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March 31, 2005

50-70 Dollars a Day Too Few

"Hey. Look. They've got one of those things." Recently I've developed a bit of an unhealthy obsession with claw games - you know the type of game filled with stuffed animals and a claw that drops down from the top and never picks up a single stuffed animal. There was one in the corner of the Denny's in Macedonia, Ohio and I was itching to try it out.
It's not exactly that I want to win anything. I just want to not lose every time I play the game. I mean ever. I've never won a single thing out of them. It's not like I've spent a lot of time and money on the machines even in this, my time of obsession; I think I've stuck, maybe, 10 dollars in those machines in my life. It's just that I think I should have gotten something. I see exactly where the claw should go to grab the crappy plush toy I don't want and still I end up empty handed.
Meanwhile the used car salesman I used to hang out with brought one home from the grocery store every time he went. I never asked him how much he had to spend to get the stuff, I just figured that he got the stuff on the first try. He made his money selling gum and t-shirts, so he couldn't have made that much. That's what I figured, anyway. And if he wasn't making that much money he couldn't have spent a whole lot either.
But then I noticed him sleeeping on the floor. What the hell is he doing sleeping on the floor? He lived with some other friends and I walked into their living room and saw him sleeping there on the tile floor. That can't be comfortable. Those tiles are hard. And his dog always pisses on them. (He had an excitable dog that peed every time it got excited.) This happened pretty often - the sleeping on the floor. The floor in front of the couch, even though he had his own bed, albeit one that had never seen a single sheet and had long turned the color of charcoal ashes.
He slept on the floor when his friend from Kentucky would come over. I thought it was his friend at least. I should have known better, but, really, who describes the object of their affection as looking just like Drew Berrymore?
She would come up for the weekend and he would sleep on the floor next to the couch where she slept. She would come up for the weekend and he would let us spray paint the Old Style logo across the hood of his car. She would come and he would come home with an armload of stuffed animals followed by a bag of groceries.

My guess now is his grocery money went into the claw machine to get her something nice. Something like the Power Puff girls doll Emma got from the claw machine on the way back through Ohio instead of something like lettuce. After all she was a militant vegetarian. She even had a vegetarian dog. That's what she claimed. Even though it ate dog food.
Maybe she only read the first dozen ingredients.

All I can be sure of is that he went to the store and came back with the plush toys and gave them to her. Then doted on her for the rest of the day.
I thought at the time that he was just lucky or maybe skillfull, but I'm starting to think I might be wrong.

At the Denny's in Macedonia I pointed the machine out to Emma, "Hey. Look. They've got one of those things." And she turned around.
"Do you have any quarters?"
"Yeah. I've got a few, but it looks like that old guy is taking all the good stuff." There was a retired guy paying the game non-stop. Non-stop except to give the winnings to some of the young kids in the restaurant.

"I think he's done. Let's get over there." We ran over to the machine. But the old man got there ahead of us. He's old. He'll just put a couple bucks in. I thought.
How wrong I was. We waited behind the guy for over 15 minutes while he tried over and over again to get an Alf doll buried in the pile. When he finally ran out of cash we stepped up.
"You're never gonna get it."
Shut up asshole. "What?"
"He's buried under there. Don't waste your money."
I turned to Emma. "You've got to get it though. For Spencer. It's his birthday."
It was her brother Spencer's birthday. He was turning 28. It may not have sounded that way to the guy now sipping the horrible (but not too bad for horrible restaurant coffee) coffee at the Denny's bar.
"I just cleaned the machine out this morning."
It's only 11.
"If you want to get him something just pay your server a dollar and take this." He reached into a garbage bag full of plush toys and held out a sparkly neon green duck. It was hideous. "I put 50 to 70 dollars a day in that thing. I've got it pretty well down. You're not getting anything. His leg is stuck. If you want something just pay yor server and I'll give you this."


Spencer. I hope you like your sparkly neon green duck.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:19 PM | Comments (1)

March 30, 2005

Chemical/Biological Attack

The car was loaded and we were ready to go. "Wait! I've got to feed Cat. I'll be right back." I ran inside to feed my cat because she goes what I'm sure any respectable cat psychic would call "insane" if she goes more than 12 hours without food. That should last until tomorrow morning. With that I dashed out of the house.
I got outside and turned to lack the door -- I was leaving to spend the weekend at my parents' house -- when I heard someone call out from the street, "There he is."
What? Who? It didn't sound to menacing, but I didn't see anyone else out on the street when just a second before. No one except the guy from across the street that looks like he swallowed a beach ball without chewing and he never talks to me. Well, he did talk to me once when we were both out on the street - he on his stoop, me on a ladder painting my house - when someone was shot just down the block. "That sounded like a nine mil."
That was about the extent of the conversation, so I was a bit surprised when I turned and saw it was him talking to me.
"Hey."
"How have you been?"
What? You've never talked to me before. "Not too bad. What happened to your neck?" He was wearing a big white neck brace like people wear when they want to make their accident look worse than it really is. Maybe it was a bad accident he had a cane too. He was twirling it.
"I was attacked."
"What?"
"I was attacked."
"Attacked? How?" Oh, shit. I walked into it again. Why the hell do I always do this? He's going to talk to me all night.
"On the job."
"What? Where do you work?"
"I'm a bounty hunter. I was going after a couple drug dealers in West Virginia."
Sweet. He's a bounty hunter. This story is going to be awesome. "Really?"
"Yeah. We went in there and they greeted us with [something]."
I tried to pretend I knew what he was talking about, but I felt finding out the rest of the story was wroth looking ignorant . "Ok. I give. What's that?"
"It's a gas. A chemical/biological gas that attacks the nervous system."
Gas? No way. That is so 90's. Everyone is using roadside bombs these days. Besides, how do you have a chemical/biological gas. Doesn't it have to be one or the other? "Woah. That sounds serious."
"Yeah. I was in the hospital all last week -- getting surgery on my spine. It attacks the nervous system and moves into the brain. I'm gonna have to do a lot of rehab."
"I'd be pissed. Did you get the guys at least?"
"They ran off. We weren't expecting them to use chemical/biological agents on us, but we got two of 'em."
"Out of?"
"Out of four. We still gotta get the big guy. The head guy. He's the one I want."
"Well take care of yourself. I'm going to visit my parents for Easter." I hopped in the car and we drove off.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 07:32 PM | Comments (2)

March 24, 2005

Why Fly When You Can Drive?

I'm going to my parent's house for Easter. This time I'm driving.
Last time I went to their house I flew and that was an experience not to be repeated. My parents live in the suburbs of a a small town. I think it's the suburbs of a small town. If they live "in town" the town is a lot smaller than I thought. On the other side of their back fence is a cemetery, next to that a farm. There's not a whole lot happening in the town and I feel a bit trapped without my own means of transportation because I have to rely on my parents to get anywhere and they don't like to move a whole lot.
My dad spends most of his time in the basement and seems to find it much too laborious to walk upstairs to the bathroom so he pees into old wine bottles, corks them back up and stores them underneath his desk.
Truthfully, I'm not sure it's because he's lazy -- maybe mom drives him to it. She drove me to pee in a soda can last time I was there. Actually, it was on my way to the airport.

On the day I was to leave I asked my mom to let me know when we should leave. "Ok" she said, and I went about packing up my stuff. Later on in the day she frantically came into the room where I was lying down, readign a book. "Brian! Let's go! We should have left over an hour ago!"
"What?"
"Why are you just sitting around?"
"You were supposed to tell me when it was time to leave."
"You know what time you have to be to the airport."
"Yeah, but I have no idea how long it takes to get there."

We settled it with that and hurried out to the car. I threw the last of my stuff in and expected we were going to leave. "Don't you want something to drink? Or a sandwich?"
"I thought we were an hour late already, let's just go."
"Grab a drink and we'll get going."
So I hurried into the house and grabbed a can of the nearest liquid to appease her and get the car moving.

And move we did. My otherwise law-abiding mother squeeled the tires of her Honda Accord pulling out of the driveway and sped in similar fashion to the very edge of town (about 4 -6 blocks). There, stopped at a light, she turned to me and asked, "Ok. How do we get there?"
"What?"
"How do we get there?"
"I heard you, but why are you asking me."
"What's the fastest way?"
"I don't know. I don't live here."
"I just thought you might have a secret, extra fast way."
"What are you talking about? I've never lived here. I've been here like 4 or five times in my life."
"Yeah, but you used to live in Chicago." I did, for a few years a few years back.
"Well, you get me to Chicago and I'll get you to the airport."
"What's the fastest way?"
"From this way? Probably down 55."
"50? OK."
She pulled hard on the wheel, making a sudden left across a lane of traffic. "What are you doing?"
"You said 50. Right?"
"No. I said 55."
"There is no 55 here."
"...In Chicago."
"Oh. I thought you meant here."
"I don't know any of the roads around here."
"You said 50."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, this way will work. But it's not the fastest."
The only fast thing was me being driven crazy. I thought if not held back I was going to tell her in no uncertain, and certainly not polite, terms how crazy I thought she was. So to stop myself I grabbed the can of Klarbrune - Klarbrune? What is that? - and started drinking it to occupy myself.
The Klarbrune turned out to be horrible tasting water with raspberry essence. It was awful; I couldn't even finish the whole can. I got about halfway through and had to quit.
About 10 minutes after I finally put the can down my bladder started to hurt. I've never had a pain like it before or since. It was like the worst I've ever had to pee times 2. My insides felt like they were about to explode - That tingle. That's my bladder ripping! So even though I felt like a little child I told my mom, "Can we pull over? I have to pee."
"Can you wait until we get to an oasis?" The Illinios tollway has restaurants that span the width of the interstate floating above the highway. You can access them from either side of the highway making them handy for quick bathroom breaks and emergency fast food binges.
"Ok. But we have to stop at the first one. I really have to pee."

"There it is."
"What?"
"The oasis. Pull over."
"I can get over."
"What do you mean you can't get over?" I turned to look out the window and two things happened. First of all I saw more than enough space to get a lane over and on the exit ramp provided she slow down for just a second. The second thing was an unbelievable pain shot through my stomach. "Aah."
"What?"
"I have to pee. Pull over."
"I can't."
"Right now. You have space."
"There's no time."
"Aaah! You just passed it."

"I've got to go. I'm going to pee in your car."
"Brian! Can't you just wait?"
"I don't know what the hell was in that Klarbrune stuff but I really have to go." I picked up the can to look at it again, but it was too dark to see anything. Then I got the idea I could just pee in the can if worse came to worse. "I'm peeing in this can..."
"Brian. Don't."
"If I can't hold it any longer. As a last resort. It's better than peeing in my pants -- since you won't pull over for me."
"I couldn't get over."

It reached the point where I couldn't hold it any longer. I grabbed the can, poured the rest of the vile water out the window and climbed into the back seat. With every move a new pain shot through me.
I unzipped my fly and in the dark I tried to aim everything into the can. Just as I was was assured everything was safe and was ready to release my mom yelled from the front seat, "Brian. What are you doing?" At the same time she jerked the wheel as she turned her head.
The sudden turn jostled things and I ended up peeing all over my pants. I stopped as suddenly as I could and put everything in place and started up again. As time passed I could feel my pants getting increasingly cold and wet.
"Brian. We're almost there."
"I couldn't help it. I had to pee."
"Well, you didn't get it in my car, did you?"
"No. I caught everything with my pants."
"Brian..."
"I know. And I have to walk through the airport with these pants on.

So, like I said. I'm not flying this time.


Posted by calculatoronfire at 04:29 PM | Comments (3)

The Old Man and the Garage

Today I went out looking for a storage space. I didn't go very far, just to the end of the street. There I saw a place renting garages, so I went inside to see if there were any places available.
I knew that was a mistake right away - the old man looked at me like he just saw a ghost. I figure that's because he spends most of his days alone, without human interaction of any sort, inside the old, windowless garage that serves as his office.
After explaining that he didn't have any garages now, but he will in a couple weeks I tried to leave. I figured having listened for over 5 minutes to the 2 second explanation I had more than fulfilled my obligation. So I opened up the door to leave.
As I said "good bye" he said, "Wait. I forgot there's another guy who's getting his stuff tossed out next week."
So I stopped and listened some more.
The suddenly he changed topics. "I was in the army at Aberdeen."
"Oh yeah?" Great. He's going to keep talking, and I have to listen because he has a good price on his garages.
"Yeah. Made permanent party there and then they shipped me off to Japan. Wasn't even there two weeks 'fore they sent me off to Korea."
"That sucks."
"Well this old warrant officer there seen where I was from and he made me his driver 'cuz he could talk about home, you know?"
"Oh. That's good."
"Hell yeah. I didn't have to do nothing 'cept drive. No guard duty nothing."
"Oh. That's good."
"I did guard duty before that, when I was still at Aberdeen. Ain't had no trouble 'cept once when I had to shoot a nigger."
What the hell? Did he just say what I think he said?
"I told the man to stop, but he just ook off running, so I had to shoot him in the leg -- I mean what else am I supposed to do if a man don't stop?"
"I guess."
"But didn't have no guard duty in Korea. Ain't never messed around with the whores there or nothing. Some guys did and got syphilis and the clap real bad, but not me.
"I did, though, once go to this mammasan. She had GIsget her cigarrettes and shit like that at the PX and she says to me 'I can't change money. You change money for me.' So I took her money. Damn, I spent a good two weeks R&R in Japan. She can't identify me or nothing.
"Yeah. That was a good two weeks."
"Oh. That's good."


I'm starting to think there's something about me that attracts weird, old talkers. Something about me that invites them to unload.

I wish I could figure out what it was.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 03:22 PM | Comments (0)

March 21, 2005

The Dating Service Pt 2

I started thinking about my scheduled visit to the dating service office. It was free and by going I'd be sticking it to the man by giving one of their telemarketers a $100 bonus, but I was still leaning toward not going to my meeting. I can't go to this stupid thing.
But it's free. And you even get to spend someone else's money.
Yeah, but I don't want to go to a dating service.
It's not like you're going to sign up or anything.
But I'm going to have gone, and if I tell anyone they won't know I went as a joke, just to find out what they do on the inside, and they'll laugh at me.
Yeah. You'd laugh at them.
Yeah. See? I can't go.

After a few conversations with myself like that I decided not to go to the meeting. Sure, the office was just a couple minutes out of my way right between work and home, but I didn't want to go anymore.
But for some reason I can't say no.
The dating service called me up on the morning of the day I was supposed to have my meeting, "Brian, I calling to see if you are still OK with the meeting you set up for this evening."
"Yeah." No. I'm not going; I'm just telling you I'm going.
"Ok. I'll see you at 5:30."

Telling them I was still interested in going was a mistake. When I missed my meeting they called me up at home again. They asked me why it was I missed the meeting saying they hoped it wasn't because I was no longer interested. They begged me to schedule another meeting.
Why did I skip the meeting? I thought to myself. I should go to this meeting. I want to see what they do. You're not supposed to make fun of things you don't know. You have to know it.
"No. No. I'm still interested. Something just came up at work." We scheduled another meeting.

I stopped in at the dating service's office after work and found a completely empty waiting room. It wasn't like I imagined. I was like a hotel lobby. An empty hotel lobby. I was expecting people. A receptionist maybe, but there wasn't one. There was nobody, and I thought that was a little odd.
I sat down and picked up the only book in the place. It was a book about their successful pairings that ended in marriage. There were pictures sent in by the happy couples. I saw that. I opened up the book, a scrapbook-type thing and saw that it had pictures of weddings with names, but that's all I saw. Someone burst into the lobby and wisked me into a small meeting room. Then he left saying he'd be back in a minute.
My guess was they tried to keep two people from occupying the lobby at the same time - they might flirt, hit it off and leave without paying the dating service the finder's fee.

I sat in the meeting room and waited a few minutes for the man to come back. In the meantime I heard another meeting on the other side fo the wall. "~ No. No one bi. I couldn't handle that. ~" I made an effort to listen closer but the guy came back in.
"Brian. I have a questionaire for you to fill out. It's a personality questionaire we have everyone fill out so that we find you that special someone that most closely matches your personality. I need you to fill it out as honestly as possible. I'll be back in a couple minutes and then we'll do an interview so I can get a feel for who would best suit you. We interview everyone here and then make the decisions based on interviews, not only on how you fill in the circles. We're more accurate than computerized dating services that way."
I took the form and filled it out while the guy left the room. I was mostly honest, as I couldn't really add outlandish flares by just checking boxes. Still I provided enough false answers for it not to accurately reflect my personality.
The guy came back in about 10 minutes and found me waiting for him. "Wow. That was quick. You're done already?"
"Yep." Did I not tell you I wasn't serious about this? Oops.
"Ok. Well, I'll be right back with your scores. In the meantime here is a booklet describing our dating service. You'll see it was founded by two doctors with over 75 combined years in the field."
The dating service field?

He came back in a couple minutes with a scored personality test. "Well, let me tell you, Brian, we can call a lot about a person from their answers to these questions." Then he went on to tell me exactly who I was according to my fake answers. He told me about how the dating service was founded with only MY interests in mind. He told me again how his service was better than a computerized service. Then he started asking me questions. At first they were easy ones. Where do you live? How old are you?
Then they got a little tougher. What do you do? How much do you make? They were a little tougher because I hadn't prepared a character. I made up an occupation, and I thought I made a good estimate at the income, but he didn't seem to agree. "$75,000 as a temp?"
"Yeah. Well. It's in the tech field. It's a...It's not a temp like you're thinking. I'm more of a consultant."
"Oooh. I see." He seemed pretty excited about that answer.

But I eventually slipped up. I started answering questions truthfully. It didn't really matter, as I had no intention of ever signing up for the service, but I fell out of the little bit of character I had gotten into.
When he started asking the relationship questions I was no longer pretending to be someone totally interested in the dating service.
"So how bad do you feel that you haven't found that special someone?"
"What? Bad?"
"Yes. When you think about not having that special someone how bad do you feel?"
"You mean like do I wake up crying because I haven't found a wife? I don't do that."
"Well do you want to find your special someone?"
Why does this guy keep saying special someone? "Do you mean right now. This minute? Or, like, eventually?"
"Both."
"Well it doesn't bother me that I don't have that special someone right now. I guess it might some day. Like, if I was 70 or something and hadn't found my special someone I might be kind of sad."

The questioning went on like that for a little bit until he changed the subject to actually meeting someone and dating them.
"How long does it take you to decide if you want to date another person?"
"I don't know. About 15 minutes?"
"Wrong. It takes about 30 seconds."
What the hell does this guy mean, "wrong?" He drew a triangle on a pad of paper on his desk and tried explaining it to me.
"How long does it take for you to decided whether or not you like someone's personality?"
"Oh. That's about 15 minutes then."
"Nope. That takes 1 to 2 weeks."
Asshole. He changed the the triangle into a taller pyramid and said some more bullshit. Honestly I wasn't listening because I thought the guy was a dick.
There was one more question, I think about compatibility. He asked me to give another time estimate and I refused. I was going to get it wrong anyway. The guy wasn't interested in hearing what I had to say, he just wanted to tell me about how great his service was. He told me some junk and then drew more on the bottom of the pyramid. Then he drew another upside down pyramid and told me how they do all the work for you, all the hard stuff, and save you the time of getting to know someone by making you take the compatability test I just filled out.

Then he explained how everything worked. Sweet. This is what I came to find out.
I found it worked a little like this: You pay the service $1000 and they guarantee you 3 dates. But the dates aren't exactly dates. They send you a person's name and contact info in the mail. They do the same for the other person and the two people are responsible for contacting each other. "But why whould you not contact each other? You know the other person is looking for their special someone, and you know your personalities will match, because you've both been through our interview process." I kept from him the fact that I wasn't going to give him a cent and let him continue. Finally he said, "I'm going to enter some of the info from our interview and that'll give you some time to think -- I'll be right back."

When he came back he sounded a little disheartened. "Well, Brian."
"Yeah?"
"I think you're a great guy. I mean, I had a great time chatting with you and everything...but this service isn't for everyone."
Did I just get let go? Did I get kicked out of a dating service?
"It's just that you don't seem to want to find your special person as much as our other clients."
You mean I'm not totally desperate.
"Some of our clients may seem to you to be a little too anxious to find their special someone. And they may think that you're just not excited enough. It just wouldn't be fair to everyone."
"Really?"
"I have no doubt you're trying hard to find your special person. It just seems to me that you go about it in a more relaxed way and our other clients might not know what to think."
I'm getting kicked out of a dating service.
"But I tell you what. I'm going to keep your interview on file, because I know. I know you'll be back. I can tell. I'll give you 6 months. 6 Months and you'll be back here with more focus."

Then he told me to avoid Patterson Park at night because that's when it was full of male prostitutes and sent me on my way.

Even more than 6 months later I'm pretty confident I'd be kicked out if I went back.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:19 PM | Comments (7)

March 17, 2005

I've Got a Song For This!

I used to laugh at people wearing headphones in their car. I sort of looked down on them because -- well -- because I was there once myself. My first car didn't have a radio. My mom bought the car stripped of everything but the bare essentials. It was basically a couple seats bolted onto an engine. With one side mirror.
It had to have been more expensive to get a car with only one side mirror, but she felt it was cheaper. The same with a radio. Radios cost money, right? So, if I get a car without a radio it should be cheaper. That was the thought anyway, but I am still convinced the dealership had to pay someone to go in and take out the radio.
Still, I was happy to take the car when she gave it to me. I didn't have a car up until then and I needed one to get back and forth from work. My first drive in it alone - my first drive in my own car - I was so excited I was in the mood to dance. Or at least bob my head.
Luckily, despite having no radio, there was a constant rhythm filling my head. It was from the squeeking passenger seat. Something in back. The emergency brake. Everything.
Everything in the car was squeeking. It was far from quiet. I needed a radio to drown out the noise of the silent car.So I dug through my things and found an old cassette player (not actually headphones). I taped it down in between the two front seats and I was ready to go.

From the point I abandoned that exhaust system-less car with my little sister -- I actually traded it for a six pack. I looked people in the cars I was passing in my radio-equipped car and laughed.

Until about a week ago.

I got an iPod and I've constantly got the headphones stuck in my ears. I listen to it in the car even though I've got a radio with a cd player. I've got it only about half filled with music, but it claims to be able to entertain me for something like 7 and a half days without repeating the same song twice.

I've come to find that headphones have been sent from above. I now have a constant soundtrack. I opened the door to rite-aid to a bonham drum fill. I flicked someone off in traffic in time to a howl from David Yow. The other day I ran a couple miles the the beat of !!!.

And just before I got to my stoop on of the kids in the neighborhood challenged me to a race.
"Alright. to the corner?"
"Yeah."
"Let's start here."
We were off and running pretty close for the first second or two.
"Wait, wait. Let's start up here." We had to restar because garbage covered the street and sidewalk. The telltale sing of a baltimore eviction blocked our way. We took turns going around the garbage. "Ok. Go!"
We raced down to the corner, and I, of course, smoked him.
"Ok, back now."
He beat me on the way back because I had to follow behind him around the garbage.

I stopped to catch my breathe and his friend asked me, "What you listening to? Country or Rap?"
He asked like those were the only two kinds of music.
"Neither, really."
"What you listening to then?"
I think I turned the negihborhood on to DJ Shadow.

The other night tutoring at the Hampden Family Center I tried to turn my tutee on to the Oxes. He's in 7th grade (I think) and sometimes comes in with a misfits shirt and black make-up smeared below his eyes. That day he was listening to Billy Idol as he did his homework. So I thought it was worth a shot.
"Where are the words? Do they ever sing? I like music with singing."
"Ok. What about this."
He says he really like Pretty Girls Make Pretty Graves.

Yesterday I had to tutor a second grader and a third grader. They both needed help with math. I've got the song for this!
I pulled out my iPod and got them excited about math by playing Adding up Numbers by Kompressor.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:32 PM | Comments (6)

The Dating Service Pt 1

Last night I was hanging out at this bar and something or another in one of the night's conversations reminded me of this time I went to this dating service place out in Columbia, MD.

It's not like it sounds. Really.

I swear.

I was dating someone at the time.

I was on the phone with her when I got a call on the other line.
"Hold on. I've got another call. --

Hello?"
"Hi. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your dating habits. Would you like to be part of our survey?"
"Would I ever!" I love surveys. There's something I find alluring about making my voice heard. Something about telling the rest of the world that not everyone wants to live a world of suburban sprawl dodging SUVs in the parking lots of super-megastores to get home in time to watch the next episode of American Apprentice -- ooh ooh! I hope Johnny doesn't get thrown in the tar pit this week!
That, and I like trying to skew survey results. So, given the opportunity to throw a wrench in a survey about dating habits, I needed to take it. I needed to throw in a little creepiness. I told the girl on the other line that I had to go, I lied about some important call I'm sure, and switched back over to the survey.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions about dating, OK?"
"Yeah. Shoot."
"Where do you go to find women for dating purposes?"
"I call them 'the ladies.'"
"Excuse me."
"You mean 'the ladies.' Where do I go to find the ladies?"
"Yes. Ok. Where do you go to find the ladies fordating purposes."
"Bars."
"Anywhere else?"
"Yeah. All sorts of places, but they're easier when they're drunk."
"Umm ... What are some of the other places? anything in particular?"
"Well, where do you go?"
"Where do I go?"
"Yeah. Where do you go to find the ladies?"
"Some people go to clubs, parks, church..."
"Yep. Those places."
"Ok. -- What age range in women do you traditionally seek?"
I thought long and hard about this one. I wanted to be creepy, but would it be too much to say something like 14 and up? Probably. I should start higher. "Do I have to start with legal?"
"Ok. 18. To what age?"
The guy had remarkable tolerance and patience, but no grasp of the law here in Maryland. Through relaying this story I've found that out. The age of consent in Maryland is 16.
"To how old? Let's see. I'll go for a lady up to a year younger than my mom. As old as my mom is just creepy, you know. -- Unless she's rich."

He asked me a few more questions and I answered all as creepily as possible. I was sure the guy had a mental picture of me that included a mustache, a van with a mattress in back and a bottomless bag of candy on the dash. At the end of the survey, through my sigh of satisfaction -- satisfaction that I had thrown the survey -- I heard him say, "You sound like a great candidate for our dating service."

What? Dating service? What the hell? I thought this was a survey. It was a shame. I feel like I've been lied to.
And what the fuck? I was as disgusting as possible and this guy says I sound like a great candidate for his dating service? These things are worse than I thought.

"Someone will call you up next week to discuss details with you."

And sure enough, they did. Several times over the next two weeks. They wouldn't leave me alone. I didn't have caller ID, so I picked up the phone every time it rang, and more often than not, for those couple weeks, it was the dating service trying to get me to come down to their office for their "free" consultation. Still, I picked up the phone every time because friends and family occassionally called.

"Hey, Loser."
"Hey. Thank god it's you. I thought it was the dating service again."
"What the hell? Loser. You're in a dating service now?
"No. No. They just keep calling me. They want me to go down to their office to hook me up or something."
"So go."
It was my brother. We have a failry good understanding of each other, so it caught me off guard when he suggested I go down to their office to meet them.
"No way."
"Yeah, dude. The operator that gets you to go down there gets like $100 just for getting you to go down there. -- Whether you pay or not."
"How would you know."
"Remember my friend Joe?"
Joe had told my brother that he went down to a dating service that pulled something similar with him, but he only went because one of the callers told him she'd get a hundred bucks if he went.

I love spending other people's money, and with the believe that the dating service man would pay an operator $100 if all I did was show up I started to lean toward going.
"Besides. Think of all the weirdos you see there."
"Oh, yeah. I didn't think of that. Plus I'd get to hear their whole sales pitch. Then I can make fun of it more accurately."
"Dude. You should go. I'm telling you."
"You're just trying to get me to go so you can make fun of me."
"No way, man."

So I scheduled an appointment.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:48 AM | Comments (2)

March 15, 2005

Moving Magazines

When I went out to my car this morning I noticed Howard Hughes, the crazy guy across the street that has yard sales where he tries to sell one hat, had furniture scattered out on the sidewalk in front of his house. That's odd I thought, and kept looking as I walked over to my car.
I noticed a sign that read, "Everything Free. Help Yourself" just before I noticed a stack of records. Free records? Wow. So I ran over and sorted through the stack. Something inside me felt a little guilty about taking old records from the crazy guy that hasn't had gas or electricity for over 7 years now; maybe that's why something else inside forced me to hurry as I did it.
And it almost worked. But just as I reached the last record he stuck his head out the door. "Help yourself. Yep. Go ahead. Free. I'm selling the house today."
"Today, huh?" Yeah, right. He's had a for sale sign in the window before, but he hasn't had one there for months. Besides, he's asking way too much for the house [$42,000].
In fact, back when he had a sign in the window trying to sell the house I went in to see if it was worth buying. I had to take off work early because I needed daylight to see what the inside was like. Even though I came home early I really didn't get a good look at the house because it took the realtor half an hour to unlock the door. "The other agent said it was tricky -- that I'd have to turn the key and then hit the top of the door, then throw a hip into it -- but this is ridiculous."
When we finally got in I wasn't able to see much, but I did see bicycles. There were at least three bike frames in almost every room and dozens in the basement. The only rooms that didn't have nikes in them were the bathroom and the master bedroom. There really wasn't room for a bicycle in the bedroom though. It was filled with a large bed, a cot and porno.
The man was easily in his 60s -- he moved into the house when he retired -- still his house was filled with pornos. Every square inch of his bedroom walls were covered with centerfolds. There were stacks of magazines scattered around the room.
Even now, when he patched up one of his windows with plywood he did it with plywood covered with centerfolds. There is at least one naked lady staring at all the neighborhood boys that decided to walk through his back alley.

"Yep. Gotta get rid of the stuff. They're coming to sign the papers this afternoon. Sometimes deals fall through, but I feel pretty good about this one."
Wow. He seems to make sense. Maybe it's true. Now I don't feel so bad about taking the records. I looked down at the last couple to see if they needed to come live at my house. Oooh. Dvorak.

"Hey. Do you need some magazines?" He must have gone inside when I had my head down looking at the last couple records.
"What?"
"Do you need any?" He held out a stack of old porno magazines.
"No thanks."
"You sure?"
"Oh, yeah. I've already got a big stack at home."
"Oh, yeah. OK."

I had a similar problem once when I was moving. The movers would move up to a certain weight, above that I would have to pay extra. So I roughly prioritized my stuff, and when they told me I was nearing my weight limit I decided that glossy magazine paper was heavier than it was worth and I offered it to the movers.
None of the movers wanted the stuff. I figured it was because they were too embarrassed to be seen taking it. So I made a plea to their sense of family. "Come on you guys. Don't any of you have sons that would enjoy this stuff?"
Still nobody took the magazines.
I was stuck with them.
So I did what I hoped, as a kid, every guy would have done with his excess pornos. I tied them in a bundle and left them on top of my garbage can for everyone to see and anyone to take.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 07:15 PM | Comments (0)

Coming Home from School Pt 4 (final)

I don't know how long we waited. The pool of drool got bigger. I know that.
"Fuck it. Those bastards. Let's go."
"I told you. I knew they'd leave. This is why I hate driving in the city. There are always accidents. No one has insurance. Damned junkies everywhere."
"It's a fucking hit and run now. And I'm going to the police. I have all their information. Idiots!"
The conversation kept going that way all the way to the police station. I was in a haze. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I could barely support my head, but I could still hear them yelling to each other. Neither was listening to what they other had to say, but they took turns talking in each other's direction.

We got to the police station and they dragged me out of the car to speak as a witness for the police report. "He was skinny, right? Tell them he was skinny."
"Yeah, he was skinny."
"Real skinny."
The police didn't seem to interested in how skinny the man was, "So how did you get all this stuff of theirs?"
"They gave it to me."
"Why would they give it to you."
"I don't know. They're idiots."
"But if it was a hit and run..."
"They got out, and gave me this stuff, but then they ran. They hit me and then ran."
"But you exchanged information. They gave you all this."
"Yeah. But I don't know how to reach them. They don't have insurance. The guy didn't have a driver's license."
"Oh. Ok. That's different. We can go ahead and call it a hit and run then."

Peter and my dad left the police station triumphant. "They're going to get it. Those fucking idiots."
"Junkies."
"What were they thinking?"
"They probably have outstanding warrants."

I just crawled into the back of the car, barely able to function, and we drove back to Peter's house. There we had to move everything from Peter's friend's car to my dad's car. "So why was it you took Peter's car?"
"This isn't even my car. It's my friend's."
"Why did you pick me up in your friend's car?"
"Mine is for sale. I didn't want to anything to happen to it."
"Ironic, huh?"
"What?"
"I said, 'that's ironic.' But, Dad, why din't you drive? No we have to move everything from one car to the other."

I guess he didn't think of that because it didn't matter to him. When we got to Peter's house they went in and left me to transfer all my belongings from one car to the other. Peter led my dad through his house offering him the belongings he either didn't want to move or didn't want his newly-divorced ex-wife to have.

When I finished packing the car I walked in on their conversation. "If you take the Magnum and the Ak-47 for a dollar each I can tell her I sold them, then you sell them back back later."
"Sure, I guess. Brian, ever see and AK-47?"

Peter also wanted my dad to take a persian rug. It wasn't too big, about 5x10, but it was heavy for me drugged up as I was. They gave it to me to carry from the third floor of Peter's house down to the car.
I carried it out, fumbling, to the back steps. They were open stairs, as he lived in an apratment on the top floor of a house. The carpet was awkward and I was in an allergy medication haze so bringing it down the stairs was going to be difficult. I could tell that much standing at the top of the stairs.
It was there I came up the an idea. It's just a rug. I can throw it over the side and it won't matter. So, I heaved it over the railing and watched it fall. Then somehow Peter emerged from the stairway.
He was just a step or two ahead of me when I decided to throw it. How did he get down there so fast? "Watch out."
He stopped.
The rug landed on his head.

"Holy shit! What the hell are you thinking?"
"He must have been running down the stairs."
"I wasn't running."
"Are you ok?"
"I'm fine. Idiot."
"Idiot."

This time they were in unison. "Sorry. I'm all messed up with this medication."
"Just get in the car, idiot."

I got in the car and slept, drooling I'm sure, all the way home.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:51 AM | Comments (0)

Coming Home from School Pt 3

"What? You've got to be kidding me. This is a Jaguar."
Sure, it was a Jaguar, but an adolescent Jaguar. A jaguar in that awkward stage of its life where it's not new, and its not old. That stage where its quirks are taken as rebellion and when it stops working it's because it doesn't care about its owner not because it's old, crotchety and stuck in its ways. That stage where its blemishes look unsightly as they are spoiling an otherwise attractive body, they're not expected liver spots.
"That's all we've got now. Here. We got more."
"Well, we'll drive to a garage and find out how much it'll be to fix it and you give me that much. That way my insurance won't know about it and you won't go to jail."
"Thank you, sir."

Peter attempted to get information from the two, the licenseless driver and the insuranceless owner of the old SUV. The owner had already given him some past speeding tickets with her name and license number, so he verified that thye were correct. The driver, who could barely stand on his own, didn't have a license, but when asked for proof of identity went back to the car and got a piece of paper and a pen. He came back to us and tried to write his name on the paper. From what I could tell his name was "gEr~e~."
"What is this? This is ID? No. I need something more. Come on."

He came back again with a pile of stuff. His work ID -- he loaded planes for an airline at O'Hare Airport and needed the picture ID to get into work, paycheck stubs, and a host of other miscellany. "This should be enough. Now follow me."

We all got into the car, Peter and my dad in the front seat, me crammed in the back again still suffering from allergies. "Where are we going? I really need to get some allergy medication."
"Oh. No problem. It's just a mile or so. Right around the corner. My friend owns a garage. I'm taking it there. We'll make some extra money off these fucking junkies."
"Ok."

We drove a short way to a garage ensuring that the two followed us. When we stopped Peter hopped out of the car and went back to the other one. "Wait here. I'll get someone to come out and take a look at the car. Then you pay me that much and we're through. OK?" Then he hustled into the garage and my dad stood guard over them and their car.
I hustled across the street to a gas station and found some allergy medication. Finally. Then went back to the car. I squeezed into the back of the air conditioned car and waited with my face pressed up against the window as that was all the room the car provided.
A couple minutes later Peter came out of the garage and the four talked over a payment plan.
"What do you mean you don't have the money? Then we're going back to the police."
"No. No sir. I gots the money. We gots the money, but it's in the bank."
"Ok. There's a bank right around the corner. You go and leave her."
"No, it's like this. I don't got enough by myself, but together we does."
"So, go one at a time. I'll wait."

The guy drove off and left his girlfriend. My dad, his friend and the woman talked tensely on the sidewalk while I waited in the car. After a couple minutes my dad came up to the window, "Is this woman fucked up or what?"
I looked over at her and noticed that my allergy medication was kicking in. I was drowsy, my eyes were heavy. "Yeah, she's all jittery. -- I'm getting tired. I'm going to take a little nap."

I closed my eyes to take a nap, but before I could fall asleep the guy came back. "They won't let me get the money. I have to go to my bank to get it."
"Where's your bank."
"It's the airport credit union."
"Where is it?"
"There's just one by the airport."
"No way."

Somehow they convinced Peter that letting them go together to the bank was the only way he would get his money. He made them hand over even more personal information - her driver's license, some utility bills they had in the car - and he let them go. "You say it's 20 minutes to get there; if you're not back in an hour I'm going to the police with all this."
"We'll be back in less than an hour."

"You shouldn't have let them go."
"They gave me everything. They'll get in even more trouble if they go. Hit and run. Nobody would ever leave. -- Unless you're totally stupid."
"Or high. Did you see them? They were totally fucked up. Both of them."

We waited in the car. I don't know exactly how long, the allergy medication knocked me out. I woke up with my face pressed up against the window. I was biting my tongue and had a huge pool of drool on my shoulder. "It's been over an hour and a half!"
"I told you they were just going to leave."
"Fifteen more minutes. Then I'm going to the police."
"I doubt they'll come back."
"Just in case. I'll wait. Then I'm going to the police."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:21 AM | Comments (1)

March 14, 2005

Jigsaw

Friday night around 2am I was at home and heard a knowck at the door.
Woah. Who'd be knocking at my door this time of day? It must be important.
I got up and went to the door.

When I opened the door I saw a junkie standing on the sidewalk. "Yeah?"
"You want a jigsaw? I got a real good jigsaw here."
"No, thanks. I've already got one."
"Yeah, but it works, real good. only eight bucks.:"
"No, thanks."
"You can try it if you want, it works real good."

What the hell? Why is the junkie knocking on my door? Why is he trying to sell me a jigsaw?
Why is it only eight dollars? He asks $10 for everything else.
I bet it doesn't work. Or maybe it's stolen and he's just trying to get rid of it.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 01:31 AM | Comments (10)

March 10, 2005

E Monument

Every time I drive down E Monument street -- Yeah, I know it goes right through the Middle East, Murder Capital of the Murder Capital -- there is a cop car just before and interstection blocking one lane of traffic. The cops are always standing in front of their car which has a few cones behind it.
I'm not sure what they are doing besides eyeing the passers by, but they are always doing it in the same place, one block east of N Milton. One block east of the liquor store called "the Liquor Doctor."

Tonight as I was driving home from a rock show I passed the spot and the cones were there, but the car was gone.

I saw it on the next block. Driving backwards against traffic with one door open.
What is going on? I thought. But then I saw a guy on the sidewalk with both hands raised in the air.

Ah. Just another bust.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:40 PM | Comments (5)

Coming Home From School Pt 2

"What the hell was that?"
"Fuck. I knew it. Didn't I tell you this was going to happen. I had a feeling. That's why I don't drive in the city."
"What the hell was that?"
"I knew it. This always happens. There are always accidents in the city."
"What the fuck?"

My dad and his friend, Peter, just sat in the front seats babbling, questioning what had happened. Though surely they saw everything. I saw it from the atop the perch of my belongings with my body pressed up against the door in possibly the most uncomfortable car ride I've ever had.

Peter, a weight lifting buff and failed gym owner, hopped out of the car and stood in front of the driver's side window of the late 80s Chevy Blazer. He didn't have to go too far to do this as the guy drove straight into the side of Peter's car, right behind the back driver's side wheel.
I looked out at the SUV to the driver only a few feet away. After crashing into another car, having the driver of that car get out of his and stand in front of the guy's door he still just looked forward and blinked. It even looked to me like he was trying to figure out why the car wasn't moving.
Peter knocked on the other car's window and made the international "roll down your window" gesture. The guy rolled down his window with a confused look on his face.
"You crashed into my car."
"Uh. Uh. Oh. I'm sorry. It was an accident."

The woman in the passenger's seat wasn't as calm. "Oh, God. Oh, God, you did it. You hit that car." She screamed as she got out of the Blazer. "Yeah. Yep, you hit it. You hit that car."
"I'm real sorry."
The accident wasn't bad, the guy had been stopped and didn't have time or space to get up to speed, but it was still bad enough to cause a bit of damage. "I have your license number. Pull through the intersection and we'll get this straightened out."

We all met on the sidewalk at the corner, and even preoccupied with a horribly running, itchy nose and eyes I knew something was wrong with the couple. She was jittery and high strung while he could barely stand up straight. He wasn't drunk, but he couldn't stand. "Hey, man. This was an accident, see. I was dribing here car, but I don't got no license and she don't got no insurance on the vehicle."
"Well, I guess you're fucked."
"I don't got no insurance, but the car's in my name." She had gone back to the car and now came running over. "I don't got no insurance, but I got a couple speeding tickets here."

My dad flagged down a passing cop car.

"No!. No!. The're going to lock me up. Please. It was an accident. Please, no police. She ain't got no insurance."

For some reason Peter obliged. He walked over to the cop car (I think Chicago cops play pratical jokes on each other by super glueing each other to the seats) and asked if he had to report an accident.
"Not if there's less than five hundred dollars damage."
"Ok. We'll handle it then. Thanks."

Peter walked over the rest of us.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you. I owe you."
Holy shit. Is he going to kiss Peter's hand?
"Damn right you owe me. You're paying every fucking cent it takes to get that car fixed."
"Oh, yes sir." The two fumbled amongst each other and then turned, "We have $150 between us right now."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 06:46 PM | Comments (1)

Catwoman vs the Birdman

If my sister-in-law (my brother's wife, I'm not married) were a superhero she'd be called Catwoman. That's what I'd call her, anyway, because she's a "cat enthusiast."

She's actually well on her way to becoming a superhero; she already has an arch-nemesis. Her nemesis, whom I call the Birdman, doesn't have any "super" villian powers, but he loves birds and wants to shoot cats.

See the conflict?

Plus, she and her cohorts already have a super sounding website, dontshootthecat.com.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:45 AM | Comments (0)

March 08, 2005

Missing Penis?

I follow the news with some regularity. I usually skip more trivial things like the Michael Jackson trial, but I came across a trivial news article I decided to read.
"No Sign Tutankhamun Murdered But Mystery Unsolved" was the title. I read that and I thought, Why the hell would anyone care? So I had to read it to find out.
The article was pretty worthless, but the last paragraph struck me as a little unusual. In fact, it made me wonder why they even included it as it didn't really follow the theme of the article. It went like this:

Posted by calculatoronfire at 06:38 PM | Comments (6)

Coming Home From School Pt 1

I can't really pinpoint a reason, or any exact pattern other than sometimes
in spring for about a week, but I'm occassionally afflicted by seasonal
allergies. I can get them one year but not the next even living in the same
place. In college these allergies of mine came on strong two years in a row
right at the end of the school year.
My freshman year I was fine until I got into a physics final. As soon as I
started on the first question my nose started running. Then my eyes started
itching. Soon I couldn't concentrate on the test because I constantly had a
hand in front of my face either to wipe my eyes or to keep my nose from
dripping everywhere. Every few minutes I had to make another trip to the
bathroom to get more tissue despite taking what I thought was a lifetime
supply every time.
The next year the allergy attack waited a couple more days. It gave me until
the night I was packing up my stuff for the trip home.

My parents lived in Wisconsin and I was going to school in Chicago, so it
wasn't too far a drive for them to pick me up. Thankfully, however, the
drive was far enough to keep them from ever visiting me during the school
year. One or the other of them was going to pick me up in the morning and I
had to get my stuff together, so I toughed it out. I sniffled and rubbed my
itchy eyes and packed up my stuff. It took longer than normal because I had
to keep blowing my nose and what not, but with unceasing effort I got
everything packed up by around 2am.
At about 8am my dad called me up, "Brian. I'm downstairs. Come on." So I got
out of bed and went to the bathroom to get ready for the day.
As soon as I got back from the bathroom I heard the phone ringing. "Hello?"
"Come on. What the hell are you doing? We've been waiting down here for five
minutes."
"Hold on. I'll be right down there."

I gathered up a the first load of stuff and headed out to meet my parents at
the front door. When I got to the door instead of finding my mom and dad I
found my dad and a friend of his waiting by the curb. "I thought you said
mom was here."
"No. She had to work this weekend."
"Where'd you park?"
"Here."
"Where?" I looked but didn't see either of my parents' cars anywhere in
sight.
"This one."
"Whose is that?"
"It belongs to a friend of mine." my dad's friend said.
"Dad. Why didn't you drive your car? It has a lot more room than this one."
My dad and his friend showed up in some old jaguar. "I've got a lot of
stuff."
"There's no way in hell I'm driving in this god damned city." For some
reason he was already agitated.
"Well, why didn't you two just drive your car down here instead of driving
this one. I don't think all my stuff will fit in here."
"It better fit. If it doesn't you're just leaving the shit here. I'm sick of
driving in this city already."
"But you didn't drive --"
"Just go get your shit. I'm sick of waiting."

We loaded up the car. When we filled up the trunk we moved on to the back
seat. I ended up sitting on a pile of my stuff in a small area of the car
not packed to the ceiling, but I couldn't close the door when it came time
to leave - there wasn't enough room to manuver. "Peter, could you close the
door for me? I can't move."
Smashed between the door and my junk we drove away and my allergies started
up again.

"What the hell is wrong with you back there?"
"My eyes itch. My nose is running. I think I have allergies or something."
"Keep it down."
"Can we stop somewhere to get something for this?"
"When we get to Peter's house."

But before we got to Peter's house we got hit by another car. We were in bad traffic and Peter is the kind of guy that doesn't mind blocking interstections. So while stopped in an interstection, between tending to my drippy nose I looked up to see a car whose driver, apparently tired of waiting for Peter to move in order to make a left turn, drive straight into the side of our car.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 05:53 PM | Comments (0)

March 04, 2005

Package!

For Christmas my brother gave me, as a gag gift -- it was a gag gift, right? -- a taco kit. A taco kit is basically the short name for a box full of crap - taco shells, seasoning and sauce. (Damn. I really hope it was a gag gift after saying that.)

As for the rest of the extended family, we did a blind gift exchange. We'd each contribute a generic present that cost less than $20 and pick out another from the pile. Not knowing what generic present would fit anyone I settled for a bottle of wine. Now I could have gotten about 6 bottles of my regular stuff (and still have change -- even after tax) but I decided, since it was Christmas and all, to get a real fancy one.
I threw the bottle in the mix hoping everyone else was as thoughtful with their generic contributions. Nope. I pulled out a little ceramic knick-knack house that doubles as a candle holder (you put the candle inside and it looks like someone's home!). My aunt threw that one in with the intention of pulling it out herself.

I left that stuff at my parent's house on purpose. My mom was well aware of that, but this morning I got a package. It contained my discarded gifts, singleton socks (one sock lost its better half my freshman year of highschool, if not earlier), and a box of mints someone gave to her for Christmas.

Now, I know I didn't want the stuff in my house, that's why I left it at her's. I can only assume she sent the stuff to me because she didn't want it in her house either.

My question is, why did she insure the package?

Posted by calculatoronfire at 06:23 PM | Comments (2)

March 03, 2005

Grunt Foto Grunt

"I love this place! I got a piece of cheesecake and coffee for only 15 cents."
"That must be a mistake."
How can it be a mistake? They use dollars here. I gave the lady a dollar and she gave me 85 cents back? It's not like I screwed up the conversion rate or something. "No. She gave me 85 cents back."
"Then she screwed up."
"Whatever. I hope they keep doing it. That price is awesome. -- And I feel really tall here too."
"You are tall."
"Yeah. But here I'm like a giant."

It was the morning of my first day in Santiago, Panama. It was only about 10am and already uncomfortably hot and humid, I think because it was the rainy season; I had been set loose in the strange city. I left the makeshift auto garage and turned down the dirt road. First I turned right but found that the city almost disappeared after the drive-through liquor store, so I doubled back and soon found myself downtown.
As I walked around I noticed I towered over everybody. Even the tallest men barely reached five feet. The women were short as well, and often weighed down with bags. People walked around in the hot sun buying lottery tickets and eating ice cream. Mostly buying lottery tickets, but also eating ice cream.
All that ice cream. All those popsicles. I made me hungry. I decided I would get something to eat. And some coffee. So I ducked into the nearest cafe.
What I thought was a cafe turned out to be a bakery with a cafe in it. And it was packed. The line was out the door. But that was the line for ice cream. The line for coffee and baked goods was just me.
The line was just me, so I knew it was me the employees were giggling at when I got the the counter. I couldn't figure out if it was because I was white or because I was tall, or maybe the way I was dressed. Or is my hair messed up? Oh, who cares. I tried unsuccessfully in English, but successfully in Grunt, to get my coffee and a small piece of cheesecake.

I hurried back to the garage. I was happy. Everything here is so cheap! But that happiness faded into bordeom as the mechanics continued to work on the dilapidated car - my only way home. "How much longer?"
"Not long. But that's what they said when they started. They've been saying that the whole time."
"Well I'm going for a walk again, then."

I headed back out into the city. I passed wall-less stores selling everything from clothes to Jesus Christ-embossed mirrors. There was no need for outer walls, it was always hot. It was always very hot and the people were apparently used to it. The shopkeepers just pulled down their garage door-like walls at the end of the day to keep criminals out.
After wandering around for quite some time I decided to get more coffee at a garage-door-walled cafe. Look at me. I'm drinking coffee inside -- but I'm also outside.
I was in a good mood sitting atop my stool bolted to the sidewalk when I saw a police officer stroll up. It looked like he was coming straight for me. Is he going to get me for something?
I didn't do anything.
But this is Central America. He could try to get me to give him some sort of bribe or make me pay for protection.
He was sidetracked by a couple sitting at a table outside (uncovered by the second floor). Oh, he's not after me. He's just doing the rounds.
OH! I have a camera. I'm going to get my picture taken with him. My picture with a Panamanian cop!
He's going to make me pay him off for that.
I don't care. It'll be worth it.
He started for me again and I pulled out the camera. Grunt is most effective here. I made several grunty noises pointing at him and the camera and me and the camera. Several grunts. Lots of pointing.
He looked confused. I mixed a little English with the grunts and pointing.
He shook his head no.
Maybe he doesn't understand. I said "foto" several times with even more pointing. He still looked confused. After he stood looking at me for several seconds someone ran up to him and rescued him from me. I'm not sure what the man said, but the cop was soon off in a run.
Damn. Missed my chance to get my picture witha cop.

A couple days later I was in town again with some Panamanians I knew. We were attending some sort of festival. I'm not really sure what kind, but I know there was a lot of food cooked on makeshift grills - the radiator of old refrigerators torn off and thrown atop hot coals. There were a lot of dolls made af corn husks. There were a lot of people. A lot of people, but no beer.
So we headed off to a bar.
We got special permission for the women to enter the bar. Women don't drink in bars except in Panama City. Panama City and lesbian bars. I think the men don't want women in their bars because they don't want women to see how homo-erotic they are. The bar we went into had a 15 foot tall mosaic of a man with his shirt open exposing several carefully placed chest hairs enjoying a nice cold mug of beer with the words "Balboa. It's for men." underneath in Spanish.
we had several beers and then hit the streets again.
"There's the cop! The one I tried to get my picture with. Can you ask him if I can get my picture with him?"
"Didn't he already say no?"
"But you're a girl. And you can ask him in Spanish. Maybe he doens't know Grunt."

He said yes. I sidled up next to him and posed. The crowd around us laughed. Then I got and idea.
"Have him raise his nightstick like he's going to hit me with it."
He did. But withdrew when I faux-cowwered. "No. No. Tell him it's ok."
We got a great picture with the growing crowd around us laughing harder and harder.

"Brian. He's not a cop."
"What? That sucks."
"He's retarded, or crazy. Out of his head."
"What? He's dressed as a cop."
"No. They say he is crazy. They only let him dress up and pretend to be a cop."
"No way." I looked back, and sure enough.
His badge? Tinfoil.
His handcuffs? Bracelets with paperclips in between.

"Sweet. That's even better. I got my picture taken with Santiago's crazy-pretend-cop."

Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:43 AM | Comments (2)

Compulsive? Me?

A couple weeks ago I decided to play a little game at work. IT's nothing really exciting - it's actually not exciting at all - but it adds a little something different to my otherwise monotonous days.

I cannot pass a water fountain without taking a drink.

That's it. End of game. I just drink a lot of water.
(Of course that means I have to go to the bathroom a lot, and that means taking 2 drinks - one there, one back.) Like I said, it's nothing exciting, but it amuses me.
I'm drinking water and playing a game!
The game I'm playing is so stupid. I only drink water. But it amuses me.
Ha Ha. I did it again. This is fun!

The other day I gave in and went out to lunch with a bunch of other people from work. We all walked down the hall together in one big group. I stopped to drink water. We walked farther down the hall. I stopped and drank again. And again.
After the third drink I thought I really should explain what was going on lest they think I'm a little strange.
"I'm playing this little game -- sort of a challenge really; I have to take a drink every time I pass a water fountain."
One guy turned to me and asked,"Oh, is it a compulsion?"
as if it was totally natural (not the drinking of water, but such compulsions).
"No! No. I'm just playing around. Just seeing if I can remember to do it."
Then I hurried away. I didn't want to hear about his compulsions.

Looking back I think he may think I'm a little odd.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:42 AM | Comments (3)

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Hey! Jeg slikker baller og skriver ting om Directv. Se på meg!


I can do it too, asshole.

Posted by calculatoronfire at 07:41 AM | Comments (5)

March 01, 2005

Mad Dog?

"Hey, Brian! Come here." Emma called me over for something. She sounded excited and I wanted to know why. What in the liquor store could cause such excitement?
"What's up?"
"Look!"
"Woah. Mad Dog. I used drink that suff all the -- What the hell? The green used to be kiwi something. -- Strawberry Kiwi, maybe? -- Kiwi. I remember that. What the hell is Spiked Melon?"
"I think we should get it."
"Well, yeah. It says Bling Bling." I don't think she knew why I said that, but when I grabbed the bottle on the way to the dollar theater she found out."

"Bling Bling. That's awesome. It says 'Bling Bling' on it."
"What? It says that on the bottle."
"Hell, yeah. It's got a freaking gold chain on it that says 'Bling Bling.'"
"No way."
"Yeah. Look at it." Right below the Mad Dog label there was the bling.
"Awesome."
"Look how sophisticated it makes me look. I'm looking pretty rich just holding it aren't I?"
"Oh yeah."
"Too bad it's dark in the theater."

We smuggled the bottle into the dollar theater and sat in back drinking it. A row back from the family drinking pint cans of Natural Ice.
Wow! It even tastes vaguely of melon.
"Yuck. It tastes aweful."
"What!"
"It's horrible."
"Whatever. More for me."

I didn't drink it all, Emma did help some. Still, I was a bit let down by the buzz. I used to get so drunk off this stuff. And they even upped the alcohol content so Grape Wine isn't the only flavor with 13%
I used to get so drunk on that stuff every Monday night. I'd go down to the Four Star liquor store, buy a lottery ticket and a bottle of Mad Dog...Damn that was good.
I used to be so into that stuff I felt like I was betraying it that time I bought Night Train.

I drove from Chicago down to New Orleans with my girlfriend-at-the-time. We were supposed to meet a couple other friends at the Family Inn off I-10 in East New Orleans. One of the guys we were supposed to meet had a couple rooms reserved in his name. I was surprised the motel took reservations, but life is full of little surprises.
We showed up a little later than expected I think we were supposed to be there around noon and we showed up after one - instead of driving all night we decided to take a nap somewhere along the way. They decided on noon only driving down from Louisville, Kentucky, and we obliged because they were shelling out the 29.99 for each room.
But when we showed up they were nowhere to be found. Neither of their cars were in the parking lot. Dan's big assed AMC Eagle wasn't there. Dale's Ford Festiva wasn't there either. We went into the bullet-proof lobby and after being awestruck by the lack of -- well, anything besides bullet-proof glass -- we rang the doorbell for service. We asked if our friends had shown up and checked in thinking maybe we missed them and they started their drinking binge without us.
"No."
"Well, can we check in then?"
"No. We need an ID with the name of the individual that made the reservations."
"He's not here yet."
"You can wait by the pool." They had an outdoor pool across the parking lot from the hotel.
"Can we just get another room?"
"No. No vacancy." Apparently it was the weekend of the Essence Music Festival and all the rooms across East New Orleans were booked. "You can wait by the pool."

So we did just that. We figured it was only going to take a few minutes. But after getting tired of sitting by the pool we changed in the car and hopped in the pool. After tiring of swimming we sat by the pool, then in the car to stay in the shade. After tiring of sitting we swam. Then sat at the poolside. Then the car.
They showed up about 6pm, and not a moment too soon, I was starting to feel sun burned.

"Woah. You guys are all red!"
"Yeah, we've been waiting out here all day. They wouldn't let us get a room. They're all full."
"Sorry about that. We had to pick up Jeff in Alabama." They showed up with a girl we knew and four guys we didn't. One of them must have been Jeff. "When we told him we were coming down here he said we had to pick him up at his mom's in 'Bama."
We checked in to the rooms and consensus was drinking should begin right there and then. "We've been here all day. We needed water and saw they sell liquor at the campground across the street. Next to the porno store." We went across the street and bought out the campground's tiny liquor selection.
"Is there anyplace else around here that sells liquor?"

We were in luck, there was another place according the toothless old man at the campground. If we needed a second round before heading into the city we just had to go to the Deli down the street."
"I thought he said the 'Delight' store."
"I don't know. He said it was on the right, though. Right?"
"Yeah. I think."

Once we got back to the motel we divided the alcohol and by luck of the draw I got a bottle of Mad Dog. Then we ferociously began drinking. We were on a mission. We were there to get drunk and have fun. In that order. There was no fun to be had outside of the influence of alcohol.

Something about driving nearly all night, not eating much all day and getting painfully sunburned made the mission easy for me. But I still went along with everyone else when it was decided that we needed another round. In fact, I went shotgun. I wanted another bottle of Mad Dog and went along to ensure one was purchased.

But there was no Mad Dog at the store on the right. They had other wino drinks, but no Mad Dog. I was disappointed and curious at the same time. Sure I'd be cheating on my true love, Mad Dog, but only because she wasn't there. She wouldn't know. It wouldn't hurt her. Plus I'd get to try something new. Night Train or Wild Irish Rose?
Wild Irish Rose or Night Train?
Oh! There's more alcohol in Night Train.
More alcohol was the last thing I needed, but it was what I got. I broke into the bottle on the way back to the hotel.
I'm not sure exactly how long it was that we were back at the hotel, but I found myself feeling sunburned, sick, drunk and naked out in the parking lot. I had already run out of the second floor room and across the parking lot. Gone skinny dipping in the pool in front of some of the families passing the hours before the Essence Festival and run from the security guard someone had reported me to.
I dipped in between cars and made it up to the room. The problem was we were the only white people in the motel and the security guard went straight up to the room. They stuffed me into the bathroom and told the security guard they threw my clothes at me and kicked me out of the room already. There was no need to kick everyone out.
He went along with the story and soon we all left for the French Quarter. Me drunk and obnoxious. Everyone else mad at me for nearly getting them kicked out of the motel.

Along the way everyone got pissed at me again (Come on. Why can't a guy ride on top of the cab of the truck on the interstate?) and when we got to the French Quarter I was sent on my own.
I wandered through what seem to me even now to be ghetto. After a couple hours I was reunited with my friends.
Still drunk I called out to them, "Look what I got!"
I had just cashed a paycheck the day before leaving and had enough money in my bank account to drunkenly buy a $700 portrait of a man with a dog head.
"Look what I got. Isn't it great?"

Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:59 PM | Comments (4)