The one with fingers

April 22, 2013

So I’ve been busy. I mean REAL busy. Okay, check that…just regular busy in case some of you are paying attention. God, you all are some Checky McCheckersons, aren’t you?

There has been:

More hours at work.
Finishing a 10 minute script for a play festival.
Working on my poetry manuscript.
Trying to find a publishing home for said script.
Reading script submissions.
Working on things around the house.
Being a man about town.

I know…excuses, excuses. You all are some Judgy McJudgersons, too. You don’t wanna read about why I’ve been too busy. You want to hear about the time I peed on my cookie? Too bad you’ll have to wait till TMI Thursday for that.

Instead I’ll give you another glimpse into the weirdness that is Jimi. At work (and everywhere really), I tend to have little games to keep me from going crazy.

Fine, crazier. Jerks.

Games  like the Force Field one.

This game usually takes place in the long hallways in the bowels of the museum. Throughout these halls are all manner of things. There are various tables waiting to go to or from storage, cases from the galleries and containers to ship the art. As I walk down these halls, I tend to pretend my fingers are a man—pointer and middle fingers are the legs. The upper body is all imagined—just go with it—and I make this finger-legged person walk across these various surfaces.

Then as these people get closer to the edge, they begin to run. Yes, they RUN toward the edge and certain doom. These finger-legged people are always suicidal. They willingly jump to their death—only mid leap, they regret it.

No, I don’t do their voices…that would be weird.

Okay fine, I do their voices.

 “I’m going to end it all!” (jump) “Oh, nooooo! What have I done? I want to live.”

They don’t live. On occasion they make it to the next table or container. Once more they run and jump. Again they wish they hadn’t but to no avail.

What could make this worse? The answer is a coworker catching me.

What could make that worse? Surely not me explaining what it is I was doing.

Yep. I explained it to them. They listened in what could only be described as a paralysis based on fear. 


The one with force fields

October 5, 2011

Rocketing up the charts of questions I get asked at work is “Don’t you get bored?” I can honestly answer that with no. I often cherish the slower times because it gives me a chance to think about my writing. When not having to direct people to the restroom or make sure they’re not touching art I can even jot notes and lines down.

Sometimes there are the times when thinking about writing doesn’t help. It is after all (sometimes) 8 hours of walking around the same 2 or 3 rooms, looking at the same paintings and statues. One way I combat boredom is I give out awards. Such as: Craziest hair, worst smelling, dumbest question, what were you thinking wearing that, and the Are you serious Bro? So patron’s can lead to entertainment—generally only if I help it along.

It really is the little things/games that help make the days (and nights) move quickly by. Increasingly though these games has lead to strange looks from my wife. They certainly may be becoming stranger. Just yesterday a coworker saw me doing one of them and during the explanation I felt sort of whacko.

It started with a funny image in my mind that the galleries I wasn’t guarding had force fields on their entrances. This meant that when I came to the end of my gallery I was not allowed to pass into the next. Next up it was all galleries (including mine) had this on the entrance. The only way I could enter the gallery was by placing my finger on the panel to be scanned. I would do this every now and again. I soon found that I was doing this every time I entered or exited a gallery, not only that but using the same hand. I was using my right thumb each time. This is made a little bit weirder by the fact I usually carry my radio in my right hand. As I neared an entrance I would switch the radio to my left hand and scan my right thumb.

Yesterday as I returned from break I scanned my thumb finger. The guard covering my break saw me and asked about it.

Him: You find something on there?
Me: Oh…saw that did you?
Him: Something on there? (He starts to check the wall.)
Me: Oh..uhm no…well…see I…in order to get into the gallery I have to uhm scan my thumb…?
Him: Oh. Okay…right…
Me: You know to open up the force field between the two…?
Him: Sure—

My Wife: You actually told him the truth?
Me: Uhm yes?
Wife: Did he look at you like you were nuts?
Me: Sort of.
My Wife: Well you are.
Me: Thanks.

Yet another glimpse into the mind of Jimi you didn’t need.

Maybe I’ll try this one day:


The cart and the cake or TMI Thursday

December 10, 2009

Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s! So if my Too Much Info doesn’t slake your thirst for the gross click on over to LiLu’s and read them all.
TMI Thursday

This week I’m going to drop a little non jimi story on you. This TMIT post is about a coworker who I will not name or really even describe. I will say that all his groceries don’t make down the checkout line. What the hell? He’s not all there mentally. I hesitate to write about this because he’s a good guy, but really nobody who doesn’t work there and know about this sort of thing will know who he is.

I’ll start with bit of background of Sam (not his name) for you. He’s been known to pick at his hair (a la a monkey picking at another monkey’s) and then eat whatever he finds there. He’s also been known to pretty openly rummage through the trash to find something to chow on.

I’ll give you a moment to digest that (Ha Ha!)

On to the actually incident I’m posting about. It of course happened one fine Cleveland day at the hell hole wonderful place I work at. I as I went about my business (don’t worry I’m not digressing into a poop post) around the store I came upon a cart in one of the aisles. It wasn’t just any cart either. No some ass clown customer had a cassata cake that somehow fell over and busted throw the plastic container. It spilled all over the little section you sit a child and onto the floor too. Half of this cake was on the floor under the cart and the other half was on the cart. So I was a good employee and informed the people up front that someone needed to clean it up. Now Roger (that’s right I changed it from Sam deal with it!) at the time was the store’s porter. Naturally they called him and I went about my merry way. A few minutes pass and I find myself passing the cake disaster aisle and there is Steve (switcharoo!) there munching on the cake as he picks it off the cart. He had a trash bag and some paper towels. It went sort of like this: Wipe wipe toss (in trash) and then a handful into his mouth. I sort of gawked at this for a few seconds and then left. As luck would have it I had to pass by Bob’s (just when you think I won’t I change it again!) buffet aisle to see him scooping the stuff on the floor into the trash and of course his mouth. He did this until everything was clean enough to eat off of.

Ha ha I kill me.

Okay that is all. Not the typical one and not all that graphic but still pretty damn gross.

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