films, this jagoff would not shut up. And it's not a quiet aside comment to his near by, comparatively reserved buddy. It's a loud, obnoxious mood breaker. A bit like a fart in a nice restraunt on a first date.

During the explanation of our project, he went on for half an hour in five minute intervals about the history of Mr. Rogers, based solely on the mention of a sweater and one "beautiful day in the neighborhood" reference.

As he sits near me, I loudly expressed my sudden sympathetic attitude towards the young asian gentleman from Virginia Tech. (What...too soon?) After a moments thought, he silenced himself for 3 minutes, spending a majority of that time in front of the classroom scratching his crotch.

For those of you familiar with "Super Troopers" picture Farva, and take away his charm and grace, and you have this guy.

Saturdays are going to wear me very...very thin.

The Most Racist Man in America

We had done some work on a power amp for a guy from the southern part of Florida. By "southern part," I don't mean geographically. Mentally, this guy is "southern." He's a snake farmer. This alone drags up images of rebel flag curtains and posters of David Allen Coe. He had been calling us every day for 2 weeks wanting a status check on his equipment. Some would say he was being cautious, others pushy. I know for a fact it was because no one would talk to this man unless they were being paid to do so. This is where I fit in.

So Friday we had his equipment ready to go. He shows up 1/2 hour before closing and starts rambling on about how he's a reptile farmer and blah blah blah. It was harmless enough. As I'm waiting for the credit card program to acknowledge my existance, he begins telling jokes. The first one was harmless enough. Borderline offensive, but just enough so where it was slightly amusing. The jokes quickly degraded into what must have been the Joke of the Day printed on the back of the placemats in the Klan's Dixieland Pork Sandwich Cafe. The N-word was prevalent, though he made enough anti-semetic remarks to make Mel Gibson offended. Finally, after 5 minutes of non-stop garbage I look at him and say "Dude...my dad's black." This, of course, is complete bullshit.

The look on his face was priceless.

"I'm letting you get away with this, because you couldn't possibly have known that I was half black. Maybe you should be more considerate before starting these sorts of jokes."
This was followed by stuttered apologies, quick signatures, and an embarrassed exit. My boss came around the cubicle wall, tears in his eyes. "That is the one thing we didn't consider trying. Thank you."

It's good to finally work somewhere where my mouth doesn't get me in trouble.

Dirty Micks.

I have a new partner in crime in my classes. I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine. We just refer to one another as "Dirty Mick." The new semester has started, and it's already been a friendly competition to see who can call out more people on their bullshit, who can make the most two-sided comments to the instructor, and who can get away with what. Unfortunately, I can't take credit for the 'Dirty Mick' angle. T'was the other Dirty Mick that slung the first derrogatory phrase. The beauty of this lies in the acceptance on both of our parts of being Dirty Micks. So when the instructor began her cautionary statements about using ethnic slurs in class, I stated "It was not a slur. I am a Dirty Mick. That Dirty Mick has me pegged." To which the other Dirty Mick replied, "Yes, see, it takes one to know one." This left the instructor in a bit of a pickle, because no-one else in the room could claim Irish heritage. We went and grabbed some Guinnesses...or Guinnessi...whatever the plural is...after class and decided that it would be best to just carry on through the quarter with the Dirty Mick monickers, slinging it the way rap artists swing the "n" word. This should be a great semester.

Enter the Wigger

"Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that."

- George Carlin

Enter the Wigger. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, Urban Dictionary provides the following definition:

A male caucasion, usually born and raised in the suburbs that displays a strong desire to emulate African American Hip Hop culture and style through "Bling" fashion and generally accepted "thug life" guiding principles. Often characterized by his car, or "whip": usually an econobox modified with at least twice the car's book value in non-power producing modifications or an SUV with at least 5500 lbs. of curb weight. Traditional trucks can also qualify here, depending on locale (southern states' percentages are higher). All vehicles are also mandated to have at least 19" chrome alloy wheels, regardless of make. The typical wigger is also characterized by a strong desire to adorn gold jewlery (especially heavy gold chains) and athletic warm up suits. All equipment and clothing will be paid for by the parents of the individual in question, or the parents of said individual's "shorty" through the use of said shorty's credit cards. A general disposition of "hard" will be displayed among other wiggers and to kids around their neighbohood (usually labelled a 'subdivision' or 'gated community' due to its mass produced housing develoment origins). This disposition will immediately be dropped and replaced by a more typical "white boy" disposition when in the presence of actual African Americans ( with exceptions: Those whose origins trace to the suburbs being the most prominant.).

The definition applies to the winner of a human being that strolled into the back of our shop today. Around 5:30 everyday, the FedEx truck arrives to pick up any packages we have outgoing. The driver usually hangs out for a bit and shoots the shit because it's his last stop of the day. He's not in for 2 minutes before G-Unit Johnny comes strolling in the back door with a "Yo B, I'ma need you to move that truck." I had to do a double take, but this guy was undoubtedly white, wearing a white tank top and shorts three sizes too big for him (Note: This is why a guy my height can't find clothes that fit.) The FedEx guy looks at him and explains he'll move in a minute. "I need you to move that shit now."

In a voice that completely failed to capture the ethnic background from whence it sprang, I say "Check yo self, son." Wigger's eyes focused on me with a bit of a puzzlement. "Yeah, dog, he's going to move his rizzide when he's done picking up these packages. Now get the fuck out." This seemed to frustrate the Wigger, but after what appeared to be a quick assessment of his situation, he let out a disheartened "aight" and stepped outside.

After the FedEx guy left, my boss told me that was kind of a stupid thing to do, he could have been armed, etc. I accepted my chastising, because deep down I felt good about it, and my boss laughed about it after explaining his concerns.

I hate wiggers.