Overheard at the Counter: Rush Limbaugh Eats Lunch at his Desk

As I was driving the other day - it was Wednesday or Thursday - I had to change the station.  Usually I just listen to NPR or Christian Rock but on this day there was some interview with some whiner from the Trump Admin about how Pelosi keeps going on vacation and that's why the shutdown is going on so long, so I just punched in some of the other numbers and I landed on one station where the guy was going on about how no worker works only 8 hours any more - how if you want to keep your job, you have to work 10-12 hours a day every day.

He said that all his employees eat lunch at their desks.  He eats lunch at his desk.  He said he doesn't allow his employees to go out to lunch "Why do I need them getting away from work for an hour?  I need them here all this time if they're gonna do a radio show." 

Then I recognized the voice.  This asshole was Rush Limbaugh.  The guy was on radio talking about how he was breaking the FLSA.  But to be honest, this is what companies are doing all over the place now.   This is becoming the standard:  we pay people based on a 40 hour work week and then we make them work 60 hour work weeks, which does nothing but burn out employees - sucks them dry like you'd wring out a wet washcloth.  Why?  So those who make the real money can act more powerful and stroke their ego.

And I remembered then, that this, this right here, is what the American Labor Movement fought for, over a hundred years ago.  American workers, immigrant workers on American soil, toiling for American capitalists, they shed their blood and they died at the hands of the corporate-owned militias, against this wage slavery that we are just wallowing in today.

We dishonor their memory when we piss on their legacy.

The workers should walk out.  Let Rush Limbaugh eat his own lunch at his own desk.  Alone. 

And deserted.

Overread at the Counter: Poem of the Day "On the Radio"

On the Radio

Regina Spektor

This is how it works
It feels a little worse
Than when we drove our hearse
Right through that screaming crowd
While laughing up a storm
Until we were just bone
Until it got so warm
That none of us could sleep
And all the Styrofoam
Began to melt away
We tried to find some worms
To aid in the decay
But none of them were home
Inside their catacomb
A million ancient bees
Began to sting our knees
While we were on our knees
Praying that disease
Would leave the ones we love
And never come again

On the radio
We heard November Rain
That solo's really long
But it's a pretty song
We listened to it twice
'Cause the DJ was asleep

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And…

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again

And on the radio
You hear November Rain
That solo's awful long
But it's a good refrain
You listen to it twice
'Cause the DJ is asleep
On the radio
(Oh, oh, oh)
On the radio
On the radio, uh oh
On the radio, uh oh
On the radio, uh oh
On the radio

Overheard at Booth 1: Pushing 50

Husband:  Holy crap, I can't believe I'm going to be 49 next year.  Babe we're pushing FIFTY.


Wife: Don't remind me.


Husband: I'm either gonna have to get a yellow Corvette or a 25 year old blonde.


Wife: Get the Corvette.  You can't afford a 25 year old blonde.

Overread at Table 1: At This Time, On This Day, America

At This Time, On This Day, America

 

These are the angels of our bitter nature:

time, they unfold their wings, and assault the sky,

caring nothing for what they leave against the ground,

not the sound of their dying afterlives, or

their good fortunes, no,

these angels are not made a little less than men,

they are made of acrid moisture

that seeps out between the foetid toes,

they are the bile that churn from the spleen

and drips out the rotten nose,

these angels are the angry noises

that we make at night to the children

that we spit on, those little faces,

that stand just outside our windows, looking in,

their tiny fingers curled around the diamond shapes

of the links in the chain,

fences that keep them forever out

and which allow us to pretend that we are all

free.

 

MR

2018-0713

Overheard at Table Two: Proust and the Only True Paradise

Marcel Proust once wrote, “… the only true paradise is always the paradise we have lost.”

 

                But what if that’s not true?

                At least not entirely?

 

                What if the one true paradise is the one that we have never seen?

                The one that we wish for, the one we yearn for? the one that we see in our dreams?

 

                What if the one true paradise is the spouse that we have created in our minds?

                The house that we have pieced together out of photos of houses in magazines, or the insides of

                houses that we have seen?

                The rolling ocean when we live in a land-locked state?

                The open fields when we are living in the urban jungle?

 

The paradise that we have lost is the one that we can never reclaim, but the one that we have not yet obtained, that paradise is always perfect, always true.

Overread at Booth 3: "Perhaps It May Seem Impertinent"

Perhaps it may seem impertinent

                                to imagine you as you might

                                have been, at a different time,

                                                in a different age – say,

                                                in 1986, with your bare foot

                                propped upon the passenger door –

                                window open, August night air

                                creeping into the car like

                my fingers wend through your hair,

                                trace your neckline, peeling back

                                the collar of your shirt from the

                                sweat of your skin, and

                                the curve of your shoulders, so

                                                ivory in moonlight.

MR

2018-0418

Overheard at Table 3: Always the Nicest People

Lucky Moron: You know something that has been pissing me off for a long time?

Otis Redwing: I know lots of things that have been pissing you off for a long time.  Is this something new?

Lucky: Look, I know this isn't popular to say, but I'm tired of all this, 'They were the nicest people you'd ever meet' memorials when people get killed in mass shootings.

Otis: Lucky!  You really gonna go there? 

Lucky:  It's ALL THE TIME!  The victims are ALWAYS called "the nicest people."

Otis: It's about respect, my friend.

Lucky: I know! I know! But it's also about the news trying to bring out the sympathy tears.  They're digging these poor families to plaster the stories of their dead relatives.  Just ONCE I'd like to hear a story about the victim being a total asshole, but who didn't deserve to die like that anyway.

Otis: Fine.  Make you a deal.  You ever get killed in a mass shooting, that's what I'll tell the news.  "Lucky Moran was a total dick but he didn't deserve to go out like that."

Lucky: Thanks, man.  You are a true friend.