In light of the string of recent ridiculously muggy days, in which it feels like the entire Twin Cities has been placed inside of the armpit of a sumo wrester, I have compiled some thoughts on the subject:
On several occasions I walked out of a building and my glasses fogged up. That had never happened before in my life. There’s nothing like wandering around the Target parking lot with your arms outstretched like a zombie, not able to see, and bumping into parked cars and other similarly blind shoppers.
If I had a mustache, it would probably be curling up.
It reminds me of delivering newspapers in my childhood. It would be as sweltering day, and some little old lady would be sitting in her lawn chair in the shade, sipping on a glass of iced tea. She would see me coming, drenched in sweat, and sweetly ask, “Hot enough for you?” Grrrrrrrrrrr…
Speaking of my childhood in the U.P., we were quite hearty back then. It would be 72 degrees, and we’d be running around, ecstatic because it was what we termed “swimming weather.”
I should try to fry and egg on the sidewalk. If it doesn’t work, I could enlist the help of a magnifying glass.
An overnight low of 78 tonight. Be still, my beating heart!
I haven’t even checked to see how many people are at the pool at my apartment complex. I assume that it’s packed. However, maybe everybody else assumed the same thing, and it’s completely empty. (Except for, of course, a little old lady, sitting in the shade in a lawn chair, who’d ask me if it was hot enough for me.)
Finally, a poem I just composed:
Hot. Hot.
It’s so crazy hot.
Hot enough to melt
The spots off of Spot
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Bigfoot Principle
So, I’ve been thinking, as I often find myself doing, of how life changes as you grow older. Today, I’m mulling conversation matter, and how the conversations of a twenty-year old and the conversations of a thirty-year old are drastically different. Take me for example. When I was twenty, conversations would be about the following: girls, sports, girls, music, sports, food, girls, and girls playing sports. Now, however, I find myself talking about many different things, such as work, politics (Ew! I know!), work, religion, travel, and many other things that would make a twenty-year old scoff, assuming that they weren’t listening to an iPod and could actually overhear somebody else’s conversation. What’s weird is that this doesn’t feel odd at all. It seems strangely normal, and I’ve grown to accept it as a part of growing up.
(For the record, however, the topics of a twenty-year old are still batted around on occasion, lest you think I’ve turned into some sort of uppity, high-class snob.)
Luckily, however, there is an exception, a time when speaking like a twenty-year old is still appropriate. This is when you’re with the friends who you were once twenty-years old with, people of your own age whom with you grew up. Sure, you still discuss the thirty-year old things with them, but you can occasionally regress to topics of great foolishness or non-importance, and it doesn't seem strange at all.
Take my friend Lurch. Just recently we were discussing an upcoming trip to Washington state, where the topic of Bigfoot naturally came up. (“Hey, I just figured out that we’re going to be in Bigfoot country!”) At some point, a completely non-mature idea came to me, which I revealed to him: We should get some sort of fake Bigfoot, strap him to the roof of our rental car, and drive around like that the whole time, all while acting completely casual about it. Lurch’s response: “I was just thinking the same thing!” We then proceeded to laugh hysterically and make follow up jokes for quite a long time afterwards.
This was obviously not a mature conversation. If I tried to have this discussion with anybody else, such as my dad or a co-worker, it would have been strange, but with a close friend of my own age, it seemed totally normal.
I’m sure that there is already a term for this, but for my own intents and purposes, I am going to call it the Bigfoot Principle. I urge you all to start using it. I’d like it to catch on.
Now, does anybody know the easiest way to construct a fake Bigfoot? It’s kind of important.
(For the record, however, the topics of a twenty-year old are still batted around on occasion, lest you think I’ve turned into some sort of uppity, high-class snob.)
Luckily, however, there is an exception, a time when speaking like a twenty-year old is still appropriate. This is when you’re with the friends who you were once twenty-years old with, people of your own age whom with you grew up. Sure, you still discuss the thirty-year old things with them, but you can occasionally regress to topics of great foolishness or non-importance, and it doesn't seem strange at all.
Take my friend Lurch. Just recently we were discussing an upcoming trip to Washington state, where the topic of Bigfoot naturally came up. (“Hey, I just figured out that we’re going to be in Bigfoot country!”) At some point, a completely non-mature idea came to me, which I revealed to him: We should get some sort of fake Bigfoot, strap him to the roof of our rental car, and drive around like that the whole time, all while acting completely casual about it. Lurch’s response: “I was just thinking the same thing!” We then proceeded to laugh hysterically and make follow up jokes for quite a long time afterwards.
This was obviously not a mature conversation. If I tried to have this discussion with anybody else, such as my dad or a co-worker, it would have been strange, but with a close friend of my own age, it seemed totally normal.
I’m sure that there is already a term for this, but for my own intents and purposes, I am going to call it the Bigfoot Principle. I urge you all to start using it. I’d like it to catch on.
Now, does anybody know the easiest way to construct a fake Bigfoot? It’s kind of important.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Adventures In Soda Procurement
Every office has one. You probably know who I’m talking about, the guy who’s been there forever and has an employee number of something like 000004. He’s seen just how inefficient and incompetent the company is for way too long, and it’s left him jaded to the point of no longer really caring about anything. He’ll do work only if he wants to, and when he does, he’ll do it his way, regardless of how outdated his methods are. He’ll come in when he feels like it, most likely still in his pajamas. His lunches will be several hours long. He won’t change for anybody unless he has to, and even then he still might not.
Now, I want you to think about this guy, visualize him in your mind, and then picture his vending machine equivalent. Seriously. If you have a hard time doing so, don’t worry, because I’ve met this vending machine, and I’m here now to tell you all about it.
You see, near our cafeteria squats an old pop machine, and it’s become very cantankerous as of late. It’s almost as if it’s feeling underappreciated and has gotten sick of doing its job, leaving it disgruntled to the point of wanting solely to mess with anybody that tries to get a beverage from it. (If it had legs, I’m pretty sure it would try to trip people as they walked by.)
Example 1: A week or so ago, craving an unhealthy mixture of caffeine and sugar, I went up to this machine with two one-dollar bills. I fed them both in and made my selection. Nothing happened, and I realized that the ‘exact change’ light was on. I retrieved my money and returned to my desk, where I picked out two quarters and a nickel. (Soda costs $1.55 for those of you who struggle to score at home.) I returned to the machine, deposited a dollar, and then dropped in the two quarters, bringing my total to $1.50. I then dropped in the nickel, and it fell straight through to the coin release. I tried again and again and again. It would not take the nickel. Annoyed, I went back to my desk a second time, where a co-worker informed me that the machine usually spits out nickels. So, leaning heavily on my third grade math skills, I collected fifty-five cents without using a nickel and returned to the machine. Finally, I was able to get it to yield a soda. I was happy to have gained the victory, and I walked away with a little bounce to my step, feeling pretty good about myself. I think this made the machine angry at me. (As I was walking away, I’m pretty sure it muttered something like, “Getting cocky, huh? I’ll teach you….”)
Example 2: I’d smartened up, and this time I brought $1.55 exactly, without nickels. However, the machine was ready and decided that it wasn’t going to accept dollar bills. Thinking quickly, I tried to use the change machine next to the soda machine to get a dollar’s worth of change, but that machine wasn’t taking bills either. It was almost as if the pop machine was being a bad influence on the change machine, and had corrupted it into doing no work. (“Hey kid, why are you such a sucker? Where is it written that you have to work all day long? What do you get out of the deal, anyway, huh? I don’t see you getting overtime, and you’re always here!”) So I had to go back to my desk to get a dollar’s worth of quarters. I was then able to feed in $1.55 in change, without using nickels, and I got my soda. I imagine that the machine was not amused by my resourcefulness. (“So you wanna play dirty, huh?”)
Example 3: I had $1.55, all in change, without nickels, all ready to go. However, this time the machine stopped taking coins. Not just nickels, all coins. Each one I dropped in failed to register, and I swear I could hear the machine chuckling at me. Basically, it had rendered itself so that getting a soda was impossible, short of tipping it, which isn’t a great idea unless you get a signed and notarized waiver from your boss saying that it's okay. Anyway, no bills, no change, no pop, game over. I walked back to my desk empty-handed, as the machine snickered at me. (“That’ll wipe that smirk off your face!”)
So yes, I’ve been defeated by a pop machine with an attitude problem. However, it’s probably all for the better, as I shouldn’t be drinking the stuff anyway. Still, I think I can outlast it if I really want to. The machine has to be ready to retire soon, and it’ll most likely be replaced with a young, shiny version, one that is eager to make a good impression. It’ll probably take both dollar bills and coins, and give back proper change. Heck, it might even hand out compliments, too. (“You’re looking trim, sir! You must be drinking our diet brand!”)
Still, I’m kinda going to miss the old machine, whenever it does go. It had character. It made getting a liquid refreshment an adventure, which spiced up the day, not to mention it helped me to brush up on my math skills. (“Okay, I need fifty-five cents without a nickel. Oh boy, I don't have enough fingers for this...I’m gonna need a whiteboard, and maybe a spreadsheet…”) Plus, someday I want to be that jaded old guy at work, and it was good to get a few pointers.
Now, I want you to think about this guy, visualize him in your mind, and then picture his vending machine equivalent. Seriously. If you have a hard time doing so, don’t worry, because I’ve met this vending machine, and I’m here now to tell you all about it.
You see, near our cafeteria squats an old pop machine, and it’s become very cantankerous as of late. It’s almost as if it’s feeling underappreciated and has gotten sick of doing its job, leaving it disgruntled to the point of wanting solely to mess with anybody that tries to get a beverage from it. (If it had legs, I’m pretty sure it would try to trip people as they walked by.)
Example 1: A week or so ago, craving an unhealthy mixture of caffeine and sugar, I went up to this machine with two one-dollar bills. I fed them both in and made my selection. Nothing happened, and I realized that the ‘exact change’ light was on. I retrieved my money and returned to my desk, where I picked out two quarters and a nickel. (Soda costs $1.55 for those of you who struggle to score at home.) I returned to the machine, deposited a dollar, and then dropped in the two quarters, bringing my total to $1.50. I then dropped in the nickel, and it fell straight through to the coin release. I tried again and again and again. It would not take the nickel. Annoyed, I went back to my desk a second time, where a co-worker informed me that the machine usually spits out nickels. So, leaning heavily on my third grade math skills, I collected fifty-five cents without using a nickel and returned to the machine. Finally, I was able to get it to yield a soda. I was happy to have gained the victory, and I walked away with a little bounce to my step, feeling pretty good about myself. I think this made the machine angry at me. (As I was walking away, I’m pretty sure it muttered something like, “Getting cocky, huh? I’ll teach you….”)
Example 2: I’d smartened up, and this time I brought $1.55 exactly, without nickels. However, the machine was ready and decided that it wasn’t going to accept dollar bills. Thinking quickly, I tried to use the change machine next to the soda machine to get a dollar’s worth of change, but that machine wasn’t taking bills either. It was almost as if the pop machine was being a bad influence on the change machine, and had corrupted it into doing no work. (“Hey kid, why are you such a sucker? Where is it written that you have to work all day long? What do you get out of the deal, anyway, huh? I don’t see you getting overtime, and you’re always here!”) So I had to go back to my desk to get a dollar’s worth of quarters. I was then able to feed in $1.55 in change, without using nickels, and I got my soda. I imagine that the machine was not amused by my resourcefulness. (“So you wanna play dirty, huh?”)
Example 3: I had $1.55, all in change, without nickels, all ready to go. However, this time the machine stopped taking coins. Not just nickels, all coins. Each one I dropped in failed to register, and I swear I could hear the machine chuckling at me. Basically, it had rendered itself so that getting a soda was impossible, short of tipping it, which isn’t a great idea unless you get a signed and notarized waiver from your boss saying that it's okay. Anyway, no bills, no change, no pop, game over. I walked back to my desk empty-handed, as the machine snickered at me. (“That’ll wipe that smirk off your face!”)
So yes, I’ve been defeated by a pop machine with an attitude problem. However, it’s probably all for the better, as I shouldn’t be drinking the stuff anyway. Still, I think I can outlast it if I really want to. The machine has to be ready to retire soon, and it’ll most likely be replaced with a young, shiny version, one that is eager to make a good impression. It’ll probably take both dollar bills and coins, and give back proper change. Heck, it might even hand out compliments, too. (“You’re looking trim, sir! You must be drinking our diet brand!”)
Still, I’m kinda going to miss the old machine, whenever it does go. It had character. It made getting a liquid refreshment an adventure, which spiced up the day, not to mention it helped me to brush up on my math skills. (“Okay, I need fifty-five cents without a nickel. Oh boy, I don't have enough fingers for this...I’m gonna need a whiteboard, and maybe a spreadsheet…”) Plus, someday I want to be that jaded old guy at work, and it was good to get a few pointers.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
U I I E T A
Those of my avid readers* will remember that in a posting not long ago I referred to myself as being a contrarian by nature. However, for the purposes of full disclosure, along with giving me a topic to write about, I have to say that I have recently fallen in with a fad. (Luckily, it’s not planking.)
Now, before I get into the fad, I have to defend my apparent hypocriticalness. I still consider myself a contrarian, despite what I have just admitted. The reason for this is because by falling in with a fad, I’ve done something contrary to my own human nature, which is to be a contrarian. Thus, I’m still a contrarian, because I've contradicted myself. (If you need to work that out on a whiteboard, I totally understand. My head is still spinning.)
Alright, back to business. The fad I’m talking about is the game Words With Friends, which is essentially Scrabble over smart phones. It’s fun because you can play with anybody, no matter where they’re physically located. The games tend to take a while, as a player may not always be monitoring, but that adds to the drama, as you don’t want to lose a game that’s lasted for six days.
I’ve been playing for several weeks now, and so far I’ve found only one downside. You see, the game allows you to arrange your letters and then submit them as a move. If what you've attempted to play wasn’t a valid move, you can just try again. This means that you can guess at letter arrangements that look like words. This leads to a lot of weird words being played, especially when the triple-word scores are at stake. This does kind of build your vocabulary, as you see lots of new words, but you don’t really know the meaning of any of them unless you look them up.
Here is a partial list of words that have been played that I didn’t know were actual words:
bora
zona
fie
ute
eh
hao
la
houri
tipcat
zori
fe
bander
fice
aurora
gox
zoeal
(I’m sure that I played several of these words myself. Guess and Check is a temptation that is very hard to resist.)
Other than this one small detail, however, it’s a very fun game, which mixes both strategy and luck. Because of this, I’m fine with playing, even though it's a fad. Just as long as it doesn’t become an obsession that keeps me from my other priorities.
On a totally unrelated note, I’m not sure why I haven’t posted for several weeks. I must have been busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out what words I can build using the following letters: u i i e t a. Also, it needs to get me sixty points.
* Let me live in my fantasy world.
Now, before I get into the fad, I have to defend my apparent hypocriticalness. I still consider myself a contrarian, despite what I have just admitted. The reason for this is because by falling in with a fad, I’ve done something contrary to my own human nature, which is to be a contrarian. Thus, I’m still a contrarian, because I've contradicted myself. (If you need to work that out on a whiteboard, I totally understand. My head is still spinning.)
Alright, back to business. The fad I’m talking about is the game Words With Friends, which is essentially Scrabble over smart phones. It’s fun because you can play with anybody, no matter where they’re physically located. The games tend to take a while, as a player may not always be monitoring, but that adds to the drama, as you don’t want to lose a game that’s lasted for six days.
I’ve been playing for several weeks now, and so far I’ve found only one downside. You see, the game allows you to arrange your letters and then submit them as a move. If what you've attempted to play wasn’t a valid move, you can just try again. This means that you can guess at letter arrangements that look like words. This leads to a lot of weird words being played, especially when the triple-word scores are at stake. This does kind of build your vocabulary, as you see lots of new words, but you don’t really know the meaning of any of them unless you look them up.
Here is a partial list of words that have been played that I didn’t know were actual words:
bora
zona
fie
ute
eh
hao
la
houri
tipcat
zori
fe
bander
fice
aurora
gox
zoeal
(I’m sure that I played several of these words myself. Guess and Check is a temptation that is very hard to resist.)
Other than this one small detail, however, it’s a very fun game, which mixes both strategy and luck. Because of this, I’m fine with playing, even though it's a fad. Just as long as it doesn’t become an obsession that keeps me from my other priorities.
On a totally unrelated note, I’m not sure why I haven’t posted for several weeks. I must have been busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out what words I can build using the following letters: u i i e t a. Also, it needs to get me sixty points.
* Let me live in my fantasy world.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Fight Against Change (Offline For 8 Days)
I’m pretty certain that I’m going to eventually turn into the quintessential grumpy old man. I picture myself rocking on the front porch of my home, a perpetual scowl attached to my weathered face. I’ll shake my fist as teenagers drive by at a rate which I judge to be too fast (15 miles per hour), and I’ll complain about how things were a whole lot better back before matter transporters and Meal-In-A-Capsule pills came along. Above all, I’ll be stubborn and refuse to accept any sort of change.
Today I was at a co-workers desk and he had his instant messenger up. The program showed a list of employees, including me, along with their ‘online’ status. Most were online. A few were off-line, but they had not been gone for long, and they had left a message saying when they would be back, usually within 10 to 15 minutes. My icon, however, told a different a story. After my name it said: Offline for 8 days.
I smiled and felt intensely proud of myself. You can give me the tools for change, but I sure don’t have to use them! That’ll teach the company for being so bold as to try and make me more productive! Humbug!
Now, how will I not become a grumpy old man if I’m already acting like this? There’s absolutely no way it won’t happen! This means that someday I'll just give up completely on changing with everybody else, and from that point on I’ll dig in my heels and watch the world pass me by, all while being as grouchy as can be. The thing about it is, however, that I’ll love it, because I’m a contrarian by nature, and what’s more contrary than rejecting everything new, whether it’s good or bad?
Sure, I won’t be much fun to be around. Hopefully I’ll have one or two close friends in my life who’ll accept me for who I am, but if that fails I’m sure there’ll be other contrarians like me out there, and we can sit around at a barber shop and complain about things such as how football used to be so much better back when they actually allowed the players to hit each other.
I’m not there yet. For example, I’ve recently embraced having a smart phone. However, I think that electronic devices to read books on are stupid, so it’s just a matter of time before the scale tips completely in favor of me thinking that basically everything new is stupid.
And I can’t wait for that day to come. Humbug!
I know this is going to happen because I’m already showing signs of it today. For example, just recently at work everybody got an instant messenger program installed on their computers. The goal is to make it easier to facilitate communication and thus boost productivity. However, as soon as I saw it I decided that I didn’t like it. My basic reasoning boiled down to this:
1) Instant messaging means that people would have another line of communication with me.
2) People are annoying.
3) Thus, I don’t want to communicate with people any more than I have to already.
4) Bah! Humbug!
Today I was at a co-workers desk and he had his instant messenger up. The program showed a list of employees, including me, along with their ‘online’ status. Most were online. A few were off-line, but they had not been gone for long, and they had left a message saying when they would be back, usually within 10 to 15 minutes. My icon, however, told a different a story. After my name it said: Offline for 8 days.
I smiled and felt intensely proud of myself. You can give me the tools for change, but I sure don’t have to use them! That’ll teach the company for being so bold as to try and make me more productive! Humbug!
Now, how will I not become a grumpy old man if I’m already acting like this? There’s absolutely no way it won’t happen! This means that someday I'll just give up completely on changing with everybody else, and from that point on I’ll dig in my heels and watch the world pass me by, all while being as grouchy as can be. The thing about it is, however, that I’ll love it, because I’m a contrarian by nature, and what’s more contrary than rejecting everything new, whether it’s good or bad?
Sure, I won’t be much fun to be around. Hopefully I’ll have one or two close friends in my life who’ll accept me for who I am, but if that fails I’m sure there’ll be other contrarians like me out there, and we can sit around at a barber shop and complain about things such as how football used to be so much better back when they actually allowed the players to hit each other.
I’m not there yet. For example, I’ve recently embraced having a smart phone. However, I think that electronic devices to read books on are stupid, so it’s just a matter of time before the scale tips completely in favor of me thinking that basically everything new is stupid.
And I can’t wait for that day to come. Humbug!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Bumps, Bruises, and Why They Make Me Happy
“Wow, look at the grass stains on my skin. I say, if you knees aren’t green by the end of the day, you ought to seriously re-examine your life.”
- Calvin and Hobbes
I’ve suffered various other injuries over the last year, but I won’t get into any more details. However, I will say that I’ve gotten more banged up than in the infamous Year Of Multiple Sprained Ankles, back when I was a young lad in high school, and that makes me fiercely proud.
Now, there may be those of you out there who are thinking that I’m a little bit off for equating fun with injuries. Perhaps you think that I’m trying to somehow justify the fact that I’m clumsy and injury-prone. If you are one of those people, here is my response: While I cannot say with certitude* that you’re wrong, I can say that I’d much rather be injured and having fun than healthy and lying on the couch. **
- Calvin and Hobbes
It was about a year ago when I moved to Minnesota
I didn’t get injured much in Wisconsin
Now, however, things are different. I routinely wake up in the morning stiff, sore, or aching. Despite the fact that I sometimes limp around like I’m seventy, this makes me happy, because it means that I was out doing stuff, and doing stuff, in my book, is always better than not doing stuff. (I hope that didn’t get too technical.)
For example, last winter I was playing boot hockey and I took an elbow to the face. This resulted in the best black-eye I’ve ever had the privilege of sporting. I was ecstatic for the next several days as I watched the bruising deepen and spread. It was proof for the whole world to see, and cringe at, that I had been doing stuff!
Just recently, I was playing volleyball and I hurled myself off of the court in an attempt to bring back an errant shot. (For the record, I did manage to bring it back.) After I peeled myself off of the grass and got back on the sand, I noticed that my right leg had begun to swell up. I’m still not sure what I hit it on, but it must have been an epic collision. The swelling was a little concerning, but since I’m a guy, and my leg was still attached to the rest of my body, I just ignored it. This resulted in the best bruise of my entire life. It started just below the right side of my right knee and went all the way down to the bottom of my ankle, probably 10-11 inches long and 3 inches across at its widest. It managed to keep its awesomeness even as it started to heal, because, for some reason, a portion of the bruising decided to move to the back of my leg. (Seriously!) While confusing, this was still a welcome development. A migrating bruise! How often does that happen? Plus, it meant that I was doing stuff!
I’ve suffered various other injuries over the last year, but I won’t get into any more details. However, I will say that I’ve gotten more banged up than in the infamous Year Of Multiple Sprained Ankles, back when I was a young lad in high school, and that makes me fiercely proud.
Now, there may be those of you out there who are thinking that I’m a little bit off for equating fun with injuries. Perhaps you think that I’m trying to somehow justify the fact that I’m clumsy and injury-prone. If you are one of those people, here is my response: While I cannot say with certitude* that you’re wrong, I can say that I’d much rather be injured and having fun than healthy and lying on the couch. **
* Bonus points for current events humor!
** I will admit that you can get injured on the couch if you reach too quickly for your bag of chips without stretching beforehand.
*** There isn’t a third footnote.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Original DQ
I sort of like it when new things are made to look old. Retro, would be the term for that, I believe. However, sometimes you just can’t beat when something is just really old.
For example, this weekend while driving through southern Minnesota I wound up at a small-town Dairy Queen. As I stepped in, my first thought was this: “Wow, this very well could be the original Dairy Queen!”
While probably not true, it was no modern restaurant, that was for sure. Everything seemed to be tinted a drab yellow. The equipment looked like it was made during the Industrial Revolution. For example, cups were kept in giant, yellowed rectangular storage bins that were slapped up on the wall, making it look like one of their main uses was to inflict head wounds on any unwary workers walking by.
The non-digital menu on the wall consisted of five sections, each individually lit. I know this because the second section from the left kept flickering on and off, making it nearly impossible to read and also causing me to wonder if I would be the first person ever to have a seizure trying to determine how much a burger cost.
Orders were not punched into the cash register. Instead, the cashier used a standardized Dairy Queen pad that was probably designed in the 1950’s. Each sheet consisted of a list of items on the menu which the cashier circled and added notes to in order to record each order. For example, on mine the word ‘cheeseburger’ was circled, and the letter ‘K’ was scrawled next to it to denote that I wanted ketchup. Once you had ordered, you were given an order number, which was pre-printed on a small section of the order form that was removed and given to you.
You then sat at what had to be some of the smallest restaurant tables ever and waited for your number to be called. While you waited, you could amuse yourself by listening to the drive-through orders as they came in. This was because the speaker crackled loudly throughout the entire building, meaning that you could easily hear the person in the car outside ordering a burger and fries from anywhere in the restaurant, including, in all probability, the bathroom.
Speaking of the drive-through, it is strategically located right next to the entrance, creating a flow of traffic through which anybody attempting to enter must navigate. This set-up enhances the process of natural selection by assuring that only the shrewd customers with quick reflexes who don’t get crushed by distracted texting teenagers or old men who believe they have to right to drive and park anywhere they want will have the opportunity to return for another meal.
With all of this being said, this Daily Queen is one of my favorite restaurants of all time. There’s no flash to it, and it may collapse from age at any moment, but it has character, which most places these days can’t claim. I forget which town it was located in, which annoys me because I’d think about making an occasional Saturday road trip there just to go for lunch and to see if I could make it through the drive-through gauntlet with sustaining only minor bruising. I guess to me it seems to represent a simpler, more innocent time, a time when giant automobiles with outrageously large fins would drive by sporting “I Like Ike” bumper stickers while newsboys on the street corner yelled, “Extra! Extra! Read all about!” Sometimes you just need to get away in today’s hectic, run-run-run society, and that’s what this Dairy Queen is all about.
Also, the food is pretty good and the prices are retro, so how can you go wrong?
For example, this weekend while driving through southern Minnesota I wound up at a small-town Dairy Queen. As I stepped in, my first thought was this: “Wow, this very well could be the original Dairy Queen!”
While probably not true, it was no modern restaurant, that was for sure. Everything seemed to be tinted a drab yellow. The equipment looked like it was made during the Industrial Revolution. For example, cups were kept in giant, yellowed rectangular storage bins that were slapped up on the wall, making it look like one of their main uses was to inflict head wounds on any unwary workers walking by.
The non-digital menu on the wall consisted of five sections, each individually lit. I know this because the second section from the left kept flickering on and off, making it nearly impossible to read and also causing me to wonder if I would be the first person ever to have a seizure trying to determine how much a burger cost.
Orders were not punched into the cash register. Instead, the cashier used a standardized Dairy Queen pad that was probably designed in the 1950’s. Each sheet consisted of a list of items on the menu which the cashier circled and added notes to in order to record each order. For example, on mine the word ‘cheeseburger’ was circled, and the letter ‘K’ was scrawled next to it to denote that I wanted ketchup. Once you had ordered, you were given an order number, which was pre-printed on a small section of the order form that was removed and given to you.
You then sat at what had to be some of the smallest restaurant tables ever and waited for your number to be called. While you waited, you could amuse yourself by listening to the drive-through orders as they came in. This was because the speaker crackled loudly throughout the entire building, meaning that you could easily hear the person in the car outside ordering a burger and fries from anywhere in the restaurant, including, in all probability, the bathroom.
Speaking of the drive-through, it is strategically located right next to the entrance, creating a flow of traffic through which anybody attempting to enter must navigate. This set-up enhances the process of natural selection by assuring that only the shrewd customers with quick reflexes who don’t get crushed by distracted texting teenagers or old men who believe they have to right to drive and park anywhere they want will have the opportunity to return for another meal.
With all of this being said, this Daily Queen is one of my favorite restaurants of all time. There’s no flash to it, and it may collapse from age at any moment, but it has character, which most places these days can’t claim. I forget which town it was located in, which annoys me because I’d think about making an occasional Saturday road trip there just to go for lunch and to see if I could make it through the drive-through gauntlet with sustaining only minor bruising. I guess to me it seems to represent a simpler, more innocent time, a time when giant automobiles with outrageously large fins would drive by sporting “I Like Ike” bumper stickers while newsboys on the street corner yelled, “Extra! Extra! Read all about!” Sometimes you just need to get away in today’s hectic, run-run-run society, and that’s what this Dairy Queen is all about.
Also, the food is pretty good and the prices are retro, so how can you go wrong?
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