14 posts tagged “story”

Earlier this week Cori was Twittering about going to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo and it got me thinking about my own experience seeing them live.

Back in the early days after Y2K (before I met my lady) I met this girl, lets call her 'V'. She was nice. Cute. Nerdy. Kind of a tom boy. Was into the same hip-hop I was. She worked on the floor above me and kept odd hours; since I was working the swing shift at the time I too was there at odd hours (well regular for me, odd for most people.)

Sometimes V would come around my office and we would talk and flirt.

One evening she asked me to go see a concert with her.

It should be noted that I don't care for live music from bands. It just never sounds as good as it does on the CD and the music on the CD is what I'm really into. I know, I know, there is a whole different energy when it's live, whatever. I just don't like it.

Moving on...

I asked what she wanted to see and she said she had tickets to see Ladysmith Black Mambazo.
I thought, cool, I know who those guys are and I don't see how they could suck live and she's already got the tickets and is refusing my offer to pay.
Score!

So the fateful night approaches. We'll leave from work, I'm planning on taking at least part of the night off.
I meet her outside and in the car with her is....
HER FATHER!

You see dumbass me, thinking that maybe all this flirting was going somewhere, thought that maybe this was some kind of first date.
I mean, she asked me out, right?
She did. And to boot she never mentioned anything about bringing along another person, let alone her father!
You don't bring your father on first dates, do you?
 
Well, the concert was very nice.
When it was over she dropped me off back at the office and I worked my shift until I had made of the time I'd missed "going out".

For a while at least V and I were still cool, saw each other around the building but it never was the same after that night.
And then I met my lady and really haven't thought of V since then. Except for when I'm telling the tale of the masturbating janitor, but that's a story for another day.

It's a phrase heard often around Oceanaire Estates. When ever something happens that is, in my estimation, beyond belief it's among the first things I say.

Some of tales are too dirty or mean to ever see the light of day, I write them and save them as private for perusal and dispute settlement later on. Some end up being extended TXT or email conversations with my friends and still others are so LOL-tacular that I save them for face to face meetings.

The story I'm about to tell started late last year.

After hearing from Steve Betz about the wonderfulness of a magazine called Imbibe and buying a few issues from the newsstand I decided to subscribe. I bought a subscription for myself and gave a gift subscription to a friend.

Imbibe Magazine

That is where the trouble started. She got her issue before I got mine. Not a big deal really, couple of days delay due to the holidays I thought.

About a week went by, still no Imbibe in my mail box.

It's the new year and I still don't have my magazine. The holidays are over, there isn't really a reason for it to be this late. Everyday when I come home from work I comb through the mail and ask "has my new issue of Imbibe come yet?"

Yesterday I decided I had spent enough time waiting. I decided to send a letter to the magazine hoping they would send me a replacement issue but not expecting it.

I thought I would get some sort of canned response saying something along the lines of "we're sorry for the inconvenience but this time we can only extend your subscription one issue."
Instead I got a reply from an acutal person.

Hi Gene,

Thank you for your e-mail and for sharing Imbibe. I'm sorry to hear you have not received your latest issue. The address I have on file matches what you have below, so I will mail you a replacement copy right away.

I will also file a complaint with the USPS and follow up with you when our next issue is mailed to make sure you receive it. Thanks for your patience.

Cheers,
Siobhan  

Date: November 21, 2008

Time: About 12:45

Place: Office Kitchen; Templeton, CA

I'm standing in the kitchen, eating a piece of leftover chicken over a trashcan the doctor's wife, walks in. She's like some sort of office mother here; always keeping an eye on people, making sure we all keep in line. So her walking in on me eating cold, leftover chicken over a trashcan probably isn't the best thing.

As I finish, toss the bones in the can, close the lid and begin washing my hands she picks up paperwork her husband has left on the kitchen tables.

While washing my hands I think to myself that I should make some sort of small talk.

Those that know me can attest that small talk is not my strong suit but I decided to take stab at it anyway.

"So, you're a vegetarian, right?"

"Yes."

"Are your children vegetarian? My girlfriend is and she's always saying that when we have kids she wants to bring them up vegetarian."

She smiles pleasantly and says, "They mostly are but by choice. I didn't bring them up that way. It's so hard to be vegetarian and a kid. You can't go to parties or friends houses and expect to find something to eat most of the time. But now that they are older they choose to be mostly. Doc, obviously, is not."

"Yeah, I can imagine. Even as an adult it's hard to find vegetarian fare at restaurants. Soups and rice are made with chicken stock all the time, I can't imagine how hard it would have been to raise your kids vegetarian."

"Exactly. That's why I didn't. I still have trouble going to restaurants. We went to AJ's the other night and I asked for a baked potato with broccoli on it but they wouldn't do it."

"Well that's very shocking. They have broccoli on the menu, why couldn't they put it on the potato?"

You know what, does anyone care about this dialog?

Probably not.

We stood in the kitchen talking about vegetarian foods, restaurant options and nightmares for a good five minutes. Me leaning against the counter, her across the room sorting through paperwork.

The conversation came to an end; she was done with his papers and I had finished the apple tart that I had picked up from a dish a patient brought in.

I go back into my office, sit down in my chair and suddenly realize:

My fly had been down the entire time.

Previously: Afraid of Heights

Annie is always running late. Always. We are never on time to anything.

So when we go on a trip we always hit the road later than the time we had previously agreed upon. This day was no different.

We were going to San Diego for a wedding and to see our friends.

I had hoped to be in San Diego by no later than 7 PM; depending on traffic the drive can take anywhere from 4:15 to a full six hours. We were leaving on a Friday afternoon and would more than likely hit traffic though Los Angeles. When we left the house nearly an hour later than we had planned I was in no mood to make a 45-minute stop in Santa Barbara for lunch.

As I said before, this is a pretty regular occurrence when we go out of town so we kind of have a routine that we do when traveling.

We pull into Santa Barbara; Annie gets out and goes into Chipotle while I circle the block. Usually by the time I come back around she's on the corner waiting for me with our food. She gets back in and we continue on down the freeway.

While I drive she eats her burrito; when she's done she will tear off pieces of a large quesadilla and feed them to me while I drive.

On this day she tore off an extra large piece and put it in my mouth. It was seriously a very large chunk of tortilla and cheese. She saw it was too big and asked if I wanted her to tear away part of it; I shook my head no. I was
chewing and biting little bits off here and there and eventually the entire piece was in my mouth.

This is where the trouble starts.
I am driving down the freeway, in the fast lane, in pretty heavy traffic and suddenly I'm choking. No, I'm not just choking I'm CHOKING!
I can't breath. I take a sip of the drink in the console and try to swallow but that just makes it worse.
My chest is tightening.
Tears are streaming down my face.

Annie can tell something is wrong with me and is asking if I'm OK. But I can't talk.
I sit forward on the seat a little and turn on my blinker. I'm hoping she realizes that I'm choking and will slap me on my back.
But she doesn't. She's asking if I got a hot pepper in my quesadilla somehow.
I'm changing lanes, trying to get over to the shoulder and thinking to myself, "can I do the heimlich on myself in the car? Do I need to get out? Will I have to slam myself against the car door? Am I seriously going to die this way?"

Finally I'm on the shoulder. My face is wet with tears. In one quick movement I turn on the hazard lights and throw the car into park before it's even stopped. It makes a horrible grinding and complaining sound.

I've got one hand up near my throat, mimicking the traditional choking sign.
With the other hand I'm pulling my parking brake. (The transmission is not a kick-stand, I always engage the parking brake, even in an emergency it seems.)

I'm convulsing in my seat trying hard to get this thing out my throat.
Suddenly with a great heave from deep inside I cough and it's free.
Bits of cheese and lemonade come shooting from my mouth as my air passage is cleared.
I can breath!

This next part often grosses people out when I tell it but it's the truth:
The piece that I coughed up; I ate it.

Now that I can breath again I tell Annie that I had been choking and she breaks down.
She starts screaming at me. The first thing she says is "You're not eating licorice at the wedding!"
She's going on and on about how I'm never allowed to eat again and how dare I choke while I'm driving as well as chastising me for pulling over at a dangerous part of the road just around a corner where it might be hard for cars to see us sitting there.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to be very practical.
"What if you hadn't been here? Well I wouldn't have been in this situation.
I don't usually eat while I'm driving because it's too dangerous."

After she calms down a bit I pull back on the freeway and continue our journey. About a minute later I look down at the floor and see the quesadilla still lying there in its protective foil.

I look at her.
I look at the quesadilla.
I look at her again and say "Hey, give me the rest of that quesadilla, I'm hungry."

And then she started crying again. This time she insists that I pull off the
freeway, stop on the side of the road and eat it myself.
Seemed fair enough so I did just that.

I pulled off the freeway and parked under an underpass. While she was cleaning up her eye makeup and telling me that I shouldn't have parked under an underpass because she's afraid of earthquakes I devoured the quesadilla.

Gone in under a minute.
Every bite chewed and swallowed.

When I started crumpling the foil it was wrapped in she noticed how quickly I ate it and started crying and screaming again. I tossed the foil in the bag, turned the car around and got right back on the freeway headed towards
our destination.

This transcription is as close as I can recall to actual events. I wish I had written it all down right after it happened because I feel like I'm missing something but it's been close to 24 hours now and my memory of the event is quickly fading...

SD: Fish, explain to me what an electoral vote is.
Fish: Hmmm...OK...are you in a union?
SD: No
Fish: Do you know how a union works?
SD: No
Fish: Hmmmm....OK...well...OK...when you vote you're voting for someone but what you are really voting is for someone else to go and vote for you.
SD: What?
Fish: Um....OK, so you know how Al Gore lost in 2000 but he had the popular vote?
SD: No. But whatever.
Fish: OK...well...You know how the United States is a democracy?
SD: Yes.
Fish: OK. It's not really a democracy. We are a republic.
SD: What? We are a democracy!
Fish: OK, we are what's called a republic where we elect other people to do our voting for us. We are a republican democracy. (I realize I made a gaffe here, I should have said "representative democracy" but there you have it.)
SD: You can't be a republican and a democrat
Fish: That's not what I'm saying. Look , if we lived in a democracy we would be voting all the time, like every week. Every time there is a decision to be made we would have to vote. Right?
SD: I guess
Fish: OK. So rather than do that we elect people to vote for us. 
SD: Uh huh.
Fish: So that's what an electoral vote is. We vote for someone to vote for us.
SD: What?
Fish: *Sigh* - OK so you know California has like 30 million people in it?
SD: Yes
Fish: OK, well, when all those people went and voted for the president. Right? A bunch voted for McCain and more voted for Barack Obama. Right? Who ever gets the most votes wins the electoral votes. The votes that count towards the presidency. So California has 55 votes. There maybe 30 million people here but those 30 million people are represented by 55 people who vote for us.
SD: So if you voted for McCain...you didn't actually vote for him because he didn't get enough votes?
Fish: Yeah. I guess. Even if he got 49% of the vote and Obama for 51% all that matters is that 51%. He won so all the votes go to him.
SD: What if those people don't vote for who you tell them to?
Fish: I don't know. I'm sure they can vote for whoever they want if they wanted but they are supposed to vote for who we tell them to. If they didn't I'm sure there would be trouble.
SD: Why does California have 55 votes?
Fish: It's based on population. California has the most people so we get the most votes. We get 55 where a small state like Hawaii only has 4 because they don't have as many people.
SD: But what about Texas?
Fish: They have a lot too.
SD: But it's bigger than California.
Fish: Yes but only in size, it doesn't matter how big the state is it's about how many people live there. Alaska is bigger than California and Texas but they don't have many votes because nobody lives in Alaska.
SD: Are you sure?
Fish: Yes.
SD: Why 55?
Fish: Actually, I don't know. (I've since learned it is the number of people we have in the House and Senate.)

At this point the phone rang and I was off the hook for having to explain this any further.

The setting:
Halloween party

The cast:
Asian Guy (I can't remember his name.)
Dude Dressed As A Keg Of Beer.

Asian Guy was dressed as Neo from The Matrix.
DDAAKOB was dressed as...I think the name says it all...

OK so DDAAKOB comes bounding in the room, literally bounding, like Tigger. He sees Asian Guy and gives him a hug/handshake.

DDAAKOB: "Are you the Asian guy from The Matrix?"
Asian Guy: "Yeah."
DDAAKOB: "Damn! Dude! I knew you'd be dressed as an Asian something!"

This afternoon, after work I went to go donate blood.
It's been a while since I've donated and I've been thinking of getting back into the habit of donating regularly.

I made an appointment for 4:00, showed up just a few minutes late and was told that I would have to wait an hour to donate.
I wasn't too happy about that but I didn't have anything else going on so I waited.

In preparation for this donating event I spent all day long eating and hydrating. I had double helpings of breakfast and lunch. I drank 5 glasses of water before noon and another four after lunch an orange juice on the way to donate and a bottle of water while I was waiting to donate.

After answering all the mandatory questions about my medical history I was finally allowed to lay down in one of the chairs and offer up a vein.

That's where the problem started.
The nurse put the blood pressure cuff on me, inflated it to the point where it hurt, had me squeeze the little ball, etc.
After what seemed like an eternity she found a vein, or at least thought she did.
She started sticking me with the needle and it started to hurt like it's never hurt before.
It stung and ached and my arm was on fire all at the same time.
Suddenly I was sweating.
"Ouch, that hurts." I said.
She adjusted the needle and it hurt less for a moment.
"The needle is very near the vein and that's the pain your feeling," she told me.
She readjusted the needle and as soon as she did my arm hurt twice as much as it did before.
I made my discomfort known and she asked if I wanted to stop the donation.
"Yes!" I said between my teeth.
She pulled out the needle, put a gauze patch on my arm and while she was wrapping it with the tape said to me:
"I'm sorry, it just wasn't big enough."

Next weekend is Comic Con in San Diego and I've got tickets for all four days and the preview night on Wednesday where, assuming we get into town on time, we'll get to see the pilot for the new JJ Abrahams show "Fringe" months before everyone else.

We booked a hotel room in May and it was already too late, just about everything was booked solid; we were looking at a hotel online, deciding whether or not to stay there and when we refreshed the page five minutes later it was booked.

In the end we found a hotel about 30 miles from downtown, not a bad drive considering our former commutes to work (hers 60+ miles one way, mine 30) but far enough to be inconvenient too.

A few weeks later Office Wife said that we could stay with her for a couple days before their friend from out of town came to stay with them.

This is where the fun starts...

I called the hotel to change our reservation.
The automated attendant picked up and said "press 1 for blah blah blah, press 2 for reservations, press..." I pressed 2, I needed to change my reservation.

After being on hold where the "celebrity" hotel spokesperson actually read part of "A Tale of Two Cities" in lieu of hold music a man named Thomas picked up.

I explained the situation to him and he said "Oh yeah, you'll need to press 0 for that."
"But this is the number for reservations, I pressed 2. I'm trying to change my reservation."
"Oh yeah, it makes sense that you did that but just call back and press 0."
Begrudgingly I did so.
I pressed 0, the phone rang once and then someone picked up.

It was Thomas again! I couldn't believe it.
"Um, I just talked to you."
"Oh yeah, I needed to change desks so I had you call back."

Had he been able to see my face he might not have been so nonchalant with his lazy explanation for why I had to call back.

Interior: CVS Pharmacy

Time: approx 2:00 PM Thursday January 10, 2008

 Fish stands in line to buy some Kleenex brand Kleenex (with Aloe & E) and CVS brand TheraFlu.
 In front of him stands a man, early to mid forties, wearing a heavy navy blue T-Shirt, running shorts and flip flops.

There is a table in front of the bank of registers where Christmas items are marked 90% off. (Nine cents for a box of candy canes, usually 99 cents.) On this table the man has placed two bottles of wine, a greeting card and a bottle of water.

One bottle of wine has a cork shoved in the top and a receipt taped to the outside of it; the other bottle is unopened.

 He walks up to the register and tells the woman he wants to return both bottles of wine.

"Sorry, we don't do returns on alcohol."
"What do you mean?"
"It's company policy."

The man scans the receipt.
"It doesn't say I can't on here."

The cashier, a plump woman with dark, curly hair and a mean looking face, calls over to the man in the photo department.

"Sean! Can we do a return on some wine?"
Sean, a balding black man in his early thirties, wearing a shirt  with a tie under his lab coat; looks over at the man, then at the  cashier and with a look that seems to say "are you serious?" nods his head yes.

The cashier scans the bottle and the register beeps. She asks to see the mans ID.
Clearly frustrated, the man shows her his ID and she looks at it only for a moment.

As she goes over the receipt she asks why he is returning the bottle.
It seemed like an offhanded question.

"I didn't like the in mouth."

Fish raises his brow and thinks "[expletive] winers {sic}. 'In mouth'. What kind of person buys wine then returns it to a CVS?"

The cashier looks up at him, her brow raised as well.

"The texture," the man explains further. "I didn't like the texture."

At this point Sean opens a second register and Fish purchases his > wares and exits CVS.

 -Fin-

Really.
I get my hair cut at the barbers college and I usually end up with a decent haircut. Going to the barbers college is always a bit of an experience. All kinds of crazy people come in trying to sell you what ever they've got. CDs, watches, clothes, makeup....maybe half the time there is a dice game going on in the classroom in the back.

So like I was saying, usually I end up with a good cut. Usually. Yesterday was not one of those days. I was in desperate need of a cut, my hair was getting heavy.

I sat down in the barbers chair and when he asked how I wanted my hair cut I said:
"Not too short. Trim up the sides. Thin out the top. Trim the front. A normal haircut, one that doesn't look like I just got a hair cut"

The guy nods and gets to work on my head. And when I say work I mean he was going crazy with the shears and the clippers. I mean really working my head over. At first I was a little worried but I recalled a few times when barbers have done this and I've had to tell them to take more off so I didn't say anything. Sure there was a lot of hair falling onto the apron but there always is. I have lots and lots of hair, and then more on top of that. Not to mention it had been just over a month since my last cut so seeing lots of hair wasn't too alarming.

Finally he finishes, takes off the apron and hands me a mirror. And this is what happened, as best as I can recall...

"What the [expletive] is this?!" Jumping out of the chair.
"You don't like?"
"Why is it so short?"
"You don't like it?"
"Hell no I don't like it! I asked for a normal cut! What is this?"
"A normal cut."

So now an instructor comes around.

"Sir can you keep it down. What's the problem."
"This!" Pointing at my head.
"You don't like your cut?"
"You're [expletive] [expletive] [expletive] right I don't like it."
"Didn't you tell him what you wanted."
"Yes and this isn't it. I asked for a normal hair cut. This is a [expletive] buzz cut. I'm not paying for this."
"Sir..."
"No I'm not paying for it."
"Sir..."
"Am I clear?
"OK, fine" Looking very angry.
So I left.

I'd been through this once before, but with much less shock, swearing and attention. Previously I grabbed the instructor and told him how I asked for my hair to be cut and what it now looks like and he let me go. But that was years ago.

I can't comb it, I can't push it forward, I can't do anything. All I can do with my hair is let it sit there until it grows out. It I put my hand on my head the hair doesn't even come up above my fingers.
I am so not looking forward to going into work tomorrow, the teasing will be relentless.

Before

This is like three or four days before the incident. It really doesn't do justice to the insanity that is my hair in the morning.

After