Smooth Criminal

My aching head mirrored the ache in my knee nicely. Downing the better part of a six pack while playing kickball seemed like a good idea, but now, looking back . . . not so much.

I was cruising along nicely into the fourth inning when I kicked a perfect line drive up towards right center field. As I dashed towards first base, I started planning my run into second. It would be my first double of the season. Glory would be mine!

So of course I tripped over first base and rolled head over heels twice before coming to a stop. While staring into the sky, all I could think was that not only did my knee hurt, it was embarrassing as hell. I laid on the cool grass, staring into the sky, giggling at the absurdity of it all.

C'est la vie. Another beer on the sidelines and I was good as new. I even pitched us to our first win of the season.

But as I was driving home, the shakes hit. I realized . . . I hadn't had any caffeine that day, and as the beer wore off, my knee and head started competing for my attentions. Fortunately, I found salvation at the nearby QT, where I saw this exchange:

"That'll be $3.50 sir."
"Okay - here." The gentleman in front of me hands the cashier a $50.
She stares at it for several seconds, straightens it out, stare at it more intently, and hands it to the other cashier, who repeats.
"I'm sorry sir, but we can't take this bill." says cashier number two.
"That's fine," says the customer. And walks out with the fake $50.

I worked in retail for nearly ten years. I've seen more attempted scams and lame shoplifting attempts than I care to remember, and one thing that always came to mind was how indignant people became when they were caught. Not this guy. He just upped and moved on - straight towards the next gas station on the street. It was only a matter of time before he found some cashier who was thinking of getting off work, going home, or just getting out from behind the register for a few short hours.

I'm sure it wasn't going to be a long wait.

Thievery

I don't have a green thumb; in fact, I'm pretty sure plants shudder inwardly when they discover I'm tending to them (if they were capable of it, that is). Throughout the past six years, I've waged a losing war against the weeds in my yard, and I don't want to talk about the trees.

However, this changed a bit last year when Darcy convinced me to plant several cherry tomato plants. I watched them grow all summer, and enjoyed fresh tomatoes all summer.

Shortly after we returned from Jamaica, we decided to expand the garden. I tilled out the old garden area and dug out more yard for it, and we planted away. Now we're starting to see some produce, and I was getting excited.

Tomato sauce, sandwiches, tomato soup - they all danced around my head as I checked on the garden every day. I eagerly watched the biggest, juiciest tomato start to ripen the other day, and I was ready to get to the picking.

Until yesterday.

I walked out and checked on the garden, only to see that the big tomato was gone. I found it a few feet away, about a third of it chewed off. Apparently, we have critters.

Actually, I'm not worried about squirrels - they largely left the garden alone last year. I'm more concerned about opossums or raccoons, and I'm not really sure what to do with them. Back in the day, I could have left my -ahem- trusty watchdog to protect my produce, but that's not an option. Poison? Not around the fruit, thanks. Traps? What the hell would I do if we actually caught one? Sitting outside all night with an air rifle and a flashlight? Intriguing, but I might get bored and start shooting at the neighborhood kids while they ride their bikes in the alley, and apparently people frown on that. Plus, Darcy didn't like the idea of me sitting outside all night with a rifle - something about that disturbed her.

That leaves us with one other option - fencing off the garden and seeing if the critters stay out. Hopefully it'll work; otherwise, I'm going to have to start laying mines in the backyard - making lawn mowing that much more difficult.

Counting to Four

Holy crap this is funny. Feist opens Sesame Street's 39th (really? 39 seasons? That makes me how old?) teaching kids to count to, well, four.

Stalkers Rejoice!

I recently discovered that my house has been added to Google street view (and even though it's not very web 2.0 of me, I'm NOT posting a link to my address. Figure it out yourselves, sickos - and bear in mind that I rig the Kentucky burglar alarm nightly).

For those of you not familiar, using Google and an address, you can look up a picture of any listed property. In my case, the picture was taken last fall, and all they have on my property is a lovely view of one of the soon-to-be whacked trees in front of my house.

While the internet is supremely useful in building communities and keeping track of friends and family (or total strangers, for that matter), I'm not sure how comfortable I am with the idea that anyone can hop online and look at my house. There's such a thing as being TOO close or too wired in. Unfortunately, the alternative seems to be to cut yourself off from the world entirely, and I don't think I'm quite ready to move to a little cabin in the woods (perhaps after my manifesto is complete).

At the very least, they could have at least let me know so that I could have raked up the leaves. Wow. Talk about embarrassing.

Red in the Face

Last night marked the return of softball.

I may not be the most athletic person in the world, nor am I the most coordinated. I'm slow as a turtle in the outfield and have no arm to speak of; however, I can do one thing well, and that's hit the ball.

So needless to say, as I swung and missed at the second pitch I faced, I wasn't remotely concerned. Even though I started thinking about it. The sight of my bat hitting empty air mere inches away from the ball as it floated back to earth on the downward side of its gentle arc must have rattled me more than I thought.

Because I did the same damn thing next swing. I struck out. At slow pitch recreational softball.

Slow.

Pitch.

Softball.

Egad.

I'm not sure what was worse - the desire to go beat myself over the head with my bat, or listen to the snickering from my own bench . . . and believe me, I deserved it. That pitch had a wicked - and I mean wicked - twelve-foot arc. From the time the pitcher released it to it reaching the plate, I could have walked over to the drinking fountain, sipped some water and returned.

Fortunately, I'm not a professional . . . because, let's face it, if I was, I'd starve.

The beauty of recreational league sports is that all is forgotten - usually by the next inning. The problem is that I won't forget. Maybe they have batting cages in Jamaica . . . I'll have to check into that . . .

TEMBLOR!

Some would take earthquakes the morning you were leaving for your bachelor party as an omen. I didn't, mainly because I slept right through the first one. The first indication that something was amiss was when Darcy asked me if I felt the quake in the middle of the night.

I flipped on the TV to see what was up, and I was instantly sorry.

Our local Fox station had completely given in to their worst impulses, so I opened my morning watching the anchors interview a producer who was at the station during the quake. The anchors were trying to get her to talk about the fear, the panic, the sheer terror of standing around as the earth rocked itself apart. Apparently, all they did was stood around looking at each other. The only fear came in when they saw the light fixtures were shaking a lot. So they moved.

Fortunately, they were able to cut away to the scene of a house fire in North St. Louis. The reporter opened by saying the fire started, ironically right around the time of the earthquake. Now, I'm no expert, but I don't think there was anything ironic about that - coincidental, perhaps, but ironic, not so much.

The reporter moved on to talk about how seated behind her was the woman who risked her own life to save her seven children trapped in the house. Now that's heroic, and I'm pretty sure it's also news; however, we never got to hear from her, because the reporter was talking to a firefighter. Here's the gist of the exchange:

Reporter: "Was the fire caused by a gas line that ruptured in the earthquake?"

Firefighter: "No. We think it was faulty wiring in the basement."

Reporter: "Could the quake have caused the wires to break open and start the fire."

Firefighter: "No. That's very unlikely. It would be impossible to prove."

Reporter: "Are you sure the earthquake didn't cause the fire?"

Firefighter: "Yes."

At this point, rather than recover what was left of her dignity and professional pride and either leave or talk to the woman who saved her family, the reporter went on to a charming story of how they heard meowing as they arrived and after looking around, they found THIS - as the camera swung up to show a cat lounging in a window.

Having seen enough, I changed the channel. I could see that the local CBS affiliate meant business - Larry Conners was in studio sans tie - and with his top two buttons undone. He must have breathlessly raced into the studio to make it for the broadcast, and he was waxing poetic about earthquakes in history. Why bother with a geologist when you can find a professional news anchor?

I moved on to breakfast.

After running a few errands, I was goofing off in the sunroom addition to my house. That's when the aftershock hit. At first, I thought it was wind. Then I realized that it was another quake. Then I realized that the sunroom on the back of my house has the structural integrity of a box of kleenex, and perhaps I should get out.

So yes, I survived Quake 2008 and moved on to more important things, like a bachelor party weekend in Chicago.

Paging Mr. P.

Dear Mr. Paul P.,
I just wanted to let you know that I'm taking good care of your old home phone number, and over the last few years I've put it to good use. However, I would appreciate it if you could, perhaps, start paying your bills and not giving your old phone number to your creditors.

Apparently, there are something like 850,000 collection agencies scattered around the world, and they're all trying to reach you.

Thanks,

Brian

In Honor of Cloverfield

Forget this new-fangled johnny-come-lately I'm-gonna-eat-Manhattan wannabe. Here's a real monster facing his greatest foe:

Stress for Lunch

You want to know what's fun? Going to get a haircut at lunch.

You want to know what's even more fun? Discovering as you're leaving that the gentleman who was finishing up as you arrived accidentally took your jacket instead of his (they're both black leather jackets).

You want to know what's especially fun about this? My car keys, work access card, and cell phone were in the pockets of said jacket.

Ten minutes and about 20 frantic calls to my cell phone, he finally realized his mistake and returned the jacket.

Wow

I'm not sure whether to laugh, groan, or write the newspaper (granted, it's the New York Post - I doubt they'd care, especially considering that most New Yorkers probably don't even realize that there actually is a state called Missouri - it's one of those 49 other states that isn't New York, and someone writing a letter from there isn't high on their list of concerns) at this headline.

Faux Pas

I've taken to the gym again - especially since I get free membership at the JCC, thanks to Darcy's employment there. Overall, I've been very happy with the experience - people are really there to exercise, if they're going to chat, they take it elsewhere.

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I work on cardio training. Right now, I'm focusing on building endurance by treadmill running. After I get over my total hatred of running, I may try taking it up outside, weather permitting, but for now, I'm sticking to the treadmill. After a treadmill session, I hit the elliptical machine, where I can work on cardio and read while doing it. (Yes, they have TVs, but once you've seen Judge Judy 100 or so times, the novelty wears off).

Wednesday, I carried in my latest acquisition from the library - a dual biography on George Patton and Erwin Rommel, two of the most famous generals of World War II. As I carried it into the building and glanced down at the book.

And noticed the cover was liberally sprinkled with swastikas. As I'm walking into the JCC - also known as the Jewish Community Center.

Yes, there were stars as well, but seeing as I was walking into a building containing people who in all likelihood:

• fought in the war
• survived a concentration camp

I thought that perhaps I should go ahead and leave it in my locker. I realize that my intentions were pure, but a small part of me feared chugging away on the elliptical machine, reading my book as an elderly gentleman walks by, sees the cover, flips out, screams "Auschwitz!" and smacks me upside the head with a cane.

Next time, I'll pick an alternate book from the nightstand. It just seems less painful that way.

Waking Up

At least when I came home, my new MacBook Pro was waiting for me. Ooh. Shiny.

Night Terrors

Boss runs in 20 minutes before I'm ready to leave, declaring a drop everything emergency. A piece of documentation HAS to make it in the next build. Crap.

After running around for 40 minutes and nearly finishing, I learn that this piece of documentation is not required to fix the bug after all, so I didn't have to do anything. Crap.

Nightmare Continues

I was halfway to work this morning when I realized that I left my headphones at home.

Nightmare Begins

The bed collapsed in the middle of the night . . . again.

T Time

I spent the morning revelling in the peace of quiet and solitude. There were no slot machine ringing away; no video screens threatening me with Rita Rudner or Carrot Top visits; no bright lights shining in my face.

Truthfully, I kind of miss it already, but it's great to be home.

Men live by a few simple rules; one of the most important is what goes on the road stays on the road; however, I'm going to share one tale, because it must be told.

If you're looking for a quiet spot to toss back a couple of martinis and reflect on the week, stay the hell away from the Hofbrauhaus. Imagine a giant room full of long tables, and each of those tables contains about 20 or so people, drinking from one liter steins full of beer. It's Vegas, so most people are already gloriously, raucously drunk. Oh, and there's a band playing "Sweet Caroline" and "Summer of '69" between bouts of "Ein Prosit" ( Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi!) in the corner. And the room's singing along.

The room was full of energy; it was loud. It was crazy. It was a roomful of fools, and apparently, one or more of them needed pitying. Because Mr. T walked in the door.

Yes, Mr. T. Mr. motherfucking T.

At first, no one noticed, he walked in with a small entourage and took the seat next to us. I'm ashamed to admit that he walked right past me, and while I thought he looked familiar, I didn't recognize him (I just finished one of those steins and was starting on the second). But someone did, becuase I soon heard the buzz: "Mr. T! Mr. T!"

The house got wind of the celebrity and decided to celebrate, because the next thing I know, the house band is playing the theme to the A-Team, and Mr. T runs up on stage and danced along to it. Afterwards, he returned to the table and continued partying with his friends.

We moved on to further adventures in a sleep-deprived weekend.

And so, I add Mr. T to the top of my list of celebrity encounters. Seeing Mr. T in Vegas is far more interesting than pissing next to Bob Costas and not nearly as awkward as realizing that Bobby Bonilla was sitting next to me at a strip club.

Cranky

Four days ago, I quit drinking soda. Four days. Four whole days. Ninety-six hours. For some of you, this might not seem too long. "Four days is nothing," you think, smugly sitting back and sipping at your Corona.

Well, for me, it's a nightmare. For a long time, I drank soda like it was water. I finally switched to diet about 10 years ago when I discovered that drinking a case of regular soda a week was a bad idea. Perhaps diet soda is as well, but in any case, I drink too damn much of the stuff. So I let it go.

And after the shakes passed on Monday, things weren't too bad. I apologized to one of the women I work with after I threw a stapler at her when she said good morning, and she seemed okay with it. (I'm not too worried - I'm so totally in with HR these days. After our fourth "discussion" about my temper, we're tight.)

Okay. I didn't throw a stapler. But I gave her a dirty look. And boy, it was a mean one.

But you know what makes a cranky mood really take off? Another crank. Fortunately, I met one today.

I was sitting around the Honda dealer, waiting for my car to be fixed. (Apparently, you have to actually CHANGE the oil in those things . . . who knew?) There were five of us sitting in the waiting room, all reading, as Judge Judy fumigated her wisdom upon several unsuspecting plaintiffs and defendants. And again, I'd like to point out for the record that everyone in the room was reading a book, magazine or newspaper. (I was also glancing at the soda machine, wondering if I could somehow reach inside it and get a Diet Pepsi out).

A young guy walked in, sat down and started reading himself. He glanced at the TV, then asked if anyone was watching it. Most everyone either nodded no or said so. The young guy stood up and turned off the television. As he sat down, he said "Now we can all read in peace."

"What's this all about?" piped up the older man sitting next to me.

The young guy said "I just figured since everyone was reading, I'd turn off the television. It was distracting."

"So you just decided this for all of us," the old man kind of growled, kind of sneered.

Already thinking of running up to the soda machine and shaking it until a sweet, sweet Diet Pepsi came out, I realized this horse's ass was annoying me. He'd been reading his paper. He wasn't watching television. Besides that, he should be thanking the kid for turning Judge Judy off. I could actually feeling the room growing smarter. On top of this, I was already jonesing for a soda, and his "speaking up" for my rights pissed me off.

"He asked if anyone was watching it. No one said they were. If you have such a big problem with it, then turn it back on. Otherwise, shut up." I said. The woman across from me nodded emphatically.

The old man kind of harumphed and growled then went back to his paper. A few minutes later, he finished the story he was reading and started pacing the room like an old, toothless caged lion, since I guess he figured we literary types weren't down with his "TV".

He left when his car was finished, with a final glare at the rest of us.

I guess someone else being cranky brings out my competitive nature. I'm not sure I would have said anything otherwise. Perhaps I would have been nicer. All I know is that I wasn't going to let someone out-crank me today.

More Money Than Brains

Crazed fans spend $500 to create plastic shards and spare parts. After you factor in the $500 they probably paid someone to stand in line for them throughout Friday, you have a spectacular waste of money. I would have sold them a box of broken phones for only $100.

Collapse

I know - I've been away for awhile; here's a few reasons why:

• Work - Because THE MAN gets bitchy when I stop showing up for weeks on end. Oh, and I don't get paid.
  
• More work - I'm balancing two freelance writing jobs on the side. See above bullet regarding bitchiness and being paid.
  
• Movement - Darcy is moving in to my house, along with all of her stuff. And let me tell you, there's a lot of stuff.
• Crap - Literally - I'm having at least half of my plumbing waste stack replaced before it fully gives out. If that were to happen, then no one would be happy in my house. So I've been dealing with contractors galore. Fortunately, it's looking like the work will be done within the next week or two.

So let's talk about stuff. Like I said, Darcy has a lot of it, and one of the things she has is a semi-antique bed frame. It has a headboard AND a footboard. I've never had either of these things, so it's kind of novel.

We set up the bed frame and for a week, slept well and soundly in it. Until Thursday.

I woke up around 4:00 AM, feeling kind of cold. Our bedroom is on the second floor of my house - also known as the oven, due to heat's propensity to rise, and my house's lousy insulation. But at least the central air conditioning is old and sucks, so we have that going for us. In any case, I digress - frequently, I go to bed on top of the covers, but sometimes in the middle of the night, thanks to the fans and window unit AC, it gets pretty cool in there. So at 4:00, I climbed under the covers . . . and the bed collapsed.

One of the side supports holding the slats under the bed gave out completely, dropping one quarter of the bed. After looking it over for a few minutes, we took the frame apart, set up the box springs and mattress back up on the floor and went back to bed.

At this point, I'm not sure what we're going to do. I'd prefer not to buy a new frame, and fixing it probably isn't an option. (I'm, how do you say it -- incompetent with the tools, and it's very possible I'll wind up dumping one or both of us on the floor in a half-assed repair effort. It's why I'm hiring plumbers and carpenters to work on the house. If I did it, things would turn ugly fast).

Living like we just graduated from college, while kind of fun in a nostalgic sense, grows old very quickly. So's waking up on the floor. At least we know the mattress can't fall any further. If it did, we'd wind up in the dining room. Then it's the insurance company's problem.

Etiquette

So what exactly is the protocol when you walk around the corner of an aisle at Target and see an employee zipping up his pants and fastening his belt?

I was at a loss, so it came down to moving on to the next aisle while hoping I needed nothing in the original one or running away while screaming and clawing my eyes out.

Digging out a quarter, I flipped on it, and it came up heads. After deciding that meant I could keep my eyes, I moved on, hoping that he didn't get a happy ending in the detergent aisle - that's just nasty. Everyone knows that's what the pillow aisle is for - at least it was in my day.

But I digress. Maybe there was a perfectly innocent explanation for it - perhaps gravity intensified causing his pants to drop, or maybe he spontaneously lost 30 pounds, or maybe he's the kind of guy who adjusts himself in public.

In any case, I moved on, definitely a little older, probably a little less wise, and definitely disturbed.