WEBVTT - The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 8

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<v Speaker 1>Previously on Miller High Life Presents The Heavyweight Diaries. We

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<v Speaker 1>have a season premiere wrap part Timothy Nelson. Roast beef, cheese, slaw,

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<v Speaker 1>ham salae, hate in tuna, milk, hate everything about chicken salad,

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<v Speaker 1>grilled chicken salad. You've not been recording, cactus. If today's

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<v Speaker 1>reporting trip had any chance of success, I would need

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<v Speaker 1>to do something no sane man has ever done. Rely

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<v Speaker 1>on Timothy Nelson for etiquette advice. What does one wear

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<v Speaker 1>to a subway sandwitchery? I ask? Are shoes and shirts permitted?

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<v Speaker 1>There isn't a dress code, says Nelson. All dining has

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<v Speaker 1>a dress code. I say, torriodor pants for tappas, leather

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<v Speaker 1>vests for cutlets, and a tuxedo with an American flag

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<v Speaker 1>cumber bun. When in bibing Miller Highlight, dress as you

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<v Speaker 1>would for eating a sandwich. Nelson says, a white woolen

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<v Speaker 1>bib it is. I say. Nelson picks me up at dawn.

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<v Speaker 1>Because I am filled with desperate energy and several root

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<v Speaker 1>beer snapses, I fail to notice that my bib is

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<v Speaker 1>stuck in the passenger door. Seeing me grow hysterical, Nelson

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<v Speaker 1>continues driving at a sensible speed for several miles. It

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<v Speaker 1>is only when I grow hystericaler and finally hystericalist, that

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<v Speaker 1>he pulls to the curb so I can yank my

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<v Speaker 1>bib inside to safety. Why are you wearing a cape,

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<v Speaker 1>asks Timothy Nelson. What I am wearing, I correct, is

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<v Speaker 1>a backwards versable white woolen bibb. And are you familiar

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<v Speaker 1>with the Henry Heimich maneuver? Because I'm considering ordering the

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<v Speaker 1>whitefish outside the subway sandwich. We go over a checklist

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<v Speaker 1>of our recording equipment. In the process, we learn that

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<v Speaker 1>professional radio producer Timothy Nelson has forgotten to pack any batteries.

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<v Speaker 1>After a good ten minutes, in which we volly blame

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<v Speaker 1>to and fro, Nelson and I drive to a hardware

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<v Speaker 1>store and purchase an extension cable to connect the recorder

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<v Speaker 1>to the lighter in his van. It's only as we

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<v Speaker 1>finish unraveling the several hundred feet of bright orange extension

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<v Speaker 1>cord that it occurs to Nelson and I though we

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<v Speaker 1>might better have used our visit to the hardware store

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<v Speaker 1>to purchase batteries. How foolish, Timothy Nelson snorts, you must be, sir,

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<v Speaker 1>and to include this detail. And you're telling I will

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<v Speaker 1>tell it as it needs to be told, I tell him.

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<v Speaker 1>Timothy Nelson's deluge of suggestions peak when he suggests that

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<v Speaker 1>since the process leading up to the first episode has

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<v Speaker 1>been so interesting, I should put out many episodes, one

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<v Speaker 1>per week, detailing the experience. That is a spectacularly terrible idea.

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<v Speaker 1>I snap that will alienate our audience with frivolities and

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<v Speaker 1>have them hitting the unsubscribed button in hordes. But in

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<v Speaker 1>the ensuing silence, I secretly make a mental note to

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<v Speaker 1>reconsider the idea. We arrive at the restaurant well passed

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<v Speaker 1>lunch hour. I am famished bursting through the door, microphone

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<v Speaker 1>extended like a divining rod, Timothy Nelson and steps on

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<v Speaker 1>my bib, causing me to fall onto my backside. Gazing

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<v Speaker 1>up from the ground, extension corps tangled about my waist, legs,

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<v Speaker 1>neck and bib, I see a fluorescent menu wall. There

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<v Speaker 1>is something called a meat ball sub If the photograph

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<v Speaker 1>is to be trusted, This culinary miracle is constructed by

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<v Speaker 1>rolling meat into small balls and placing them, like happy

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<v Speaker 1>little sailors inside a submarine made of bread, Tugging on

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<v Speaker 1>his pant leg I tell Timothy Nelson that I would

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<v Speaker 1>like to try the meat ball. Don't tell me, he says,

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<v Speaker 1>tell the subway sandwich artist, Ahi, yes, I tell him,

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<v Speaker 1>with all the sarcasm I can muster. I shall immediately

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<v Speaker 1>inform the Jatta of Gyros, the Picasso of poe boys,

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<v Speaker 1>the Mireau of heroes rising off my fanny, or, for

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<v Speaker 1>those listening in Great Britain, my batoxes. I catch the

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<v Speaker 1>eye of the uniform teenaged counterman. What can I get

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<v Speaker 1>you guys started with today? He asks, with a snap

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<v Speaker 1>of what appears to be hospital gloves. I would like

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<v Speaker 1>a meat ball, submarine sandwich, I say, absolutely, says the counterman.

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<v Speaker 1>And what kind of bread would you like? I always

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<v Speaker 1>have the Italian, says Nelson. Oh really, I say, rising

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<v Speaker 1>to my feet and casually adjusting my white woolen floor

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<v Speaker 1>length bib from which part of Italy? Is it a

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<v Speaker 1>pia dina for Romagna ooh? Or a Tuscan chiaciata. Don't

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<v Speaker 1>tell me it's one of those panae caffones they make

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<v Speaker 1>in Campagna. Because no, thanks, You're embarrassing me, says Timothy Nelson. Oh,

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<v Speaker 1>you can't stand to see me have a good time.

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<v Speaker 1>I say, we are here on assignment. Nelson says, fine.

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<v Speaker 1>I say, watch how a real journalist operates, say, I say,

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<v Speaker 1>rising onto tippy toes and straining my recorder over the

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<v Speaker 1>counter so that the spongy tip of my microphone grazes

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<v Speaker 1>the counterman's lips. There was a sandwich my friend here

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<v Speaker 1>ordered that was well, it was the wrong sandwich. And

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<v Speaker 1>we were wondering, that is, my friend and I were

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<v Speaker 1>wondering if you might know who might have prepared his sandwich. Hm,

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<v Speaker 1>says the counterman, a pubescent crack in his voice. Do

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<v Speaker 1>you know when you visited? I can check the schedule?

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<v Speaker 1>April the fourth, says Timothy Nelson with alacrity. Supper hour.

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<v Speaker 1>I remember because it was my Lady and Eyes tenth anniversary.

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<v Speaker 1>As the hallmark jangle of hollinoates wafts out of the

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<v Speaker 1>ceiling speakers, I stare at Timothy Nelson in horror. Makes sense.

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<v Speaker 1>Something went wrong with the orders, says the oily knock

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<v Speaker 1>kneed counterman. April fourth, Dinner time is Perry shift? Perry,

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<v Speaker 1>I ask, my dumbass brother, He snarls, pushing my microphone

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<v Speaker 1>ever closer so that the saliva saturated nub is pressed

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<v Speaker 1>firmly against his teeth. I press on. Sounds like you

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<v Speaker 1>and your brother Perry have issues. Uh yeah, he says, Dude,

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<v Speaker 1>the two of us haven't spoken in months, months, I repeat,

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<v Speaker 1>with a mix of curiosity, greed, and desperation. And that

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<v Speaker 1>can get super awkward, he continues, since we sometimes work

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<v Speaker 1>the same shift. Straining up onto the nails of my

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<v Speaker 1>tippy toes, I navigate the mic into the counterman's mouth,

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<v Speaker 1>careful not to activate his gag reflex, but equally careful

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<v Speaker 1>to capture each delicious narrative droplet of wet emotion. Interesting,

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<v Speaker 1>I say, barely managing to contain my ecstasy. How did

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<v Speaker 1>the bad blood begin? Perry stole my girlfriend, he says.

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<v Speaker 1>And worst of all, she sits around here all day

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<v Speaker 1>scarfing hot peppers and mayo and making googly eyes at

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<v Speaker 1>him during his shift. Well, that sounds like the kind

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<v Speaker 1>of problem that's unique to you, but that lots of

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<v Speaker 1>people could relate to. At the same time, I tell him,

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<v Speaker 1>like the kind of thing you've been putting off but

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<v Speaker 1>you want to address, possibly through the use of a

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<v Speaker 1>third party interlocutor. Uh, I don't know what you're talking

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<v Speaker 1>about Stammers, the Sandwich artist of sadness. But uh okay,

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<v Speaker 1>As Holland oates harmonize, I lock eyes with my co

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<v Speaker 1>reporter Timothy. I say, I have work to do here,

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<v Speaker 1>real work, and also I never want to see you

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<v Speaker 1>for as long as I live. Well see me you shall,

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<v Speaker 1>as I'm currently stationed in your office at the union desk,

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<v Speaker 1>he says, for once in his woe begotten life. Timothy

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<v Speaker 1>Nelson is right. But I'd worry about that sometime in

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<v Speaker 1>the future, because for now I was a beautiful bumblebee

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<v Speaker 1>happily rolling around in the sweet nectar of storytelling. The

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<v Speaker 1>Heavyweight season had been saved. This has been the final

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<v Speaker 1>chapter of the Heavyweight Diaries. The new season of Heavyweight

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<v Speaker 1>will begin in one week on September twenty sixth. Remember

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<v Speaker 1>the best place to listen to Heavyweight is on Spotify.

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<v Speaker 1>The second best place to listen to Heavyweight is in

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<v Speaker 1>the emotional echo chamber of Your beautiful Beating Heart. Heavyweight

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<v Speaker 1>is me Jonathan Goldstein along with Jorgeos, Stevie Lane, Khalila Holt,

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<v Speaker 1>and Ba Parker. This episode was mixed by the wonderful

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<v Speaker 1>Emma Monger. Music by Bobby Lord. Our ad music is

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<v Speaker 1>Vivaldi Spring, performed by the Wichita State University Chamber Players.

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<v Speaker 1>See you next week for season four.