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Warning: not for the faint of heart!
Sep. 27th, 2003 12:37 amWent out to dinner with my Mom and Dad and my sister Kerrie, and her hubbie Clark. Clark is a quiet kind of guy--during family events he'd prefer cleaning his motorcycle to socializing, and I always have to hide the High Society magazines from on top of his toilet when the kids are over there. Stick them with the towels in the closet, you know?
Not that I mind High Society. I used to work in a Cumberland Farms and it was my favourite magazine to skim through. That and Swank. I always found the guys in these magazines to be way better than Playgirl. Personally, I don't think they're magazines for straight guys, anyway.
Now, of course, Cumbies has a problem with employees stealing magazines, so here's what I used to do, if a particular male model caught my eye (and many did).
How to steal dirty magazines out of your favorite retail establishment...
( Read more... )
But I was, primarily, a good boy. Sunday mornings were the best days to work. Waking up at five. Getting in before sunrise to put together the Sunday papers. The feel of ink of my hands. Hot jazz--Louis Armstrong, Ella, Sara, Billie--coming from the tape deck. The regulars coming in for their coffee. Ah, I remember the smell of the coffee, as I'd put in a new filter and open up a package. I'd hover my nose around the edge of the package and inhale deeply. Heaven.
My favorite regular was a lady named Joan. Short cropped, brown hair, steel blue eyes, pug nose. Chain smoker. Face had been scarred in an automobile accident. She had been drinking. Quit boozing after that. More sandpaper in her throat than Brenda Vaccaro, or a bird gone hog wild on gravel and grit.
Stories about Joan--warning--do not read if you're squeamish!
( Read more... )
Joan eventually became an employee there, and we had a lot of fun together. She was 40, and I was about 20. She even had me eat over for supper one time. But then I quit, and I never saw her again. Funny how life is like that.
Not that I mind High Society. I used to work in a Cumberland Farms and it was my favourite magazine to skim through. That and Swank. I always found the guys in these magazines to be way better than Playgirl. Personally, I don't think they're magazines for straight guys, anyway.
Now, of course, Cumbies has a problem with employees stealing magazines, so here's what I used to do, if a particular male model caught my eye (and many did).
How to steal dirty magazines out of your favorite retail establishment...
( Read more... )
But I was, primarily, a good boy. Sunday mornings were the best days to work. Waking up at five. Getting in before sunrise to put together the Sunday papers. The feel of ink of my hands. Hot jazz--Louis Armstrong, Ella, Sara, Billie--coming from the tape deck. The regulars coming in for their coffee. Ah, I remember the smell of the coffee, as I'd put in a new filter and open up a package. I'd hover my nose around the edge of the package and inhale deeply. Heaven.
My favorite regular was a lady named Joan. Short cropped, brown hair, steel blue eyes, pug nose. Chain smoker. Face had been scarred in an automobile accident. She had been drinking. Quit boozing after that. More sandpaper in her throat than Brenda Vaccaro, or a bird gone hog wild on gravel and grit.
Stories about Joan--warning--do not read if you're squeamish!
( Read more... )
Joan eventually became an employee there, and we had a lot of fun together. She was 40, and I was about 20. She even had me eat over for supper one time. But then I quit, and I never saw her again. Funny how life is like that.
