1999 Archives

Barista Log

October 24, 2001

You don't want to be here, unless you want to read this old nonsense. You really want to be here.

June 22, 2001

Hello there.

I have a new daughter. She was born last month. I am thirty and have three kids.

But that does not concern you! What does concern you is this page, and the glory which it can provide you.

Snappy Dresser and this page will undergo a synergistic realignment of long-term goals and needs assessments of strategic partnerships over the next few days. It'll be a good thing. And the real fun announcement, which tickles me to even type out: Snappy Dresser will soon be in print.

So many wonderful websites have shuttered their doors over the last months (other sites have covered this in depth, and I am too tired to type all their names for you). Seeing all the headstones scattered about during my daily browsings has soured my entire outlook on the Web as a publishing medium (I really should footnote this, but again, the tired thing: Yes, I fully understand what a wonderful publishing medium the Web is. Several voices that would have gone unheard by me have instead shouted themselves into my conscious as packet data, and we can all cheer for the egalitarian nature of "everyone gets an equal shot, the cream shall (or should) rise to the top." I fully grasp these concepts, even though my college education is incomplete).

Frankly, I'm sick of writing for the Web. I think I started catching minor symptoms late last year, but now I have full-fledged Webapathitis. And I am embarassed to admit that I can't really explain why (anyone who fancies themselves a 'writer' in any form must be able to describe their own feelings in depth, not just cop out with vagueness. Another writer tip: easy on the parentheticals) but the idea of spending a few days on a project that will only wind up on a computer monitor doesn't have the appeal it once had. Maybe -- probably -- this is a telltale sign of my slow transition into middle age and the cranky dismissive attitude that accompanies it.

I like to fool myself into believing, however, that this is simply a yearning to create something tangible, an actual artifact that people can hold in their hands while they wolf down their lunch or, if they're anything like me, while they're on the can -- I have found it much easier to roll up a magazine on my way to the facilities than to unplug the laptop and lug it furtively into a stall, wondering if the wireless signals will make it past the plumbing, and what the other folks in the room will think about the clicking keystrokes coming from inside the stall.

Scatological reasonings aside, I just don't feel like spending the incredibly limited time I can devote to creative outlets (the three kids thing -- have you not been paying attention?) on producing extensive amounts of Web content. I am not giving up on the Web altogether -- there are still so many wonderful sites I visit every day that I feel privileged to experience, and I do have at least one project that will remain Web-only -- but its shine has dulled for me.

So Snappy Dresser The Website (TM) will return as a daily operation, but much smaller in scale and "grand vision" (substitute "egotistic hallucinations" if it makes the sentence read better for you), thanks to the several worthy contributors who have responded to my threats of blackmail by offering their services. Meanwhile, we will finish production work on the first issue of Snappy Dresser The Paper Thing That Was Once A Website (tentative name, pending any trademark infringements), which will be funny, inexpensive, and portable.

Now, if only my rambling will hold up as well on paper.

May 16, 2001

A reader from Cambridge, MA has complained about the lack of entries to this page in recent weeks. We have allowed her a chance to guest-edit today's entry.

Here's a fun thing to do with your 75-year-old father. Take him to Home Depot for a hotdog and then stand outside next to the stacks of lawn chairs and eat it. Then get in the car and go home.

Dad wanted a hotdog. The only place he could think of going on a lovely saturday afternoon, a lovely sunny day, is Home Depot. He likes their hotdogs specifically. We were going to go to the Dairy Joy or another home-style outdoor fun place, but he told me that their hotdogs were terrible. That They Had Bad Hotdogs. We are rating places according to their hotdogs. And there are very few places that we can even think of that have hotdogs. He really wants a hotdog now, no going back. So we end up at Home Depot for the dogs.

I am with him alone. No one else. Me and the old shriveled-up man.

And this is a man with no opinions, he likes nothing, he hates nothing.

But suddenly, he had opinions about hotdogs.

Other parties interested in guest editing should contact us at the addresses and numbers to the left. Thank you.

May 4, 2001

There are many differing opinions of what the hardest part of being a parent is. Everyone -- even those who aren't parents -- can claim to know the most difficult responsibility, and will often share it without asking. "Protecting kids from drugs," "remaining patient," "constant vigilance"; the list has no theoretical end.

But every one of their opinions is wrong. I know, for I discovered the truth yesterday.

There is nothing more difficult than turning a corner in your house, finding your two-year-old boy standing in the hallway, fully naked except for a pair of frog boots on his feet, and not laughing yourself silly in front of him.

I dare you to prove me wrong.

So I'm thirty now. I turned thirty on April 12. It's not much different.

Or so I keep telling myself.

April 11, 2001

Tomorrow is a big day. You'll see.

April 5, 2001

I wrote a very, very short story. You will enjoy it.

Good Mid-Morning, Vietnam

Last week, I decided to stop by a small Vietnamese restaurant in Cleveland for lunch. Before I went inside, I tried to think of a funny joke involving my surprise to find there were Vietnamese people living in Ohio. But the restaurant turned out to be owned by an old Polish immigrant named Staniszlowzc, so I had to forget about telling my joke. And I still don't think that there's such a thing as "Hanoi kielbasa."

I am hungry. I am confused. I am adrift. I wander. I doubt myself and others. I exhibit certain tendencies. I don't get the whole Britney Spears thing. I shave, though not as often as I used to. I find things. I leave things unwritten.

March 20, 2001

"Do what you love and the money will follow." We've all heard this adage before. The words urge us to listen to our hearts and do the things we truly enjoy. Our pure love of our work will result in increased expertise, which will in turn result in higher wages for our quality.

But what if what you love to do is.....crack?

March 11, 2001

Today in Atlanta, there is an auto racing event. It's called the Cracker Barrel 500.

Now a lot of events soup up their names to attract spectators: Super Bowl, March Madness, World Series. But man, "cracker barrel" is a perfect description of NASCAR's intended audience.

March 7, 2001

So Dick Cheney is returning to work the day after another thrill ride at the Vice President's cardiac adventure theme park.

And to think I took a day off the last time I had a cold.

Forwarded email from Barbie:

Thursday, March 8 - PURIM PARTY!!!

Come celebrate Purim - and fulfill that ancient Jewish maxim - "They tried to kill us, we won, let's EAT!" Groove to the sounds of the Green St. Band (with a special appearance by Rabbi Bob Marley and the Shmoozers), enjoy delicious food, drink, and prizes for the best costumes.

March 6, 2001

I hate snow in March. Simply hate it.

Snow in December is wonderful, new, necessary for the proper enjoyment of Christmas. January snow demands sledding, and will not be satisfied until your legs ache from dragging toboggans up a 30-degree slope all day. The snow in February is part of one's penance, the fulfillment of the Calvinist theory that suffering is necessary for life -- shovelling the walk shows duty to God.

But snow in March is just punitive. No holiday in the month requires it. By this time of the year, the job is starting to tire of your "telecommuting," knowing full well you're thinking about one more run down Deadman's Hill. And the existence of God becomes questioned when it's impossible to see the heavens through the driven, howling snow.

So enough, Ma Nature. I respect your power, and fully realize that you can whip me with your snow belt anytime you choose. Instead of continuing the punishment and making me run to my room crying, wishing you run over by a truck, let's get back to being a happy family. I'm sorry, and I love you.

Now can I go out and play? In sixty-degree weather, perhaps?

February 9, 2001

Looking for attention? Want people on the street to pay you notice? Have a yen for that aura of danger and excitement that drives the girls wild?

While you walk down the streets of the city, bend down to pick up a handful of snow. Pack it into a fine, icy sphere. Keep on walking, whistling innocently to yourself, displaying a thin smile to those nearby.

No one can ignore a happy guy with a snowball.

January 31, 2001

Since you are a very good and very special reader, I'll let you in on a little secret.

Thursday is a big day. A real big day. Snappy Dresser is coming out of semi-retirement for your every-other-day dose of fun. Fun, I said!

January 24, 2001

The books/bookstores vein continues.

I wasn't prepared for this. I was browsing a magazine stand today, trying my best to filter through the Maxim and Stuff chaff for the good mags, when it assaulted me with its inanity. Jesus, I must be reading that wrong...that can't really be the name, can it?

Oh, yes it certainly could. Opulence, the "luxury lifestyle magazine." Evidence that the niche publishing market is flourishing. Which gives me a wonderful idea for a new magazine (uh, you know, once I get the other one back on its feet): Screw You, the magazine for the wealthy who know they're better than you.

And don't tell me I couldn't find any potential subscribers.

January 23, 2001

I live in Medford, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston. The town's population is heavily Irish and Italian and, therefore, heavily Catholic. So it came as a bit of a surprise, while browsing the "New Releases" section at the town library, to find The Catholic Martyrs of the Twentieth Century shelved under "Science Fiction."

I mean, c'mon guys. We all have crises of faith from time to time, it's enough to allow people to develop agnosticism on their own without getting public institutions in on the fix.

January 22, 2001

Hypothetical situation: let's say you're wandering around a Barnes & Noble store in suburban Boston. You're scanning the shelves, section by section, when you suddenly come upon a table filled with books being signed by Ray Flynn, the former mayor of Boston and U.S. Ambassador to the Vatican.

Hypothetical question: what is the appropriate action to take in this situation?

Hypothetical answer: if you're anything like me, you plop down the Captain Underpants adventure book you've been carrying around and ask him to sign it.

Hello. We're back. How've ya been?

December 18, 2000

Okay, maybe marketing isn't my specialty. I understand that people go to very expensive schools to learn the intricacies of the magical world of getting people to buy goods and services they may not necessarily need.

That being said: even if you are a shredding company, I'm not sure that "Total Destruction At Your Door!" is the most effective motto for attracting business.

December 5, 2000

I'm a habitual jaywalker. I'll cross the street anywhere, anytime. I can't remember the last time I consciously waited for a "Walk" sign before I stepped into the street.

On a coffee break today, I ran across the busy street on the way to my caffeine oasis, as is my custom. About 50 feet in front of me, an old muttering man with a cane watched my sprint toward java paradise. As I got closer, I could make out some of his ramblings a little more clearly.

"Damn roadrunners, all over the place, running, roadrunners...."

I wish I had slowed down to look for the "Acme" label on his cane.

November 29, 2000

There's a parking lot across from my office that I occasionally use on the odd days I drive into work. One side of parking spaces faces the side wall of an Osco Drug store. This wall is completely covered with a painted mural entitled "A Wall Of Respect For Women."

The mural depicts many women performing various jobs, demanding the respect of passers-by. The two women on a construction site are certainly worthy of respect. There's a group of dancers in flowing white dressers; also quite respectable. Don't forget the woman at the foosball table -- oh I'm sorry, that's a sort of machine, I guess she's kosher as well.

It's a nicely painted mural, and certainly created for a noble reason. But it's not quite perfect. I just can't understand -- and maybe I'm operating under a very antiquated sense of fairness -- why anyone would decide that it was a good idea to include a meter maid in the picture.

And I really can't understand why I decided that it was a good idea to park in front of her.

November 27, 2000

While walking through Davis Square today, I tried to recruit members for my army of zombies.

In order to identify myself to potential zombies, I walked with stiff legs and arms thrust out in front of me. I repeated the only zombie word I know -- "nnnnnhhhh" -- and ambled around the brick plaza in the center of the square. The message was clear: "Zombies, unite around me and we shall crush the living! Their tender brains shall be our sustenance! Nnnnnhhh!"

While I found no willing recruits, I did discover one striking thing: pigeons are scared shitless of zombies.

Snappy Dresser is back online, but nothing new is there yet. Imagine that.

I have eaten turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce for the last four days. Some would consider this repetitive and boring; I, however, consider it a religious experience.

November 21, 2000

Snappy Dresser will be unavailable until further notice, as it appears the machine it was hosted on has eaten itself. Let this be a lesson to all of you: computers are evil.

Okay, I'll admit it.

You really want to know who let the dogs out? Huh? It was me, okay? Me.

Now please stop asking about it.

November 13, 2000

A fun Presidential election joke that I just made up, all by myself:

Q: Why did the Florida voter cross the road?

A: Well he told us he was trying to get to the other side, but now he's saying that the sign told him to cross the street when he didn't really want to. So now we have to put a crosswalk and traffic officer where he crossed, and then we'll have to determine whether the road is in the right place, or should even have been constructed in the first place. We're not going to know for a couple of days, and maybe not even until Christmas. Thank you.

November 10, 2000

I went out for sushi at lunchtime, because I enjoy paying $15 for raw fish and fish by-products. My spot at the sushi bar had a new laminated placemat with certain menu items listed upon it. I scanned it and quickly stopped on the following listing:

California Inside-Out Roll $3.50 (Cucumber, Avocado, Crub Stick)

November 9, 2000

I wish I'd thought of that convenient "I didn't know which hole was which" excuse that's all the rage today about twelve years ago -- my SAT score could have been significantly higher.

Can't we just call up Regis Philbin and use our "50-50" lifeline to determine this election?

November 8, 2000

So I was able to steal a ballot away from my polling place yesterday, and I shall share my Presidential vote with you:

George W. Bush [ ]
Al Gore [ ]
Ralph Nader [ ]
Joey Scarbury [X]

November 1, 2000

It's "Back To Work Day" here at Genrich HQ!

Will an unplanned five-week vacation destroy Michael's ability to contribute to the capitalist system? Tune in later and see!  

October 25, 2000

Tidbits from a chat transcript held today:

mgenrich: damn, i can't write.
mgenrich: sorry. i'm just a mess.
mgenrich: my head is all over the place and won't stop at one spot long enough for anything useful to happen.
mgenrich: at this point it's not even about finding a topic.
mgenrich: my head is buzzing. i can't stop the bees.
mgenrich: i just want them to sit still and make some fucking honey.  

October 24, 2000

I swear this actually happened.

I was driving around doing errands all day. For lunch, I stopped off at a local burger joint that I hadn't been to in a while. I bought a nice greasy burger and some onion rings. Since my house was a 15-minute drive away, I decided to start munching on the onion rings in the car.

Here in New England, we've got these roadway implements called "rotaries" -- the English call them "roundabouts" -- where several roads converge in the same spot. Instead of a stoplight or traffic officer, the roads coverge upon a perfect circle of asphalt. Although the laws say that traffic already in the rotary has the right of way, this fact is lost upon every single person who encounters them.

I had managed to find my way into this particular rotary without incident, but the car immediately to my right (yes, many rotaries have two lanes to add to the accident potential) was lucky to avoid a collision thanks to a minivan that asserted its traffic position without regard to our local laws. Instinctively, the driver to my right immediately raised a one-finger salute to the offending minivan.

Today was a lovely fall day in Boston, with temperatures in the 60's. It was a nice enough day for me to have all the windows in the Explorer rolled down. See the picture painted in front of you: I have an onion ring in my hand, the windows are all open, and there's an upright finger not ten feet away from me. If any driving situation has ever screamed "Ring Toss" louder than this, I'd love to hear about it. And sure, I may be 29 years old, but every ounce of adulthood was wholly forgotten as I let the crispy, deep-fried projectile loose.

And -- can you believe it -- I actually hit the thing.

Well, the "thing" was the car next to me. This isn't an episode of "Macgyver," for God's sake.  

July 25, 2000

I held her head in my hands this morning and whispered, "I forgive you."

She had made me so angry last night that I couldn't bear to look at her. The evening was spent in steely silence, as I replayed her betrayal over and over in my mind. She had taken away the one thing I wanted most with no regard to my feelings, and I wanted her to suffer for it.

I went to bed upset, always the wrong thing to do, cringing from her attempts at physical contact. When I awoke this morning to see her warm brown eyes sadly seeking forgiveness, however, I finally realized what an obstinate jerk I was being. She's family, and she will always be more important than any other thing the world may provide.

I know she's just a dog, but it was a damn good turkey sandwich.