The Great Equalizer

A week and a day ago I went to see Muse at Freeborn Hall at U.C. Davis. I went with two friends from school, and a good time was had by all; especially the people frisking us concert-goers. It was of the utmost importance that we not bring in any ... cameras. I had a pocket knife on my keychain, and a little plastic baggie with earplugs in it. He didn't care about the pocket knife, and he didn't look to see what was in my baggie. But he made the guy before me go put his camera in his car.

Inside Freeborn was about half standing room and half stadium seating. Since I'll be 26 in 3 weeks, I chose the front row of stadium seating. Turns out it was a good place to be, because I could see the large, bright, yellow, and orange cable cover.

Since the mixing board is in the middle of the floor, they had to run all the cables halfway across the standing room section of the hall. Since they don't want people yanking them, nor tripping, they made a cover which was bright and shiny and easy to see, even in the dark. Unfortunately, nobody looks down. So EVERYBODY tripped on it. The goths, the nerds, the jocks, the hardcore people. Everybody.

Actually, I noticed that the tougher or cooler people were trying to look, the more likely it was that they would trip. Cool and tough people are looking at other people, not where they are going, which sometimes, is down.

Cars

I saw Speed Racer driving on 101S today. His car seems to have held up well, though it has been painted green. Unfortunately Speed himself is quite a lot older than he once was. He looked to be in his 60s, and sadly was driving in the slow lane. (Really. This car was just exactly the Speed Racer car in all its real world ridiculousness.)

Speaking of things getting old: One of my coworkers can't use his car alarm. More accurately, he knows how it works, but he can't do things in the right order. In the space of 3 hours he got into his car 5 times and all 5 times the alarm went off. For some reason he opens the door, the alarm goes off, he panics, then turns off the alarm. He gets what he was looking for, then shuts the door and arms the alarm. Next time he goes to the car, same thing. 3 times = Funny. 4 times = Are you serious? 5 times = ok, stop now. Luckily he doesn't usually have his car at work, as we are always driving the company vans. His broke down earlier this week, although at this point I'm suspicious that he was trying to drive first and start the car second. Operator error? We may never know.

Completely unrelated to cars, I stopped at a burger place for lunch. They had a chicken sandwich which included lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and ranck dressing. Anyone who knows me well, knows I don't ever catch spelling mistakes. But I caught this one, and to tell you the truth, was a little offended. Ranch dressing is the best dressing ever, and calling it rank even by accident is just atrocious. Humph!

Don't Let Me Near Your Loved Ones

Today my boss pointed out to me that every single person to whom I delivered a mattress on Friday, died over the weekend. That's 4 whole people who are no longer. Yikes.

If I would quit getting home so late I would write about the walking hazards at the Muse concert, or maybe my attempt to get an Uno shirt from the late 80s. But alas, I'm too tired when I get home to write anything but a very short and very morbid post.

To Tired to Write Something Interesting

I was going to post an entry
For everyone to read
But my want to go to sleep
Has become a need

Instead I'll just bang out
This crappy little poem
And hope to be more interesting
Next time that I am home

My meter could use some tink
ering to make it be okay
For I can never think
of things to fit my word-souffle

String of Oddities

I've been in a little vortex of weird the past few days.

It started on Sunday, when after a sunny and moderately windy day, I turned on the news to discover that Oakland had been battered by a respectable storm. Drains had backed up, onramps were flooded with 3 feet of water, signs had blown down, and yet 10 miles away, not an meteorological peep.

Then Monday I had a delivery to a Kaiser facility to put some extra mattresses in a storage room. I guess they are using the entire wing as storage, and it is the creepiest place I've ever been. It looks like a hospital, but there are no patients, there are holes in the walls, doors are hanging off their hinges, the carpet is ripped, there are toilets upside down in the bathrooms, and every hall is lined with empty hospital beds as far as the eye can see. All the rooms are filled with various hospital supplies: One room is filled with portable commodes, one stacked to the ceiling with little pillows. That's one place I wouldn't want to spend the night.

Finally, yesterday I noticed my rear-left tire was looking low. So I went to a gas station to pump it up, and on the way back I drove over a nail. Now my rear-right tire had a hole. You know you have a problem with your tire when you can hear it hissing from 10 feet away.

We'll see if it is indeed a vortex of weird, or if it expands to a week of weird.

Experimenting With My Pants

In my quest to never buy any new clothing (apart from t-shirts), some of my everyday clothing is starting to fray. For instance, my kaki work pants develop tassels every two weeks. I'm not a big fan of tassels.

Until recently I had some jeans that were quickly falling to pieces. There were holes in the knees, and I was developing a pretty good hole where my keys lived. Everything was becoming threadbare in the area except for a little spot upon which I'd spilled some pink paint. Of all the bits of my pants to stay put, the pink embarrassing bit was the one to stick around. Annoying as it was, it did give me an idea.

To try to keep my work pants going strong, today I cut off the tassels and sprayed the cuffs with clear flat lacquer. I'm hoping I'll remain tassel free and happy.

(Not that anyone wanted to know about painting my pants, but I guess people don't like the photo of a graffiti-penis being the headline anymore.)

Photographic Evidence

A cockandballs upon the street
By wayward, painting lads
Perhaps to represent the pain
Of driving on your nads

Who, Me?

The bad news is that my ice cream (which I SOOOO want to type as one word) date didn't happen tonight. The good news is that it has been moved to tomorrow night, and has become a movie date. Movie dates are nice because afterward you can talk about the movie, and during the movie you can not talk about anything; thereby relieving the stress on my conversational skills.

Speaking of which, in the post-date email wrap-up, I was described as being a good conversationalist. Don't be fooled by my eloquent blog, I don't talk nearly as well as I type; especially when my brain is in half power date mode. Perhaps she goes on a lot of dates and has me confused with somebody blessed with high verbal aptitude. I do get quite a few "you look like ..."'s from people. Maybe it's finally working to my advantage:

"Is he the guy who, in an interesting yet understandable way, explained the nuances of string theory, or the one who couldn't figure out how to open the door at Starbucks? They look so similar."

Three Things

The first thing is me freaking out about tomorrow. We tentatively scheduled an ice cream date, and I sent her an email, but I haven't heard anything back. Maybe Thursday was too soon. Maybe I smelled. Maybe I hugged badly. Maybe she's thinking, "I can't eat ice cream with anyone too dumb to figure out the doors at Starbucks." Should I have called instead of emailed? I guess I'll call her tomorrow and see what's up.

"Hi, Meg? This is Mike."
"I hate you. Don't call me."

Numba Two: I heard a story on NPR today about an intern being injured by a laser at Los Alamos National Laboratory. This strikes me as being much too funny for my own good. I think the morbidity of my job is encroaching.

Intern #1: Have you seen the laser?
Intern #2: No. Where is it?
Intern #1: It's right here. This is sooo cool, watch this.
laser: bzzzbpytpzzzz.
Intern #2: Aaaaaaahg!
Intern #1: Dude, that's a big hole.
Intern #2: -
Intern #1: Dude?

Last but certainly not least, I saw some graffiti today that took some guts. About half way between San Rafael and Mill Valley on 101S, there are 5 lanes including an off ramp. On the 3 middle lanes, somebody has spray painted the universal graffiti symbol for the male genitalia. I have to give them credit for the placement, but I'm not sure if a spray paint doodle of a penis and testicles are worth risking one's life. I'm going to see if I can get a picture tommorow.

Dates and Nipples

My date went fairly well. As good as a first date can go I guess. I wasn't comfortable per se, but I wasn't as uncomfortable as I can get, which is saying something. When I get too uncomfortable my brain shuts off. For instance ...

I saw her walking toward to door to Starbucks, so I got up to open the door for her. I pulled the left door. Locked! I pulled the right door. Locked! Oh no, did they close while I was waiting for her?! No, they didn't. Both doors say push in big letters right on the door handles. I think my intentions were clear.

All in all, it was a success. She was able to keep the conversation going, and she initiated the hug at the end. Honestly, if I didn't manage to find girls who like helping the emotionally handicapped, I would be seriously out of luck. We're going to get some ice cream or something on Thursday.

My other big event for the day was getting me new driver's license in the mail. I had to renew it because when one turns 26, it expires due to one's extreme old age. The DMV also requires that you wear your pants higher.

Along with my new license came my new organ donor card. To indicate one's donorness, there is a little pink round sticker that says donor in the middle. It is encompassed by a larger pink sticker that doesn't say anything and seems to serve no purpose other than to make me feel uncomfortable when peeling the middle part out. Like I'm taking apart a little paper nipple.

Ouch.

Brainwash

I went to Brainwash, a laundromat slash cafe slash venue, to see some music. There was a table by the door with 3 chairs occupied by 2 people. I asked if chair #3 was in use, and they said I could have it, so I did.

I didn't move it far from the table: just enough so it wasn't like I was sitting there. It turned out the whole section of tables was full of English people who had come to see the first band, who also happened to be English.

Eventually a 30sih woman came in and saw her friends who had just minutes before given me my chair. She walked over to them, stood in front of me, and started talking to them. But standing can be tiresome, so after a while she turned to me and asked if she could sit on my lap. I, being a normal human being, thought she was joking and said sure. She promptly took a seat on my lap and talked to her friends for another half hour until the band started playing, all the while saying nothing to me. For I was a chair, and people don't talk to chairs.

The last paragraph is untrue, but makes a good story. Then again, when going to things alone, there isn't anybody who's going to contradict me. Maybe if I make enough things up, people will start wanting to go places with me to see in person all the amazing things that happen to me. A plan! So if anyone asks you what I did tonight, tell them that I went to see some music and an English woman used me as a chair.

Child's Play

On they way home from a service call today I saw not one, but two inflatable bouncy castles. I hadn't seen one for more than a year, and I certainly had never seen one in the city.

The second one was just your average generic bouncy castle, but the first one was a top-of-the-line Rainbow Bright brand castle. I was really impressed, and I wish I had taken my camera with me.

You really have to plan ahead to get a bouncy castle in the city. Both were half on the sidewalk, and half in the street, but still contained within a parallel parking spot. It's a good thing those castles are enclosed, or there might be kids bouncing right out into traffic. That's quick way to ruin a birthday.

Don't let anyone tell you that raising a kid in the city will keep them from having a rich and full set of childhood experiences.

I HATE THAT COMPUTER!

I don't like the metal shop guy, and because I build for him a terrible possessed computer from the devil, he won't leave me alone! It's terrible! Go away metal shop guy! If only I had moved to Ohio. Sigh.

Observations on a Friday

First off, I seem to be attractive to VERY old women in nursing homes. A little old lady whose bed I was setting up asked me to help her look up a phone number. A nurse came in I handed the task off to her. When I started setting up the bed she realized I wasn't part of the nursing home staff and said, "I thought you were too good looking to work here." Creepy but nice.

Families of the recently deceased are surprisingly cheery. They seem tired, which is expected. But they are all smiles and small talk when I come get the mattress. I guess our mattresses are mostly used for people who have been sick for a while, so the family has had some time to prepare. Even so, I thought there would be more moping.

I'm not as un-photogenic nor as illiterate as I thought I was. Call me paranoid, but after two, 2!, full days of not hearing anything back from the two yahoo personal emails I sent, I was beginning to think I would go another 3 years with no girlfriend. (There is historical president for the 3 years dry spell.) That could still happen, but that time will at least be broken up by a date next Monday with the maybe-Goth* girl. Turns out she works for a Bio-Tech company and went to U.C. Davis, so she's probably not too Goth*. As long as I can manage to go an evening without saying anything too gross or stupid, it should go ok. Then again I've been exposed to a lot of dead people mattress jokes of late, and my filter has never worked that well.

Any gems of wisdom?

*My spellchecker insists that Goth* should be capitalized. Is Goth* a proper name? A forgotten but non-the-less important figure from history?

Screw Home Cooking

I have finally earned the title, "World's Worst Cook." I'd been working on it for quite some time, but hadn't ever reached it until today.

I can make maybe four dishes, and not all of them come out well. My chicken tends to be dry; My pork chops, reminiscent of hockey pucks. Oddly enough my Salmon comes out okay, but I've only made that once, so it may have been a fluke. (No pun intended.) And my Macaroni and Cheese tends to be undercooked.

Now undercooked is really just me not having enough patience. I'll dip my fork into the noodles and take out a Sponge Bob or a Patrick and invariable burn my tongue while testing their squishiness. They are never quite squishy. Today I decided that I would write an email while they boiled, thereby taking patience out of the game. Mac and Cheese 2, Me 0. I overcooked it.

Overcooked is perhaps an understatement. I boiled it to death. There was hardly even any water to drain out, and Bob and Patrick were enormous and disintegrating. Worst of all, some of the noodles were burned to the bottom of the pan. I hope soaking takes care of that. Otherwise I may have boiled the pan to death as well.

Very fitting is the sign that hangs over the doorway to my kitchen. My Grandmother cross-stitched it for me, and it reads: "Screw Home Cooking." Truer words have never been stitched.

Two Portions of Day

The first portion of my day is getting a little too frequent. After delivering a Mattress in Napa, I discovered my pocket contained more empty space than I'm comfortable with. Sure enough, sitting next to my book, in the little bin between the front seats of my van, were my keys. Unfortunately, this van has much smaller spaces between the ceiling and the metal screen. I guess I'm challenging myself.

I learn from my mistakes (ok, not enough to keep track of my keys) so I tried the same thing I tried last time: Hook a bungee cord around the door handle and pull. It was much harder this time, being as I could only fit up to my forearm through the screen space, but I did it. I hooked, and I pulled, and the door stayed locked. I guess Astros don't unlock that way.

A new plan was in order. This time I took my small metal-tipped bungee cord and bent one hook out a little. Then I hooked the other end around my full-sized, plastic-ended bungee. I pushed this setup, half my palm, and all of my fingers through the space in the middle of the screen, right over the bin. It took quite a bit of casting, which is hard when you can only use your fingers, but I finally hooked my keys and pulled them up through the crack.

I NEVER lock my keys in my car, and I've locked them in my van twice in a month. I may reach my innovation limit soon and resort to calling AAA.

The second portion of interest was tonight at 8:30 when my sister called. Apparently she's going to be a backup singer for Lyle Lovett when he comes to Eugene, which is my sister's city of residence. I mean, it's Lyle Lovett, but on the other hand, it's Lyle Lovett. Hmm, typing doesn't convey the sentiment. I'm not a big Lyle fan, but he's definitely famous and he married Julia Roberts. When you weigh both sides, it comes out pretty cool.

P.S. My previous post was post #69. Kinky.

Here's $20 for Love

I did it. I took the plunge and signed up for Yahoo Personals for a month. I was getting a lot of Icebreakers, Yahoo's free note system. I think I have 9 so far, but only 1 from anyone I'd like to email, and now I've emailed her. We'll see how it goes.

I have gotten some weird ones though. I'm 25, extremely non-religious, a non-smoker, 5'10", and 25 years old. In my personal I list that I would like someone who is shorter than me, between the ages of 21 and 26, a non-smoker, and not too religious. My two most recent Icebreakers were from a 30 year old Evangelical Christian woman, and from a freakishly tall, 18 year old, frequent smoker. I'm not sure that anyone is actually reading my ad. They may just be drawn in by my ravishing good looks. Actually, it's probably my metal cows. They're pretty cute.

I'll let you know if I get any replies, or if they were just after my cows. I mean, why take the guy if you can get the cows for free?

A Day at the Beach

On Saturday a bunch of us went to a clothing optional beach. We chose the clothing optional kind not because of any need on our part to get naked, but because it would be less crowded. In fact, there were three of us who didn't even take off our shirts, although one was a girl. None the less, she didn't swimsuit up either.

When guys picture nude beaches, they think of a coastline covered with hot naked ladies, all tan and lying on their backs. But for the most part, nude beaches are actually full of aging and portly men. Balls-to-the-beach, sandy-assed naked dudes. Well, not totally naked. Most were wearing hats and sunglasses. There was also one guy wearing only a sweatshirt. The hat is odd, but the sweatshirt makes no sense at all.

On the bright side, there were some attractive topless women at the beach as well, some with friends, some with their boyfriends. There were two such couples that were taking a few too many liberties with the nakedness. The two couples were separated by probably two hours, but both did the same thing: Namely making out and feeling each other up in front of dog and everybody.

Turns out, the dog wasn't going to take it. We brought with us George, a friend's dog. George took it upon himself to be the Love Police, and when he saw a couple lying on top of one-another we would walk up to them and lick whomever was on top's forehead. Having your forehead licked by a strange dog must really kill the mood, because it cooled things off for a good 15-20 minutes.

The Roof is On Fire

Ok people. If you want to fill your lungs with tar, work up a nice case of emphysema, and reduce the resale value of your car by smoking, go right ahead. If it doesn't effect me, I don't care. However, today it was effecting me.

Cars, because they are designed with cancer in mind, come with ashtrays. Ashtrays are where cigarettes go to die. They are not supposed to go out the window on 80E near Dixon, nor on 113N near Davis. Especially when it's exceptionally windy. Especially when it is bone-ass dry. Especially when the freeway is surrounded on all sides, and divided by long dry grass. Lets try to suppress the retardedness.

On my way to Davis I was held up in traffic by a brush fire on 80E in the center divide. Traffic was slow for a bit, but it looked like it only burned 20 feet or so of shrubbery. (Knee!) However, when I got to Davis, then tried to leave again, I couldn't because the freeway exits were all closed due to the huge clouds of billowing smoke and sparks sent shooting across the street by the 25mph winds. So far at least 1 building has burned down. I hope they get it put out soon.

I feel safe living in San Francisco where there are no plants.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

I have new neighbors upstairs, and I hate them already. Granted, they are MUCH better than Gonzo and Bitch were, but then again, both Piranha Man and Spanky are/were better than the dreaded G&B.

(I was trying to figure out if I've ever mentioned Spanky here, but I seem to have no way of searching my past entries. At the risk of redundancy, I shall explain who he was: Spanky was a house DJ who lived directly above me. Part of my problem with him was that I would be trying to sleep but couldn't, because of the constant thump, thump, thump of his house beats coming through my ceiling. While irritating, it didn't earn him the name Spanky. What did was the summer evening when all of us fire escape neighbors had our windows open. I was trying to sleep and Spanky was upstairs getting busy. I heard the headboard up against the wall, whack, whack, whack, whack, and Spanky making happy Spanky noises. Then silence. Then the sound of hand on ass: smack, smack, smack. A female's voice, "Ow! Gently!" From that point on he was known as Spanky.)

The new neighbors, who shall remain nicknameless for the time being, are irritating in a new and creative way. It's two women and two very small dogs, all of whom have shrill but loud voices. The woman whose room is nearest the fire escape likes to call the dogs to her, then yell at them to get off the bed. She can do this for nearly an hour before the dog pees on the bed, no doubt in protest of the stupidity of the game. She doesn't like having her bed peed on, so she yells at the dog some more and shuts him out of the room. At this point she starts to sing. (This is the stage she is in now.) Her voice falls into that special range of not being bad enough to be funny, ala Piranha Man, but not quite good enough to want to listen to.

So Singy McDog Urine (I'll come up with something better eventually) has taken over the role of most annoying neighbor. After G&B left, it was re-occupied by Piranha Man with his falling asleep in front of the TV and snoring. I tried to solve the TV portion by climbing in his window one day after I was sure he was not home, and trying to program my bed-side universal remote to turn off his TV. Alas, my remote wasn't compatible. (I ask you, who buys a Portland brand TV?) So I instead solved all my evening sound problems by aiming a fan at my head before going to sleep. Low for quite noises, Medium for singing, and Hi for techno.

One day I will own a house with twice the normal insulation and A/C, at least in my bedroom. Or perhaps I can find the Cone of Silence from Get Smart on eBay and sleep in that. Whatever works.