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April 29, 2005
Stress Filled Day
I woke up as normal today - just in time to be about 30-45 minutes late for work. That's normally not a problem, which is why it has become normal, but today I had a meeting first thing in the morning and needed to show up on time.
I convinced myself that I'd be able make it to work on time if I hurried from task to task. So, I didn't read any Hu:g3 Man-liness spam when I checked my email, I kept my staring-into-space-longing-to-be-back-in-bed time to a minimum, I didn't wait for my coffee to cool down, and I apparently didn't check the bottom of my shoes for dog shit.
Still, I showed up about 10 minutes late for my meeting. The meeting was already under way, I just had to find the room they were using. Either the meetings randomly change rooms from week to week or I haven't figured out the pattern yet. Luckily I guess right on my first try.
I interrupted the meeting coming through the door and sat down quickly in the nearest chair trying to act casual. I leaned back, kicked my leg up resting my ankle on the opposite knee and tried to catch up with the meeting.
About the time I caught up with what was going on I noticed a smell in the room. Man, it smells in here. I never noticed how this room smells. Nobody else seemed to notice. They must all be used to the smell already. I focused back on the meeting.
There was a lull in the conversation and my brain took that chance to focus in on the strange smell in the room. That's not chemical. That's an organic smell. That's dog shit. I looked down at the sole of my shoe, knowing that I wasn't the culprit - or I would have smelled it the car, right? - and found it was me that brought the scent into the room.
Casually again I lowered my foot hoping no one had noticed the smell I noticed, or noticed me hiding the offending foot. I'll clean it off after the meeting.
"So, Brian, what have you been working on?"
"Oh, a little of this and a little of that."
"Really? I'd like to take a look at that."
"So would I. Could you show us all after the meeting?"
"Ok."
So meeting didn't really adjourn. It, for the most part, moved to my cubicle - an even more cramped space.
A space where I immediately noticed the dog shit smell while showing my co-workers what I was working on, hoping they wouldn't notice.
I think this has been my most stressful day here so far.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:29 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Poor Haul
I should have known not every day would be as good as yesterday.
Last night all the trash fairies dropped off was:
5 bushel baskets
A large pile of broken concrete
A large brown carpet (with pad!)
A Merry Christmas 1999! bear.
1 wood pallet.
I can't wait for the weekend. It's spring cleaning season!
Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:25 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 28, 2005
Running Count
I'm going to try to keep a running count of the trash dumped in the alley behind my house and the empty lot at the mouth of the alley.
There was quite some activity there last night and I'd hate for all the drop-offs to sit out there in the weather when some could use the stuff.
Like:
A chest freeze filled with old hardwood flooring and a baby stroller.
Two mattresses and a door (not suitable for outdoor use).
One (1) metal crutch.
A refrigerator (white).
A high chair.
This stuff has joined the faux leather sofa (black), plastic covers to nautilus machines, electric range (white), overstuffed patio chair with patio table (minus glass top), set of woven straw seated dining chairs.
Like they say, "One man's trash..."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:56 AM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
April 26, 2005
Saturday Morning
Apparently the NFL draft came and went this past weekend. It, being one
of the least important things in my life, went by more or less
unnoticed. Pretty much like every NFL draft before it.
There's really only been one draft I've concerned myself with. Well, it
wasn't exactly a draft. It was chosing roommates for my senior year
dorm room.
I went to an all guys boarding school, and at the end of my junior year
we got together and picked our roommates for the following school year.
As seniors we had a bit of a different setup than our junior year. We
were going to be in different building with huge rooms spread over
three floors. The rooms each about 20'x 40' housed about six people and
we had to divide ourselves among them.
Among those rooms and three other single rooms.
What concerned me and the rest of my classmates was not so much rooming
with our friends - that was pretty much assured - it was not rooming
with Ernie. He was the black sheep of the class. The guy not only
crying out for a single room, but the guy everyone wished had his own
room - Nobody wanted to room with him.
The trouble was most people, at least in part, wanted a single room.
when asked who wanted a single room more than three hands were raised.
Only one hand higher and more frantically flailing than the others,
attached to a body hopping in and out of its seat, but more than three.
So the powers the were decided that since there were so many people
that wanted their own room we needed to have a drawing. They passed out
paper for everyone to write their name on before dropping into a hat.
The moderator grabbed only as many pieces of paper as there were hands
raised, but ran out of paper long before everyone that wanted a piece
got one. While he had his back turned to grab the paper a battle plan
was disseminated, "get a piece of paper and put Ernie's name on it.
He'll get his own room then."
It's not that Ernie was a mean, or rude. He didn't really even have bad
hygiene either. Well, he did pick his nose with a frequency previously
unknown to the rest of us. And he did pop his zits with astounding zeal
and regularity, regardless of who or how many people were present. It
was the chronic masturbating that we all wanted to avoid.
It was a well know fact that anyone who had to share a room with
Ernie would also have to share a room with the sound of him
masturbating. He showed us all one day during algebra. The entire class
saw him that Friday and, of course, word spread.
I remember it was a Friday, because I was stuck rooming with him, and
the very next day was a Saturday.
Our dorm rooms were in a different building. The set-up was different
and the way we got our roommates was drastically different. We didn't
so much get to chose who are roommates were and I was stuck with Ernie.
I rarely stent time in my room, so it wasn't much of an issue - the
only large amounts of time I spent in my room were on lazy weekend
mornings that stretched into the afternoon.
That was, and still is, just about every weekend. I can't and won't get
out of bed until I have to and after rising I often return fully
dressed with a book, a magazine or the intent to get in "one quick nap"
to avoid rushing headlong into a productive day. I was doing that the
Saturday after Ernie scarred us all with his public display of
affection for masturbating.
I was sitting on my bed reading a magazine when Ernie, in the opposite
corner of the room, began masturbating vigorously in his bed. I'm
like 20 feet away. What the hell is wrong with him? He knows I'm
here.
I was positive Ernie knew I was in the room. There were no walls within
the room to obscure his vision, and he was awake when I came into the
room about 5 minutes earlier not in what I remember to be an altogether
stealthy manner.
He's disgusting. I was about to get up to spread the word when a
friend of mine walked in and started talking to me. I didn't concern
myself too much with what he was saying. I was too disturbed by what
was going on in the corner of my room.
So disturbed I had to let Dave, my friend, share in my disgust. (And
amusement. Who am I kidding?) Dave positioned himself at near the side
of my bed with Ernie to his back. He was directly between Ernie and me
and I used that to my advantage -- to get him to notice Ernie's actions
without Ernie noticing me pointing them out.
I pretended to point out a picture in the magazine I was reading but my
gestures, I thought, made it obvious I was pointing out the wanton self
loving going on just behind Dave's back. "Look at this picture. Did you
know Frank Black looked like that?"
"Look like what?"
He didn't seem to get the idea. I gestured through the magazine to the
action behind him. "Like this. This one here."
"Which one?"
How can he not get it? I looked up only to see that Dave had the
seen Ernie and had the same idea. He too was point at Ernie's wildly
creaking bed. "You mean this one?"
"Yeah. Paul's a big fan of him. I've got to show him this picture."
"Good idea. I'll go with you."
We hurried out the room before the giggling commenced. "What the fuck?
Does he ever stop?"
"I'm not sure when he started, but he was doing it a couple minutes
before you came in."
"No. I mean, he was doing it yesterday in class too, right?"
"oh, that's right. You're not in our algebra class. -- Yeah. He was."
"He's a gross little fucker."
"Let's get Paul. He loves making fun of Ernie for this shit." We
hurried off to get Paul, who seemed, more than any of the rest of us,
to enjoy overtly hassling Ernie for his public masturbation and
disgusting grooming habits.
"Paul. Ernie's doing it again."
"What this time?"
"He's jerking off. He was doing it when we were both in the room. Check
this shit out."
"No way. Again?"
The three of us hurried back, most likely giggling like -- well, like a
bunch of teenagers -- to my room, the room I shared with the chronic
masturbator, and found Ernie stroking more intensely that ever. He had
the covers lifted with one hand to facilite his viewing of the other's
activities. "Ernie!
"What are you doing later?"
He quickly whipped over onto his side. "Huh?"
"What are you doing later this afternoon?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"I was just wondering if you were going into town. But I guess not.
Forget it."
We lingered for a few seconds. Before leaving to start the days
activities -- which, if I'm not mistaken involved a lot of story
telling.
It was just a couple seconds but as we collectively took a look back on
the way out we all noticed Ernie was back at it.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Uhmmm...
I opened my email today and found this among the new messages. It didn't look like spam, so I opened it. Now I'm wondering how and why I got it.
Nong Art & Earth kong P'AmIt is sooo nice to have you back in my life & the fact that all our siblings are
more in touch w/ each other. It took all of us awhile to try to make sense of
our estranged childhood and realize that, we too, can be normal now just like
other family. It is sad though that Dad has yet to come to any terms nor
senses. I can only hope that one day he can get there too.Now about us (you, me, Art, P'Oct, Onie, and our Mom Mook). We can't change the
past but we do have control of making our futures tighter & brighter as
siblings.Art & Earth, don't forget about your wish list that's due to me in 2 weeks, k?
=o)Oh Earth...pls remind Mom about the younger days pix of all of us (my mailing
info below). I'd like a whole bunch if possible so I can preserve and digitized
them through scanning. The more the better so all of us can revisit these
memories later as I will ensure you all will receive this invaluable keepsake as
well when I get done with digitizing all the photos. Second thing is my
samanakraew, mom mentioned she'd look into it once she gets back to BKK so that
I can be moved to the same address as P'Ann, Onie & Oct. And lastly & most
importantly, pls get mom to tell me something I can send her as well & if you
could let me know in the same email you owe me, that'd be great! It is the
least I could do as she has done so much for all of us & probably endured the
most torment from Dad. So pls make sure you find this out & pls don't forget
to let me know where I can shipped the goods to so the package won't get
censored by Dad.If anyone needs ANYTHING or just want to chat & catch up on much lost time, I'm
here & always available for all of you.P'Am
Am Tamma
(Formerly known as SBooppanon, however, it still remains in use for "official"
purposes only. Note: I ask that you respect my wish to be referred as Am
[first name] Tamma [last name] & kindly thank you in advance for your
understanding of my spiritual retreat...you can also use this name with the
above mailing address except for "official" mail.)
Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:52 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
April 21, 2005
A "New" Stove Pt 2
I met the two women in the Home Depot parking lot. "It really is nice of you to come down here with us."
"Oh. It's no problem, really." I had to come down here to get a shutoff valve anyway. Loading their stove will just take a couple extra minutes.
I should have known that wasn't the case when they asked me where the kitchen section was. Still, it wasn't until we got back to the stoves that it hit me. "Which one are you getting?"
"Which one do you think I should get? Gas or electric?"
"You haven't decided yet?"
"No. My friend told me that it's not a good idea to have gas if you don't cook a lot because the pilot light is always on."
"Gas stoves don't have pilot lights anymore."
"So you think I should go with gas?"
"It's up to you. Gas is a lot easier, but if you want electric, go with that. You have an electrician do a bunch of stuff with your electricity for it to work, though."
We talked it over for a while before the woman that owned the house, the other was just visiting for the weekend, seemed to have decided on a gas stove. "Ok. So I'm going to get this one."
Jokingly, since it had taken her over half an hour to get to that point, I replied, "Are you sure?"
That set the ball rolling again and she decided that instead of deciding she'd call her mom to see what mom thought.
Mom said she liked electric, so electric it was. We finally flagged down only nearby person in an orange smock and she told him she wanted an electric stove.
"Do you need a plug?"
"Don't they come with plugs?"
"No, because some people have three pronged and some people have four pronged outlets. You have to buy those seperately." He walked us around to the plugs where the woman finally realized you can't plug an electric stove into a normal outlet.
"That looks too big for my outlet."
"This should be the same. You have an electric stove already, right?"
"No. Gas."
"Oh, then you'll have to have an electrician change your wiring and he'll put in a four prong outlet, like this."
"I have to get an electrician?"
"Yeah, and it's pretty expensive."
"So you think I should just get a gas stove?"
"I'm not sure ma'am. But if you already have gas, that'd be the easiest way to go."
"Ok. I'll go with gas. I'll get that one." She pointed to the range at the end of the row of gas ranges.
"Alright, just come with me and we'll get you set up for delivery."
"That's Ok. I'll take it now."
The guy seemed taken aback. "You don't want it delivered?"
"No. He's going to let us use his truck."
"Ok. Let me see if we have it in stock."
Turns out they only keep one type of stove in stock. The cheapest one without so much as a timer. (How much can a timer cost? Is it that different than the 50 cent watch sold in vending machine?) "Oh. No. I want at least a timer."
"Ok, well then we'll have to have you order it."
"Umm, that's ok. I haven't decided which one I want yet."
As we left to finally get the shut-off valve her friend asked. "What do you mean, you haven't decided?"
"Well, if I'm going to have to wait anyway I'm going to talk it over with my mom again to see what I should do. -- I'll come back tomorrow and order one."
I took charge with the purchase of a shutoff valve and forced her to buy a wrench and we were out of the store an back at her house with no less than an hour and a half wasted. I climbed back behind the stove and knelt among the dried up breakfast sausages and hairy cutlery to unhook the gas and install the shutoff.
"I've dated just about every trade, but not an electrician. You're not an electrican, are you, Brian?"
"No."
"Are you still dating Randy? Isn't he an electrician?"
"No. Plumber. And we're not dating anymore. He's an asshole."
"Aren't They all?"
Then They called over to me, still crouched behind the stove. "You didn't know we women think all you guys are assholes, did you?"
"Yeah, but it's ok. We think you're all crazy. That's why we have to be assholes."
"Do you really?"
"No, not really."
"We are though. You're still young. You'll find out soon enough."
"Ok." With that I got back to work.
I got back to work and the woman got back on the phone with her mom. Seriously, how can someone that old be that dependent on her mother?
"Yeah. The gentleman came to pick up the stove, but there was no shutoff so he's putting one in now"
"I know that's nice -- Mom says he's doing it out of the goodness of his heart." I don't think she knew I could hear her at this point. "He seems really nice."
"Mom wants to know if I'm going to marry him." What the hell? She's got to be kidding, right?
"I just met him, he's really nice, though." That didn't sound like a joke. I've got to get out of here.
I hurried up through the rest of the work in order to avoid any more uncomfortable situations, like a marriage proposal.
In doing so I forgot to re-light her water heater. So she had a bit of a gas leak I'm pretty confident she wouldn't know how to handle.
I'm a little curious to see if she remedied that situation -- to see if her house is still there. I just drive by to see if it is still standing but I'm afraid she might think I'm stalking her and take that as a "good sign."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 04:06 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
April 19, 2005
A "New" Stove Pt 1
I know I have a problem. I admit it. That's the first step, right?
Well, maybe I have a problem. I'm not sure if I do. I think I've been able to evade it so far. For the most part. I feel it coming on every once in a while, but it wanes. So far it hasn't stayed too strong for too long.
The problem is genetic. I'm sure of it. My mom gave it to me. Her parents gave it to her. We have a tendency to save stuff. My grandparents built a "barn" bigger than their house in order to save some of their stuff -- their dozens of rakes, three riding lawn mowers, extra mailboxes, extra sets of dinnerware. Need a microwave? My parents have a two car garage that won't fit a car. (That, however, isn't exactly a bad thing seeing as my mom has a tendency to back out of garages with the car door open. To inevitably disasterous results.)
We don't save everything, however. We're cheap, so it's a very special occassion when something new (as opposed to used) is introduced to the other indeispensible items patiently waiting for their turn to be used. We don't save new things, because we very rarely come across them. We spend our time finding bargains.
We can't pass up bargains and can't pass up stuff, so we end up taking every free thing offered to us because we "could use it some day."
It's rare that I'm offered free stuff, so I never really noticed I had a problem. Then I found the interweb. I found the free stuff section on craig's list. I found the free stuff message board at work. freecycle.org - - It's not that hard to find if you know what you're looking for. And I looked for it.
I realize I have a bit of a problem and I try to say no, but I seem to take each and every posting as a personal notification, "Brian. Please take me home. You could use a full deck of yu-gi-oh cards."
"I don't even know what Yu-gi-oh cards are."
"Don't you feel like you're missing something in your life?"
"No! I don't want them! Don't do this to me, interweb free stuff site!"
"But the neighbor kids might want them."
"Oh, yeah. I never thought of that. When can I pick them up?"
So instead of picking up everything for myself, which certainly would be problematic, I pick up stuff for other people.
I rent a house to my neighbors and between being their neighbor and being their landlord I feel a certain sort of responsibility to them. when I found their range was broken - the oven would not turn off. It was at about 250 degrees 24/7 - I felt it was my responsibility to get them a new one -- well, a free used one -- even though they own the appliances in the house.
I saw a free range ad on craig's list an replied. It sounded simple enough - "free gas range." I thought all I'd have to do was drive over and pick it up. And what luck? It's not that far away. The house was less than 3 miles from mine. It should only take about half an hour. Maybe 45 minutes.
I called up the woman offering the gas stove. "I'll be there in about 20-30 minutes."
"Ok. The stove isn't unhooked yet, though."
"No problem. I can help unhook it. You have a wrench, right?"
"Oh, yeah."
I drove down to her house and found that true to her word, the stove was not unhooked but I also found that there was no wrench. There was only a small pair of pliers barely big enough to fit the bolt on the back of the stove - a pair of pliers that if used for the job would lead to nothing but frustration. I a also found myself attacked by two small yapping dogs and two bigger older women.
The dogs were easily thrown outside but the women - single women nearing middle age nearing desperation in their search to find a mate - the type of women for whom "Bridget Jones's Diary" was written, where a little more frustrating.
"If you can find a wrench I should be able to unhook this one and put on your new stove for you."
"We don't have a new stove yet."
"You don't have a new stove?"
"No. Our friend with a truck backed out, so we couldn't move it from Home Depot."
"I can't take your stove if you don't have one to replace it."
"I don't really even cook that much. It's ok. Just take it. I mean, you came all the way down here already."
True, I did go the 4 miles pick up the stove already. I went the four miles with a stop halfway at Home Depot to pick up a dolly. "So you have a stove picked out? I could just go down there with you to pick it up. It's only about a mile and a half."
"Could you? We'll be in and out. It'll just take a second."
While she said that I inspected the back of the stove to make sure there were no problems. "Well, we have to go down there anyway because you don't have a gas shutoff except at the meter."
"A what?"
"A gas shutoff."
"What's that?"
"It's to keep the gas from coming into your house. You don't have one in your kitchen, so I'd have to turn it off at the meter and then you'd have no gas in your house until you get a new stove hooked up. So, yeah. Let's go to the store."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:12 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
April 13, 2005
Algebra
I never really got into algebra. -- I mean, I liked it and all, I just never liked it that much. Not like Ernie.
Ernie sat next to me in algebra, something I wasn't exactly happy about. Ernie was a little disgusting. He could regularly be seen popping his zits with such intensity that it required him to close his eyes, use both hands and turn red and shake. When he wasn't doing that he picking his nose and dining on its contents. Unless of course snot was already 86ed for the day. That's when he would use the part of the pen cap meant to clip on your pocket to force a sneeze. He would stick the pen cap up his nose until he reached what seemed to his audience - because that's what we were. Watching with amazement that someone could not only do the things he did, but do them with apparently no shame surrounded by dozens of peers - to be a state of ecstacy, then quickly remove in preparation of a sneeze that would send fresh mucus out to cover his hands. Mucus he would promptly lick up.
Algebra wasn't all bad, however. Our teacher often gave us time in class to work on our assignments. He'd teach the lesson and afterward give us our assignment with about 15 minutes left in class. Then he'd sit at his desk nestled inside a large bay window where he'd take our questions, should we have any.
One day a question popped into my mind: "What the hell is he doing?" It was prompted by Ernie's incessant movements in the corner of my eye. At first I thought it must have been scratching. But it lasted too long. There was no way any itch needed that much scratching. So I looked up to see what he was doing.
No way! He is not doing what I think he's doing. It's just a really bad itch. I turned my head back and focused on my work.
But he kept it up. He wasn't stopping.
I was sure of what he was doing. Or was I?
I leaned forward to my friend in the desk ahead of mine. "What's Ernie doing?" I had to tell him in the form of a question because there still was a slight chance Ernie wasn't masturbating through his pants in the middle of class. Sure, he'd jab a pencap far enough up his nose to force himself to sneeze so he could eat the mucus off his hands, but masturbate? In class? That's over the line. Isn't it?
"He is."
"'He is' what?"
"He's jerking off."
"That's what I thought." I said that to no one at all. It was directed at my friend in in the seat ahead, but he was leaning too far forward to hear. He was telling the guy in the seat ahead of his.
Word spread like wildfire. Within a minute the guy behind me leaned forward to tell me. "I know." I whispered back as I glanced over at Ernie, still furiously rubbing himself through his pants.
He must have felt our stares. We had to stare. We couldn't even admit to, even on occasion, masturbating in private, and here Ernie was pleasuring himself in front of us all. He must have felt our stares because he covered himself up with his jacket. Which, unluckily for him, made it all too obvious to the rest of us.
His jacket slipped off his lap, and he picked it up without missing a beat. He was on a mission. He was focused.
So focused that he didn't notice when the guy behind him looked up and over Ernie's shoulder to see what his neighbor had told him Ernie was doing.
Only the bell stopped him. And not a second too soon. Our teacher got up from his desk to see what the commotion was. He would have seen us all whispering to each other, giggling, staring and pointing at Ernie fervantly minding his own business.
"Can you believe Ernie?"
"What the fuck is wrong with him?"
From that point on Ernie rarely surprised us. Disgusted us, yes. But rarely surprised us
Posted by calculatoronfire at 11:59 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Picture Frame
I think this is funny.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 09:49 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
April 10, 2005
Strange Dates Pt 3 (final)
"Hey. I thought you weren't coming."
"No. No. Just got caught up for a second."
"Well, come on in. Do you want a drink?"
"Yeah, sure. -- You've got a really nice house." Normally I don't look, but since she invited me over to watch TV, as we walked to the kitchen I noticed there was no TV. So sarcastically, because we both knew I didn't come over to watch TV, I commented, "But I don't see any TV."
"Well, I just put my daughter to bed so we'll have to start watching upstairs. I just want to make sure she falls asleep."
"OK. Fine with me."
"The TV is in my bedroom; I hope you don't mind"
"That's cool." 'Come over to watch TV' Yeah, right.
Each with a glass of wine we walked upstairs to her bedroom. At the top of the stairs I heard a toddler sing along song playing in one of the rooms -- with a toddler singing along. That's a little awkward.
"That's just my daughter, this is my room." She opened the door to her bedroom. True to her word there was a bed and a TV. And that's about it. "You'll have to sit on the bed, is that ok."
That's what I came over for. "No problem."
"I'll be right back. I need to check on Chloe." She hurried over to the next room and I crawled into her bed. American Idol was already on TV.
"Can you believe Chad was kicked out last week?"
"What?"
"Can you believe Chad was kicked out last week? He was by far the best."
"Ahh. I don't have a TV. I haven't ever seen this show."
"You should get one. For the next show -- it's my favorite -- if nothing else."
Humor her, Brian. "Oh, yeah? What's it about?"
"Well, they put a bunch of people in hotel on this island and they have to hook up with each other, and if they don't hook up then they get kicked out."
"Wow. That sounds interesting." Oh, no. Was that too condescending?
"Yeah, and they're all hot, but regular people can take their places -- oh, and this one guy -- he's so ugly -- he got on and he's so boring. He's been on the show for like 3 weeks."
"Oh, yeah?"
"You've got to see it."
The show came on in a couple minutes. The premise was ridiculous and I felt embarrassed watching it. Not just embarrassed because I could no longer truthfully say I had never watched a reality show, but embarrassed for...well, for the actors, the producers, the viewers. I could no longer watch, and decided to get down to business.
I rolled my body toward her and asked her a question. She rolled the same way - not toward me - and didn't answer. Did she just roll away from me when I rolled toward her? She did. I rolled back.
I didn't think much of her not answering my question until she finally did. After the commercials came on. I asked her that likek 5 minutes ago. I rolled toward her to talk to her and again she rolled away. At least she kept talking to me. Until the commercials ended.
We lay on her bed in silence while the program was on. I would occassionally roll toward her. At first hopefully, but later just for fun - to watch her roll away. When the commercials would come on she would begin talking again. She can't even talk while she watches TV? What did she invite me over for?
She really invited me over just so she'd have company while watching TV? I was invited to watch TV?
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:12 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
April 07, 2005
Strange Dates Pt 2
We had a few drinks at Gallagher's and then headed off to another. We hit a few bars around the city, between each one the girl drove about 55 mph down city streets dodging pedestrians. At the bars she outdrank me, something I thought strange because she was about half my size.
Then a thought came to me. She's a transvestite. I had thought it before, because of her deep voice but the conversations about her kid and her two divorces (from men) before her 28th birthday convinced me she was a man.
Actually it wasn't so much her speedy, heavy drinking that really made me think again that she was a he. It was bumping into her in the doorway of the men's room. She was coming out, I was going in. She's a man!
I told myself that my imagination was getting the better of me. That a deep voice and using the men's room, even when the women's is empty, does not a man make. I talked myself out of the thought and had another drink. She had two.
At the end of the night She drove me home and she started talking about how great a time she had. Then she told me she was going to give Alex, her gay bodyguard my number -- so we could hang out some time. I thought it was a little strange for a girl to give a guy her date's number, but I was drunk and they were friends and stranger things had happened already that night. "Ok. I guess."
She dropped me off at home and told me she wanted me to hang out with her, her mom and her daughter the next day. That it would be fun.
"I don't really want to intrude on family time."
"No. No. It'll be fun."
Thankfully she never called in the morning and I didn't have to think of an excuse. Really? What would I have going on that's more important than hanging out with a girl I went out with once and her kid. And her mom.
She did call about two weeks later to invite me to watch tv with her, though.
"I don't really watch tv."
"I know. You told me you don't have one, but sometimes it's nice to just sit and veg out and watch tv with someone else."
Oh! She's trying to get me over to her house. I'm gonna get some action! "Yeah. I guess that could be cool."
"Well then why don't you come over Tomorrow?"
"Oh. Tomorrow's not good for me."
"Then Thursday? Paradise Hotel, my favorite show, is on then."
"Yeah, sure. I'll come by about 8?"
"No. Make it 9. I want to make sure my daughter's asleep."
Sweet! I'm totally getting action! "Cool. I'll stop over then."
Thursday night I grabbed some clothes I could change into at work and jumped in my car. I drove down to the girl's house - I was sure again that she was a she and not a he. I stopped the car and was about to get out. I had even turned the car off, when I realized I had forgotten something. I had to make a stop at a convenience store.
"Do you have any condoms?"
"Do I have what?"
"Condoms."
"Condoms?"
"Rubbers?"
"Oh. Somewhere. Hold on." The old Pakistani guy wandered around behind the register looking for the hidden condoms. He turned a few things over, looked behind other things and basically got me a little impatient. When I was about to give up he pulled one out. "Ok. Found one."
One? He can only find one? How old is this thing going to be - their one left-over condom.
I grabbed it and hurried over to "watch some tv."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 10:03 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 06, 2005
Strange Dates Pt 1
Around the corner from my house a burned out building stands testament to Highlandtown's once-proud days as the cultural mecca of Baltimore City.
By culture I mean heavy metal, death metal and occassionally punk rock. And by Baltimore City I mean only those neighborhoods without a rock club of their own. Namely Highlandtown and the surrounding bergs of Essex and Dundalk.
Yes, the twice-burned out shell of a building to which the Hal Daddy's sign still clings was once a hot spot. Four nights a week with bands two of those nights.
It was one of those off nights when I was sitting at the bar slamming 50 cent happy hour Natty Bohs when a David Bowie song came blaring out of the juke box.
"What is this shit? Did you play it?"
"It's David Bowie."
"Did you play it?" The guy next to me asked. Earlier he'd been telling the bartender about the $350,000 boat he owned but kept in North Carolina, and I think his denying knowing the song was by Bowie was part of the stupid-liar-tough-guy act he was putting on for her. It was a fairly well known song that I actually sort of liked Still, that doesn't mean I'll stand by and let myself be accused of playing a Bowie song on the jukebox.
"No."
"I saw you play something."
"Yeah. I played the Zombies, Rev. Horton Heat and ... something else."
"This shit."
"I didn't play this shit."
"I did."
We both turned and to look at the girl on my other side. "I play it."
"Why?"
"Cuz I like it. Got a problem with that?"
The other guy backed out of the conversation. I don't think he wanted the bartender to see him talking to another woman. He had spent all that mental energy on the outlandish stories of his greatness, I'm sure he didn't want all that effort to go to waste.
"I wouldn't say a problem, but I don't really like it."
"Well what did you play then?"
We kept talking. In the course of the discussion I insulted her taste in music and several other things, but still she told me she might want to go see Caustic Resin at Fletcher's in the not too distanct future. Then she left.
It was only after her friend came back (by my drunken estimate) 15 minutes later and gave me a piece of paper that said "ALI 410 687 3500" (and that might even be the right number) that I realized I didn't know what the girl looked like, her name -- thankfully it was written on the paper -- or anything else about the girl.
"Ali wanted you to have this."
"Ok."
I had no idea why she wanted me to have her number, but I took it and kept on with my drinking.
A few days later I found the number in my pocket. Ali. Ali. Who was that?
Oh yeah. It's the Bowie girl. I decided to call to see if she wanted to meet up and see Caustic Resin, but as I finished dialing and heard the first ring I realized I didn't know how I'd recognize the her if we ran into each other.
I started to worry. Is she ugly? Maybe hot? I hope hot. But I won't recognize her. Should I have her pick me up? I live pretty close. I kept thinking until I heard the answering machine click on.
"This is Ali. We're not home right now. Leave a message."
Clearly it was a joke. I had either called a man named Ali or Ali was a transvestite. For a second or two I deliberated leavign a message. I decided that Ali probably had a male friend leave her outgoing message because she was single and paranoid. It made total sense.
The day after I saw the show I proposed Ali meet me at I got a call. "How's it going? How'd you like the show last night?"
I was completely freak out. I couldn't imagine how some guy got my number and knew I had been to a show the night before.
"...Ah. Ok?"
"Sorry I couldn't make it."
What? Who is this? "Aah. It's ok."
"Well. You seemed pretty cool when I met you at Hal's," It's that girl, Ali. Why dodes she sound like a man? "I was thinking we should hang out some time."
"Yeah. Sure."
"It seems you like the dive bars. Iused to live in Highlandtown. You want me to show you a few of the dive bars down that way?"
"Yeah, that'd be cool."
We talked for a few more minutes while I racked my brain. Did she sound this much like a man in person? Is she maybe a transvestite? We made date for a week or two off. I suggested we meet at Hal's because no one was ever in there, and she'd probably see me. I thougt it best that was because I'd never see, and recognize, her. She wanted instead to meet me at my house, which I also decided would be fine. If she knocked I'd definitely know who she was.
On the day I was supposed to meet her a car pulled up outside of my house. That's her. I grabbed my stuff and headed for the door. But it wasn't her. It was a chubby little latino guy. "Hey, Brian?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm Ali's friend Alex. Let's go."
"What?"
"She's in the car."
Alex was most definitely her gay friend. I figured he was a body guard. "OK."
Alex jumped in front and I climbed in back and tried to find enough room in the back. There was a child seat in the middle.
"Hey, Ali."
"Hey, Brian. You ever go to Gallagher's? It's a lesbian bar. It's not too divey, but we can go to a good dive from there."
"No." Maybe this girl is a man. She sounds like a man. She brings a gay guy with her and takes me out to a lesbian bar. Could be. "I haven't been there yet."
"It's just down the street. -- Oh. Do you have enough room back there? I forgot to take Chloe's seat out."
"I can fit."
"Chloe's my 2 year old. -- You don't like Bowie. Want to play anything else? I've got my CDs back there."
"I don't mind Bowie."
"Oh. I thought you -- whatever. Give me NWA. I used to play that all the time when I lived down here."
"Here, you go. -- When did you live in Highlandtown?"
"I lived here with my second husband."
Second husband? "Where?"
"On Potomac St. It was the first house I owned."
Second husband? First house she owned? How old is this woman? "First house? How many have you owned?"
"This is just my second. I guess it just feels like so long ago."
"Well, you must have bought your first house when you were pretty young."
"I was probably older than you are now."
"What? How old do you think I am?"
"Maybe 22."
"No. 26."
"Woah. How old do you think I am? I definitely shouldn't be going out with you."
How old is she? She's pretty hot and she looks like she could be 28 - 29, but that's not too old. Am I supposed to guess higher? No. Never guess too high. "27 or 28?"
"Try 31."
"That's not that old."
"What do you mean? 'Not that old.'"
"I mean you're close to my age."
"Girl! That means he wants to fuck you."
Posted by calculatoronfire at 12:37 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 03, 2005
Fun in the Summer
One summer when my dad was working in southern Indiana my brother, sister and I visited him for a week or so. I can't say exactly how old we were - I don't really remember. I dude remember, however, the shirt my brother constantly wore and can attempt a date from that.
The shirt was a light blue t-shirt with "Alaska 82" in big numbers across the front. Having never gone to Alaska, the shirt was surely gotten second hand. Maybe even third hand, but definitely after 1982. Also, it was worn constantly - meaning the visit was before the (really outstanding if you think about it) year-long run of his black Hubble Telescope t-shirt. That laundry-less stint was 1989-1990.
If I had to give it a guess I'd say we visited our dad around 1987. We showed up at his tiny one-room apartment and we mesmerized. He had purchased a compact disc player; we all gathered around staring in awe as he played a CD in front of us for the first time. The Beatles. Ooh ooh. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band! "Can I touch it?"
No. We couldn't touch anything. And when he was gone at work we had to play outside.
There really wasn't a whole lot to see or do for the three of us in the middle of an apartment complex in the middle of Indiana. We ranged in age from 7 to 11 and couldn't find a playground. There was a basketball court but we had no ball and the kids that did didn't seem too anxious to let us play. Things went pretty slowly until we found a creek on the edge of the complex we could play in.
Time flew by as we ran through the water on the hot summer day. We picked up rocks and built dams. We diverted the water in all directions. We had such a good time some of the older kids took notice. A highschool girl (why they always "highschool" back then I'll never know) called over to us "Hey! Are you guys from Alaska?"
"No!" We turned and got back to work. We had more dams to build. Why would she think we're from Alaska? The shirt had become so ubiquitous the bold lettering across the front of my brother's shirt had lost their meaning to us. She noticed it, however and took it to mean that we could be fron Alaska. We had to be from somewhere else. No kids from the area would have played in the open sewage drainage ditch.
Posted by calculatoronfire at 08:40 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack