WEBVTT - The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 4

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<v Speaker 1>Previously on Miller High Life Presents The Heavyweight Diaries. The

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<v Speaker 1>new season of Heavyweight is progressing course Blossom Sauce I said,

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<v Speaker 1>very very poor, love your little skit. All I've got

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<v Speaker 1>is a big fat Canadian goose egg. I've just endured

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<v Speaker 1>one of the most humiliating meetings of my adult life,

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<v Speaker 1>I thunder, slamming the Heavyweight office door behind me. Worse

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<v Speaker 1>than the meeting where HR called you out for stealing

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<v Speaker 1>people's lunches from the fridge and you claimed you thought

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<v Speaker 1>they were provided by Gimlet, asks Heavyweight producer Stevie Lane.

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<v Speaker 1>I could have sworn that happened at my old job,

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<v Speaker 1>I say, and yes, worse worse than the meeting where

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<v Speaker 1>the marketing team informed you that you'd mistaken Twitter for

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<v Speaker 1>Google and we're accidentally tweeting out your search queries, asks

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<v Speaker 1>Heavyweight producer Khalila Holt. In my defense, the diarrhea hair

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<v Speaker 1>loss can't stop sneezing. Am I dying? Tweet performed very well,

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<v Speaker 1>I say, and yes, worse worse than the meeting where

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<v Speaker 1>the Gimblet concierge team walked you through a thirty slide

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<v Speaker 1>power point about what can and cannot be flushed and

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<v Speaker 1>a commode after monogrammed socks in your style and size

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<v Speaker 1>were found clogging three toilets, asks heavyweight producer Stevie Lane.

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<v Speaker 1>That was never proven. I say, and I'll ask the

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<v Speaker 1>questions around here. Why aren't the two of you doing

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<v Speaker 1>any work? Neither producer makes a peep. I want ten

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<v Speaker 1>heavyweight pitches on my desk by Monday morning. I bark

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<v Speaker 1>as a walk out the door, but it's Friday afternoon.

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<v Speaker 1>Both producers whimper and unison indeed it is, and it

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<v Speaker 1>won't help to whimper. I whimper as the door slams

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<v Speaker 1>behind me. The weekend is spent in a terrible funk. Where,

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<v Speaker 1>oh where would I find a juicy, nourishing heavyweight for

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<v Speaker 1>me to pluck and savor. I decide to spend Saturday

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<v Speaker 1>wandering with microphone down the rickety boardwalks of Brighton Beach,

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<v Speaker 1>Brooklyn's senior citizenist and Eastern European immigrantiist neighborhood. Care to

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<v Speaker 1>share a regret? I ask passers by. I spend the

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<v Speaker 1>day being showed away by shop keeps and told my

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<v Speaker 1>mothers to stop poking my microphone into their baby carriages.

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<v Speaker 1>Babies have regrets too, I say. As night begins to fall,

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<v Speaker 1>I count the number of languages I've been sworn at

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<v Speaker 1>in by my count two possibly three. Growing desperate, I

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<v Speaker 1>wander out to the beach, flinging myself onto the sands,

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<v Speaker 1>discarded diapers and needles. I beg the ocean's waves to

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<v Speaker 1>drag me down to my watery grave. But when the

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<v Speaker 1>waves creep too close to my penny loafers, I yip, squeal,

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<v Speaker 1>and prance backwards to safety. Has there ever lived a

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<v Speaker 1>more piteous creature? I howl at the heavens. I howl

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<v Speaker 1>so loudly that a diminutive woman selling minced meat dumplings

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<v Speaker 1>from a wooden cart sets down her ladle and asks

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<v Speaker 1>if I'm okay, Have you any regrets? I snivel, mucus

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<v Speaker 1>and tears streaming down my face as I clutch the

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<v Speaker 1>cuff of her thick woolen pant leg. Some small moment

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<v Speaker 1>from the past you wish to revisit with me on

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<v Speaker 1>my hands and knees, and with both hands trembling, I

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<v Speaker 1>raise my sand and cigarette butt covered microphone towards her face.

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<v Speaker 1>You must, I say, turning her cart around. She wheels

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<v Speaker 1>creakily back towards the boardwalk. I rise early the next morning, and,

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<v Speaker 1>after a hearty breakfast of breadsticks and untainted yogurt, set

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<v Speaker 1>off to the public library. The problem I've realized is

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<v Speaker 1>that my search hasn't been random enough. There's no element

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<v Speaker 1>of surprise. I'd like to check out a phone book,

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<v Speaker 1>I exclaim loudly to the librarian. She shushes me down

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<v Speaker 1>and tells me that phone books are now available online. Ah,

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<v Speaker 1>the Internet, I herrumph, it's got at all, hasn't it?

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<v Speaker 1>Everything from computer viruses to squared space? But no, What

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<v Speaker 1>I require is an actual book I could smell and

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<v Speaker 1>hold within my grasp that has actual pages I can

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<v Speaker 1>actually flip through. The librarian quietly leads me into a

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<v Speaker 1>boiler type room that looks as though it's not been

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<v Speaker 1>visited since nineteen oh three, that monumental year when Miller

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<v Speaker 1>High Life was born. The ceiling is leaking and oily

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<v Speaker 1>water is pooling on the floor. Pushed up against a

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<v Speaker 1>concrete wall is a card table stacked with phone books.

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<v Speaker 1>I get to work immediately. I flip open one of

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<v Speaker 1>the gargantuine volumes. May the fates guide my fingertip to

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<v Speaker 1>the one name and number that will preserve me and

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<v Speaker 1>my show. As I dial the number chosen at random,

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<v Speaker 1>my hand shakes violently. I hold my breath as the

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<v Speaker 1>phone rings. The first number is a mortuary. The second

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<v Speaker 1>number is someone who doesn't speak English, the third number

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<v Speaker 1>another mortuary. Finally, a man who sounds naked from the

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<v Speaker 1>waist down tells me to drop dead, leave the library,

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<v Speaker 1>and spend the rest of the day lying prone on

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<v Speaker 1>the couch, reading an old soap opera digest and flipping

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<v Speaker 1>Miller High Life bottle caps into an old timey hat.

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<v Speaker 1>Two more days had passed and all I had to

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<v Speaker 1>show for it was a half completed soap opera, digest,

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<v Speaker 1>crossroad puzzle, and an old timey hat filled with Miller

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<v Speaker 1>High Life bottle caps. Boy, all this bottle cap flipping

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<v Speaker 1>sure was making me thirsty for Miller High Life. This

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<v Speaker 1>has been Chapter four of the Heavyweight Diaries. The next

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<v Speaker 1>season of Heavyweight will begin in five weeks on September

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<v Speaker 1>twenty sixth. And remember, if you don't listen to Heavyweight

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<v Speaker 1>on Spotify, Alex tells me, I'll be deemed superfluous and

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<v Speaker 1>escorted out of the office. By Security. Heavyweight is Me

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<v Speaker 1>Jonathan Goldstein along with Jorge just Vy Lane, Khalila Holt,

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<v Speaker 1>and b A. Parker. This episode was mixed by Emamonger,

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<v Speaker 1>music by Bobby lord our ad music is Vivaldi Spring

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<v Speaker 1>performed by the Wichita State University Chamber Players. Will have

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<v Speaker 1>a new chapter of the Heavyweight Diaries next week