The Security Guard at My Building Terrifies Me.

I work in Metro Detroit and like most corporate centers found ’round the country, there is in general some level of security in place, whether it be cameras, patrol vehicles, guards at a desk or a combination of these examples. Their sole purpose is to make the people who work and visit there feel safe.

So why does the security guard where I work frighten me?

Because I have been nothing if not brutally honest with the literally several people who tune in, I’ll share with you another little tidbit about yours truly: I like the rap music.

It’s true. I got into hip hop and break dancing around the 4th grade and never looked back. I love it. I love it so much my soul withered and nearly died during the whiny-ass grunge era where the goal was to have a more effed up name of your band then the next one (Toad the Wet Sprocket? Are you shitting me?).

Nothing beats a little Ice Cube, Jay-Z, C.L. Smooth, Eminem or Big Daddy Kane to get me in a good mood. Besides infectious beats, their lyrical prowess (a.k.a. Skeelz), involving word play, rich analogies and both pertinent and obscure cultural references, is mind-blowing (a.k.a. dope, fresh or “the shit.”).

I state that to make sure we’re all on even ground here. I’m no suburban, white flight, cracker over here. Those are my relatives down south. I had blue and black first generation Jordans (cooler than your red and black ones, sheep), parachute pants, skinny leather tie (see my Thanksgiving homage to readers), a tacky magnetic earring, and I have never mistaken Turbo and Ozone for characters in a Mortal Kombat game.

You see, at one of the buildings where I have an office (I have two offices. Probably because I am a peon and therefore need to go to people rather that be gone to, but I like to pretend it’s because I’m important. You with me on that? Yeah. No, I’m not buying it either…), the parking lot is patrolled by a security guard in a maroon vehicle.

Now, let’s set aside the fact that this individual inspires zero feelings of safety or comfort.

A slightly less intimidating version of our security guards. Probably more level-minded too.

The problem is he inspires exactly the opposite. When your security guard is creeping through the lot, window down, gangsta lean in effect and blaring hardcore gangster rap while he stares you down, it’s, well, unsettling.

An audio snippet of what I deal with while the security guard “glares” me down as I walk to my car:

I pull my strap on a muthafucka (boom boom)
Put a cap in a muthafucka (boom tick boom)
Where you at, muthafucka? (boom boom)

Should I be scared of being caught short when 2.5 is on the smooth creep?

(Translation for the urbanites: Do I need to be carrying a firearm in order to protect myself in the event the security guard should drive past?)

I guess I gotta start ridin’ dirty.

(Try Wikipedia. It’s your friend.)

I think what scares me the most is that if you are in your 30’s and you drive a maroon Hyundai with a magnetic security logo slapped to the door, you’ve basically lost all hope. And some sorry S.O.B. without hope is the scariest S.O.B. I can think off.

I get being a security guard when you’re in your 20’s or even later in your career. A bunch of my friends were mall cops (albeit not of the Paul Blart ilk, hijinks and hilarity most certainly ensued) and they had a lot of laughs about harassing teenagers and incapacitating shoplifters.

Here’s the thing though, they moved on and got “real” jobs. Some even went into law enforcement. One coaches girls basketball (ok, that’s only funny to me because I know the guy. You? Less so, but this is my blog, so tough).

Anywho, that’s my quandary du jour. At some point I’ll buck up and be a man about the whole thing. But for now, I’m going to continue darting between cars as the dark stain in my pants continues to expand.

Parting thought: Do you think the security guard turns his canister of Mace to the side before he uses it?

“Break yo’ self!!!”

(hissssssssssssss)

I beg to differ with your definition of “Exceptional Service”

So, I took the family to the local carnival the other weekend. And before anyone gets ahead of themselves, this Ironic Observation about a carnival has nary a thing to do with a carnie stalking about with dental floss in his pocket.

Oh, no. That would be too easy. Besides, you’ll never find such a thing.

On the other hand, you will find several carnies with fake gold chains, with the gold plating faded away, worn on the outside of their shirts. Not sure why this is, I mean this was an abysmal fashion idea even when popular, one which I strenuously suggest you mock at every opportunity.

Lo and behold, we are off track. Again. As always. Mayhap I should do an Ironic Observation about people not getting to the point. That, friend, would be the penultimate example of irony.

Anywho, so I saunter up to the ticket booth, because sauntering is sexy and carnivals are all about sex appeal, and attempt to engage in conversation with “Terri.”

So see, I wanted to get Terri’s (ahem) expert opinion on whether we should buy an all-day bracelet for Crazy or just purchase tickets since Crazy is just 2 years old (Note: Terri gave me bad info on this, but we’re not here to rant about that, alas).

Well, first of all Terri was on her cell phone – a Go Phone no doubt as I’m going to climb out on the proverbial limb here and surmise that Terri’s credit is a shade sub-700. And Terri is chatting away. A good 30-seconds later Terri acknowledges me. She doesn’t end the conversation, mind you, she just keeps her phone cocked on her shoulder, continuing to chat while I hand her more money than she earns in week, and she gives me back in change more than she has in savings or retirement.

She is also annoyed with me the entire time because I have the audacity to ask her assistance.

Here’s the kicker, for those of you who stayed with me this long, pinned to Terri’s red polo is a shiny little pin that reads, “Exceptional Service.”

Who the eff (sorry mom) were they rejecting from the ticket booth? The dude with Tourette’s Syndrome? I realize every tin chain-wearing overachiever working the rides was an ESL, but c’mon.

Oh, well. The Figure 8 races were awesome.

Ironic Observation of the Day

So, it’s spring and that means the farmers market is open in the ultra-trendy Kerrytown section of Ann Arbor. And seeing as how we are firmly entrenched in the recycle-green-organic glee club of cool in my household, we are of course there.

My favorite stand at the market is the one with unbathed, rumpled clothed, dread lock bedecked white dudes peddling soap.

Allow me to provide emphasis for those of you who are scanning for four-letter-word infused rants or derision for pop culture icons: My favorite stand at the market is the one with the unbathed, rumpled clothed dread lock bedecked white dudes peddling soap.

While my wife is haggling over the prices of flash-frozen, free range buffalo (or whatever), I thoroughly enjoy remaining within earshot of the hippies-peddling-soap stand just to hear the pinch-me-this-can’t-be-real retailer/client banter. You always get a 24-carat gem like this from someone, “So, tell me about your soap. Does it really work?”

The effing irony is killing me.