Tales from a Boulder 7/11

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I recently quit working for 7-11 to make a little money for my time abroad. It was the first job that I had had with giant corporation (other than a job with a university bookstore, which is a different kind of corporation), but that wasn’t the problem. The managers of the place were a really nice couple who were pretty lenient on the rules of the corporation.

The thing that I quickly realized is that people are straight-up shitty to cashiers. It didn’t help that addictions and sometimes very large amounts of money were at stake. During one of my first days there, a man got irrationally angry at me for asking him to repeat which scratch ticket he wanted. The same thing happened with cigarettes, chew, coffee.

Even people buying Zig-Zag wraps were sometimes shitty. This one guy came in for some watermelon wraps. It was one of my first days, and I hadn’t sold one of those yet. I start looking for it, and he yells at me “LEFT!” and “DOWN!”. It was ironic that someone buying a blunt wrap had so little chill. Anyways, I found it, and scanned the bar code. When you scan a tobacco product into the system, it immediately asks for an ID. I was feeling a little spite-y, and it wasn’t too unreasonable to ask him for some ID, so I did. He got all in a huff and started spouting some nonsense about “I’ve come in here every day!” even though I had never sold anything to him before. He finally gave it to me, and I put in his birthday, and I put the card on the counter. Then he got so mad because “I handed you the card, you hand it back!”. It was satisfying to wish him a nice day, though, as he huffed out the door.

Given the store was in Boulder, it isn’t much of a surprise that there were characters. There was the Boulder-every-mom who always came in with her kid and always looked critically at the price of her smoothie, even though I learned how to put in after the first week.

There was the woman who couldn’t decide how many goddamn hot dogs she wanted. I call this event the Great Hotdog Fiasco of 2015. I hated this stupid woman from the moment she mouthed her stupid infantile voice. She came in and ordered a hot dog. Then for two. No, wait, no, one. Yeah. No. Three. Four? No, definitely three. By the time I had gotten the hot dogs ready, I had thrown the fourth away, because there’s nothing to be done with a pre-made hot dog if you can’t sell it. All this while, the woman had been standing beside me at the grill. When I threw it away, she pathetically patted at the cover of it and was whining, “He threw my hot dog away, he threw it away.” Finally the crisis was sorted out.

There was a guy who always offered to come back and buy me “something pretty if I win” the Lotto.

There was the homeless man who asked for a light from me. He was cool.

There was the man who taught me what the Boulder mating call is. (Hint: its tapping the edge of your credit card on the table. Get it? Coke.)

There was the time I’m pretty sure I smoked the stuff of someone’s cokerette from the ash tray outside because I was craving and I’m living that grunge life.

There was the wheelchair-bound man with the motorcycle helmet who always mumbled his order of cigarettes, even though I know for certain he was able to communicate.

There was the man who called us to ask how much a grape-flavored blunt cost and came in with a bunch of pennies. He was a sketchy dude.

There was the old lesbian couple that was addicted to PowerBall. There was also the cute lesbian couple that was living in a truck and ordered a pizza (the pizza of 7/11 is shit, in case you were wondering) and bought some slices of cheese and asked us to shred them and put them on the pizza. She told me it was their idea of a nice date nowadays.

I was surprised one day to hear the damn binging sound of the door opening and a white woman flamboyantly exclaiming “Hola!” to the general room. She wandered around and bought several items and set them down on the counter. I reached for one and she gesticulated madly. “Sorry, germaphobe.” She asked me to shoot the items with the scanner instead, which I did. She then asked for a bag, and I moved to apply the bag fee before she screamed, “Wait, no!” and then apologized “Sorry, control freak.” The shirtless dreaded construction man who had already paid looked at me and said, “Wow, you must see everything, huh?”

 

The opinion of Satan’s concubine.

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On one of my last blog posts, a Satanist blog commented that I didn’t understand real Satanism.

I’ve read The Satanic Bible and I agree with the basic tennets or whatever. Be your own god, indulgence not compulsion, that sort of stuff, and that’s cool. I’m not really a LaVeyan Satanist, though, I’m just satan-worshiping. The satanist with a lower s, if you will.There are some things about Satanism that I have trouble getting behind, but I respect the philosophy.

This is not a Satanist blog, per se, it is a satanist blog.

In The Satanic Bible, LaVey makes the claim that Satan is an archetypal figure of freedom, rebellion, and independence, and I agree with that. I love that. I’m also pretty much an atheist, and I’m not really comfortable with lot of things about religion, and the Devil, especially where Milton’s concerned, epitomizes my sentiment towards theology.

I also have an interest in both the occult and that which is cheesy, hence my enthusiasm for black masses and ritual sacrifices. I’m kind of a witchy dude, I don’t know what else to say.

And even LaVey was ironic about the stereotypes surrounding Satanism. A favorite: one of the chapters in The Satanic Bible is titled “Hell, The Devil, And How to Sell Your Soul”.

That dude’s blog is pretty cool. Its called SatanicViews. Check it out.

Still the coolest satanic band.

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Okay, okay, okay. I finally have time to write this review.

I was wary when I went to see Ghost in Denver a couple of weeks ago. I had listened to it beforehand, and their new album, Meliora, is anything but what the title suggests. Their previous albums, Opus Eponymous and Infestissumam, in my opinion, are much better.

I was disappointed by the new album mostly because of the lyrical content. Their previous studio albums were rife with double innuendo and the risque, not to mention just plain sex. Like, listen to the way Papa E (I’ll get to his appearance in a second) sings. Its sexy and commanding and mature. By way of example, some of the instrumentals enable opportunities to wrap an arm around a lover.

A less important facet of my wariness was the band’s new look. At the prior concert I went to, Papa E was papal, in the style of those inversed black masses.

black mass

Basically a Ghost show.

He contained himself, which made the song’s lyrics that more uncannily unholy. Because of Papa E III’s dancing, I was afraid the  The new masks of the Nameless Ghouls were kind of corny. They weren’t spoOoOoOooky enough. People expect spook.

I am not a fan of Papa E out of his gown. He looks good in it, he should keep it on.

I write all of this merely for the sake of my natural tendency towards criticism and bemoaning. In actuality, none of this matters.

It doesn’t matter, because Ghost needs to be dynamic. Their schtick is based in theater, and theater lives on variance.Despite my complaints, Ghost still does a great show. Its difficult to leave a Ghost show disappointed and they cannot always do the black mass thing. It is important to take the papal gown off of Papa E, or else every show will be the same.I mean, two women in nun costumes went on stage and administered unholy communion to the first row, c’mon.

A band only produces good work with diversity, or else it drops redundancies, not albums. Good job on not getting pickled in repetition, dudes.

If things go as planned I’ll be performing a ritual satanic sacrifice

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Ghost is playing in Denver in two days, and Hoss and I are going to go see them. In an unprecedented move, a friend of our’s mom bought tickets for us, for free, which is about the coolest thing I’ve experienced. All shall embrace the love of Satan.

Their last concert that I went to was metal as fuck, what with the background noise of crying babies and the opening act of King Dude.  We shall see what their new act is like now that their new album is out.

Hoss and I recently bought a vape pen, which will undoubtedly only add to the metalness.

Keep an eye out for a review in the next couple of days.

Usually, you say “symphony”, and I say “cacophony”

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I recently went to the symphony with Hoss, because we are oh so cosmopolitan. We did ourselves up, Hoss in a suave tuxedo, I in a hicky plaid shirt and bow tie. The show was at a church, which was a little too holy for me.

It was not so nearly impressionistic in actuality.

It was not so nearly impressionistic in actuality.

Dvorak and Beethoven were on the docket, the Dvorak being dark and Slavic, and the Beethoven full of joie de vivre. An old man sitting beside me who couldn’t see gave me a lecture on the necessity of perseverance. Besides the despicable affectations of genius that a viola player feigned by romantic lolls of his head, it was an enjoyable night.

There was an intermission, during which I ate a skewered marshmallow, brownie, strawberry snack with as much decorum as one can whilst eating a sticky, gooey spear.

The second part of the show consisted of the Beethoven. The symphony was lucky to share the stage with the Lehnert Trio, who are a pretty big deal in Colorado. Oswald, the father-husband-violinist, and Oswald Jr., the son-bassist needed to re-tune their instruments to the sounds of the spheres, but Doris, the mother-wife-pianist was on point.

When she took the stage, I was kind of astounded by her presence. She wore a blue dress-suit that sparkled in the lights above. In her silver hair she had a glimmering hair clip, with dangling earrings to match. She smiled at me when she sat down at her grand piano, which disarmed me.

She played fantastically with an energy that was fascinating to watch. She bobbed her head as well, not with affectation, but with sincerity of emotion. Her fingers pounded the keys like lightning bolts from the cosmos. Yes, exactly that. She played with the exhibition of a rock star, and the expertise of a craftsmen.

– Professor Rhadamanthus, Esq.

Bernie lives once more!

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I’ve moved into a new apartment while my Hoss was moving out of his. Sorting out the refuse that he didn’t want to bring with him to his apartment, he gave me a true gem.

Its a rasta man! He’s a little statue dude, all dolled up in red, green, and yellow, and he’s missing one of legs, which makes it even more beautiful. Even better, the reincarnated Bernie now comes with an ashtray, with a ganja leaf embedded in it.

UPCYCLE TO THE POINT OF REINCARNATION