Posts

Posted on

mistaken identity I

But I need it to sleep!
The debates were on, I watched them. I will write about them later maybe. Intro paragraph over.

Last night I was up late working on my computer, and late-late, not just late. It was about a quarter ’til two in the morning when I heard my cellphone ring back in the bedroom. As with all unexpected late-night calls, I expected some terrible news – so I went back to grab it. I didn’t recognize the number, so I took the phone out of the room to answer so as to not wake up Sharaun. When I answered, there was a very obviously drunk girl on the other line responding to my “Hello?” with “Who is this?” “Who is this,” I replied, to which she responded, “Who is this?!” We went ’round like this for a bit before I finally asked who she was trying to call, at which point she started sobbing and said “I don’t even know.” “Well,” I said, “What number were you trying to dial? Because I’m pretty sure you got the wrong one.” “I know I got the wrong number!,” she sobbed, “I don’t even know who I’m trying to call.” Being as this whole exchange was hilarious to me, and I had nothing better to do while my RAID array rebuilt, I decided to stay on the phone.

“I lost my cellphone, and I need it back,” said the girl, “I’m so effing drunk.” “Yeah, I can tell, where are you now, are you OK?” “I’m at home,” she said. “Well then, I think the best thing for you to do is drink a lot of water and go to bed, you can find your phone in the morning.” “No! I can’t find it in the morning, you don’t understand! I need it now! I have so many important numbers in there, everyone I know! Who is this?” “This is Dave, remember, you called me by mistake and now you’re talking to me.” “Yeah, hi Dave, nice to meet you. This is Katie, and I can’t find my cellphone, can you help me?” “Wait, Katie from Tahoe Joes Katie?” “No!,” she cried, “Not Katie from Tahoe Joes Katie, Katie who lost her cellphone Katie!” I laughed. “Don’t laugh at me, it’s not funny! Everyone was mean to me tonight. Some guy got so mad at me and took me home, all because I wouldn’t have sex with him. How old are you?” “I’m twenty-seven, you shouldn’t hang out with that guy anymore. Be glad he took you home.” “Twenty-seven! I’m eighteen” “Wait, you’re 18?! Where were you drinking?” “At a friend’s house, I don’t even know where.” “I gotta tell you Katie, being that it’s like 2am and you don’t know who you’re calling or where you were, I don’t think you’re finding this phone tonight. You should just go to bed and find it in the morning.”

“I already told you Dave, I can’t find it in the morning! I have to go to work. Can you drive?” “Umm, yeah, I can drive. Well, what time do you have to be at work?” “Three in the afternoon.” “Three?! You have all morning to find it!” “Nooooo!, I can’t, I need it now… important numbers… everyone was mean… guy yelled at me, etc. Can you come pick me up and help me look for my cellphone?” “I don’t think so Katie, it’s kinda late.” “I live? (here she gave me detailed directions to her address, not far from me).” “Listen Katie, when you wake up in the morning, if you remember that you talked to some random dude last night for like 30min about your cellphone, and then freak out because you think you remember giving him your address – just try to remember him saying, ‘I’m not writing any of this down,’ OK?” She laughed now. So far we’ve been on the phone about a half hour.

“So come over and pick me up and help me find my phone.” “I thought you didn’t know where it was, how many places did you go tonight?” “Two. Two houses and then in that mean guy’s car. He yelled at me because? blah blah.” “I know, I know. Well then, your phone can only be in one of three places, just go look in those places tomorrow.” “I can’t, blah blah.” “Well listen, what kinda phone was it? Nokia? Motorola?” “No, it was a Sanyo.” “Oh, no worries then, you can get a new one for like two bucks at Wal Mart.” She stops sobbing to laugh. “How old are you again?” “I’m still twenty-seven.” “Yeah, I remember you told me that.” “Yes. Yes I did.” “So are you coming to get me?” “Uh, no, probably not.” “I need my phone!!! Why did I drink so much?! Everyone was mean to me, my friends left me!”

Oh man, I talked to this poor girl for like 40min, until 2:30am last night. I ended up calling her cellphone for her on 3-way, and we got her voice mail. We talked about this mean guy who wanted her to “go farther than she wanted to,” and I gave her some 27-year-old-to-18-year-old “fatherly” advice to stay away from such dudes. It was a hilarious conversation.

That’s it, I have no more. Be happy with the story, it’s hard to type all those quotation marks and get a conversation down in writing. Dave out.

Posted on

and my brain folds

Leave now or be ever remembered by the void your bones create in lava.
Mmm… post rock. How many times have I written of thee and thy apocalyptic sound? How fitting that I find another great band tonight, and listen to their clamour as I read about the impending asplosion of Mt. St. Helens. For real y’all, that thing is ready to blow. It might as well be shooting molten earth from my speakers right now as I bang my head, in a mathy kinda way, to some old Mono albums. Rad. Right now I’m drinking straight out of a two-liter bottle of root beer, I don’t even care. Intro paragraph over.

Today (yesterday, for those who don’t understand my nightly posting schedule) was a good day at work. Not because I got some praise or anything, but because I worked hard and got a lot done. And at the end of the day, or, around 7pm, I had my junk ready and was able to head home with a clear conscience. Sometimes the best days are when I’m just busy enough that I’m hovering right above that “one more task and my brain folds” line, and that’s what today was. I was right at the limit of my multitasking, a limit which I consider to be pretty respectable. The day ended well too, with a free communal meal at Anthony’s place, where I managed to draw a couple cold ones off the keg before it sputtered out. Yeah, just about the right end to a productive day.

I contrast days like today with their antithesis, days I like to chalk up to dissolution. Maybe I’m the only one who has these days, I dunno, maybe I’m the only one who can sail through them without guilt. I’m talking about days where I come into work, and literally don’t do a dang thing unless it’s unavoidable. Most of the time, you end up doing something, because just being there seems to make people want to ask you questions or answer e-mail. But there are those rare days where my brain checks out and I’m just sitting there. I dunno, in the beginning when I started working at my job – I was new and there wasn’t much to do, so I would always go home feeling guilty for taking a paycheck. Nowadays, things are so busy I relish the slow times, giving myself one-off “working vacation” days when there’s nothing pressing to attend to. It’s just, sometimes, you get a bit tired of it all – and need to check out. Or, at least, I do.

You guys wanna hear some crap? Well, if you remember, I was recently complaining about having to shell out two deductibles to our auto insurance because a) Sharaun’s car got broken into, and b) her windshield cracked down the middle when she washed it with cold water on a hot day? Well, that was the second windshield she’d been through on that car since we bought it, only a year ago. We got it back two on Friday, today is Wednesday. Today a rock flew up and shattered her windshield. Again. For the third time her windshield is broken.

You can imagine the scene. It’s circa 3pm yesterday and I get a phone call at my desk, “Why can’t I just have an effing windshield?!?!” “What?,” I reply. Through sobs I hear, “A rock just flew up and broke my windshield!!” A frustrated teary scream and then, “I don’t understand!! Why?!?!” “Calm down,” I urge, holding back my own rage at the fates for casting us this hand, “We’ll get it fixed, I know it sucks but it’ll be OK.” Why y’all, why? Like I said, the insurance agency must be taking one hell of a toll and paying out their ass for all the hurricane damage – so they’ve got adjusters on the roadside chucking rocks at passing cars to make up for losses. Well we’re done, stop breaking our junk and leave us alone.

11:30 in the PM, time for me to put away the root beer, turn off the lights, and hit the hay. G’night. Oh, and, hey new kid, the block welcomes you. Dave out.

Posted on

danced until we were sweaty

I'm down!
I wonder what percentage of the food bought and brought into American homes just ends up getting thrown out. I mean, I know at our house we’re constantly throwing away leftovers and stuff that’s spoiled because we bought and never used it. Whole tubs of old chili right down the disposal, a half-eaten hunk of cheese that’s now mold-ridden, a steak that stayed too long in the freezer and is caked with ice; we don’t discriminate on what we waste, we chuck it all. It’s something I’d really like to get better at, if not for the sake of knowing there are people in the world who are sick with hunger, at least for the more American reason of maximizing our food expenditures. It’d be interesting to see if big companies like Wonder have statistics on how much of the bread they produce will ultimately end up, uneaten, in a landfill. I bet it would be pretty shocking.

I hate it when you get a defective coffee cup, you know, one that leaks around the little paper seams? No matter which way I turn the little drinking-hole, some coffee still seems to dribble out from that mysterious breach. Now I’ve got coffee on the keyboard, and all over my hand. Stupid Starbucks, for $1.17 you’d think I’d get a commemorative brushed aluminum mug every time or something. Back in the good ol’ days (and when I say that, I mean what I see on Andy Griffith), a cup of joe cost a cool nickel – free if you were a cop (I would surely qualify due to how often I’m laying down the law). Now I’m paying 25 times that for some beans that were probably hauled down a mountain by barefoot children, Starbucks’ whips cracking at their backs.

Tonight we went over for dinner and cocktails at Pat & Cynthia’s place (oh my, how 70s of us all… dinner, cocktails, and a game of Scrabble). Indian food was on the menu, and it was the yum. Keeping with the 70s theme, after dinner we all slammed several lines of coke and danced until we were sweaty, then went home with each others’ partners. It was a night thick with curry and dirty, unprotected sex. And for the drug users in my readership, I realize that you can’t “slam” lines… the verb just sounded funny.

I saw or read a story once, either on Rescue 911 or in Reader’s Digest, about a guy who got trapped under a his tractor. His wife was away and he lived miles from anyone, so he was basically stuck and left for dead. The story went on to talk about how the guy’s dog saved his life by keeping him from dying of thirst. The dog would run down to a pond, get all wet, and then run back to his trapped master who would suck the water off the dog’s fur. Apparently, the dog did this over and over to keep the guy from dehydrating to death. This went on for something like a week before the man’s wife finally got back home and found him. That’s a good dog right there. Maybe not the ultimate best dog, who would’ve also rolled in mashed potatoes and gravy, but pretty darn close. All the dogs I’ve ever had only roll in roadkill.

Wow, four paragraphs, and not a single one on the same subject. Sorry for the randomness, at least I wrote. I can’t believe that my wife read the blog… verbotten!

Dave out.

Posted on

Eh?
At my funeral, if any of my friends get up and speak about me, I hope at least one of them opens with, “Dave was one of the funniest motherfuckers I’ve ever known.” The “one of” part is optional, of course, in case I was just that funny. Really, what an honor – and the expletive at a funeral, who cares? No disrespect to me really, I like people that know how to get a laugh. So when I die, I expect ya’ll to get out your best eulogy-writin’ pens and keep the jokes coming.

Just got done with a late-night conference call to Shanghai, a three-hour event that found me eating dinner with an earpiece and microphone boom in my ear, on mute, listening for my name so I could respond with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question, can you repeat?” It went well though, I mean, how couldn’t it – it’s that same hated presentation I’ve been griping about for months. The same one folks, again, one more time. I balanced my time between barely paying attention and working on my website, which seemed to work out OK. I am so dedicated.

Today Sharaun went out and bought me some new clothes. Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. She’ll do this every once in a while, in some attempt to “update” me to the latest “cool” look. I don’t really mind this, other than I feel like people look at me and see someone who’s dressing based on advice read in “How to Dress Hip for Dummies, 2004 Edition.” She’s a master at scouring the clearance racks for $4 jeans and $2 t-shirts, of which there are usually quite a few in my hopelessly unique and misshapen height-to-girth ratio. Anyway, because the alternative was execution by pistol, I tired them on for her tonight – with surprisingly sexy results:


My lord! Look at that snappy-dressed gay feller! Have you seen my trucker hat?
Cargo pants and a flask full of Jack. Let’s go clubbing. Put on some Dave Matthews.
Bootcut jeans, some kinda logo’d tee, and a bunch of grapes. Oh God get me out of this makeover.

I was extremely happy when I came home from work today and hit the bathroom. Not because of my impending bowel movement, although that does offer some minor joy, but for the copy of the California 2004 Voter Guide I saw on the floor. Sitting on top of the Maxim I bought for my last flight/stay in Taiwan, and the GQ Sharaun bought because Justin Tenderlegs was on the cover, was an SAT-test-booklet-lookin’ document that promised to tell me all about the latest Indian gaming referendums that I can vote on come November 2nd. Oh, and the reason I was so happy? Because it being in the bathroom meant Sharaun must’ve brought it in there, which means she mighta been interested in it, which means maybe she’ll read up on stuff and vote.

As if helping to determine our country’s next leader isn’t exciting enough, I get to vote on 16 confusingly-written “Propositions.” Why don’t they write these things for humans? I’m a friggin’ college graduate, and I can’t really understand some of this. Where’s the “definition of terms” section telling yokels like me what this politic-speak is trying to say? What is a “compact,” and how do you “negotiate the amendment” of one? This “non-partisan” review of the props is pretty much written in the common tongue, and helped me a little more.

Hey, you guys see what I see? An entry mixed with media! That means I don’t have to write as much, I mean, one picture is worth at least one paragraph? right? I sure think so.

Dave out.

Posted on

to narrowly avoid divorce

This moll will break yo ass down!
Yeah, Sunday afternoon and I’ve done absolutely nothing all day. Did the first “real” test of the Winch Witch today, using the new “all-drill” winch mechanism. What’s better, it worked… it totally worked. Now it’s just tweaking and refining. Now I’m sitting here wasting my day away in a way that’s only afforded to the people of the modern day. No crops to harvest or animals to kill for dinner – the worst challenge I have to face is my bothersome headcold and rubbed-raw nostrils. And, having just thrown in the Fellowship of the Rings, it seems like I’m only planning to get lazier and lazier. I’m sick, I deserve it, right?

Last night Sharaun and I had a fight; the likes of which we haven’t had in a long time. I’m talking a real humdinger. Seems like the biggest fights always stem from the most minuscule and ridiculous things. This one, for instance, started with me asking Sharaun why she had turned on the air without closing the bedroom window first, and soon escalated into swearing and yelling (both the swearing and the yelling mostly done by yours truly). So dumb. Thankfully, we were able to smooth things over soon enough, and with apologies were able to narrowly avoid divorce. I’m glad we rarely fight, it’s a waste of time.

I know I haven’t stopped talking about it, but really, the new album by the Arcade Fire is hands-down the best album released this year. I worked in the yard yesterday for nearly five hours, and I listened to that 47min album the whole time. Over and over and over as I huffed and puffed and sweat in the grass and dirt. Happy the whole time. Don’t take my word for it, go out and buy it, or download it, or something. Just get it in your ears for God’s sake! You’ll be a better man for it.

Back in high school, I started smoking a pipe for a couple reasons. My fake-uncle (you know, your dad’s good friend who your family for some reason starts calling “uncle?”) had smoked one for as long as I can remember, and I was reading The Lord of the Rings for the first time. I can remember sitting out on the screened-in porch in Florida, smoking my pipe while turning the brittle yellowed pages of the coverless copy of The Fellowship that I’d picked up from the local used book store. I used to smoke whatever I vanilla-ey stuff I could pick up from the smoke shop in the mall, but soon developed a taste for more quality tabac. Now I have a nice pipe collection and a few varieties of smoke, but I rarely sit down with a pipe anymore. Every time I think about it, I remember how much I used to enjoy smoking my pipe. I think the fact that Sharaun won’t abide my smoking in the house stops me more often than not.

Last night I set the TiVo to record the first presidential debate, in hopes that it’ll give me some further insight into the upcoming election. At this time, I would still classify my current allegiance as somewhat tenuous… although still aligning with my inborn lean to the left. Having lunch the other day with an uber-politico friend of mine (a hardcore Independent with equal amounts of doubt for each major-party candidate) only helped to muddy up my mind on the whole thing. As sad as it sounds, I’m really looking to these debates, and the discussion and answers that come from them, to help me decide. I mean, I know it may sound superficial and “American” to rest my vote on a media event, a Jerry Springer -esque showdown if you will, but I have to admit it will probably play a big role in my decision. At this point, however, I just can’t see myself voting for W – which doesn’t leave me with a lot of options. I just don’t know.

I was going to write about how I’ve never been to a funeral, but I changed my mind because I want to go to bed more than I want to write about how I’ve never been to a funeral.

Dave out.

Posted on

a bigger desk this time

Workin' hard to make a better blog for you.
A quick entry before bed. No bloggin’ lately because I’ve been working on the new calendar and PermaLink features for the site. They are both up and working now, with some minor changes still needed (calendar needs to “grey out” days without entries, and should give a more elegant 404 page when you try to click on an entry in the future).

Anyway, I’ve been feeling pretty sick. I think I’ll just go ahead and clear the blog “cache” by posting all the half-written entries from this week, right now…. so… get… umm… ready. Because here comes some disjointed, unfinished stuff, but I gotta get rid if it.

Written sometime on Tuesday, during my non-presenting time at the customers:

Conference room, two people openly sleeping in their chairs with no shame. Full of Starbucks and watching a catering van pull up out front. Must be lunch, looks like sandwiches… I was hoping for something more extravagant. As much as I complain about presenting the same thing over and over again, I actually really enjoy going out and meeting with customers. I like when people recognize you from the last time you were here, I like answering questions and feeling smart, and I like the “worldly” feeling I get from traveling. So far I’ve answered five or so questions, and otherwise just sat here taking notes to keep busy. Figured I’d try and write a bit.

Slept from takeoff to landing on the flight today. Put on my little flash MP3 player and let the Arcade Fire drive my dreams. I woke up with my mouth hanging open as we hit the runway, hoping that I hadn’t been snoring, but pretty sure I had. Now I’m stuck singing the songs in my head as this guy presents and these people ask questions. Falling asleep hard, just caught myself with my eyes closed and head falling forward.

Across town, dodging lunchtime traffic on the 808, another customer and another presentation. A bigger desk this time, darker wood and more chairs – same sleepiness. Three more hours and I can head back to the airport for the jet home. At least then I can sleep.

Written sometime yesterday, before I felt too crappy to keep going:

I’m no longer afraid y’all, this is the best album released thus far this year. At first I was hesitant, thinking it might have been puppy love, a crush with no long-term emotional roots. I was wrong, it only gets better each time. Arcade Fire you’re my hero.

And finally, written right now:

I’m tired. A more proper entry tomorrow, I promise. Dave out.

Posted on

does this count?

Old dude in black and white.
10pm on a Monday night. Trying to decide whether or not to iron tomorrow’s monkey-suit tonight or wake up early and get it done. Since I have to split around 5:30am to make my short flight, I don’t think I want to wake up early. But, I really don’t feel like ironing right now. If I was in Taiwan, I’d have already sent tomorrow’s shirt and pants to be pressed, and some unseen laborer would’ve hung them nicely in my closet. Where are my unseen laborers? Owell. The nice thing about tomorrow is that I’m really only going to press flesh; I’m not even presenting. I’m there for “face time,” and to answer any questions that might come up. To me my motivation is more like a free lunch and a day away from the office… nearly as noble, right?

I’m sitting here looking at my desk before me, and I’m disgusted by how messy and cluttered it is. Here’s just a rundown of what I can see: a bottle, one-fourth full, of generic tropical-flavored Tums antacids; a Diet Coke; electric nosehair trimmers; a ziplock bag full of Garbage Pail Kids; stacks and stacks of CDs; a plush monkey; spindles and spindles of blank media; a wedding-cake groom figurine; a vintage cassette walkman; two cans of Play-Doh; a wireless universal garage door keypad; piles of mail; fingernail clippers; pipes and pipe tobacco; an empty prescription bottle of allergy medicine; one plastic troll with bright blue hair; one plastic troll with bright red hair; an incense burner shaped like a wizard; an empty glass on a coaster; loose batteries; a faucet attachment for a sink; and it goes on and on. I gotta get less pack-ratty.

I don’t really have time to be writing right now, on top of having nothing to say – I should be sleeping. Instead, I’m sitting here listening to the Arcade Fire and staring at my Word doc. I think I’m going to take some vacation soon. Not that I’ve been taxing myself at work lately or anything, I just started thinking. We’re not going anywhere for Christmas this year, so the five or six days I usually reserve for that are just going to go unused if I don’t do something with them. I was thinking, since Sharaun’s off for a while now – that we could maybe take a trip or something. Maybe run away and hide out somewhere for a while, just us. I used the word “thinking” a lot in this paragraph.

Midnight and my fingers don’t seem to be writing anymore. They keep asking my brain for more words, but he mutters back something about being sleepy and kinda hot. Sharaun’s been asleep on the couch for hours, so I’ll now go through my light-turning-out, door-closing, wife-waking routine. Today on the phone I laughed at a joke I wasn’t really listening to, just because the teller of the joke was laughing, and then realized that can be dangerous. What the heck, or who the heck, am I laughing at? What am I associating myself with, what did I just find funny? Better not to laugh when you’re not paying attention, this today I learned.

Hey Kirby corporation, you send one damn vacuum representative to our house each week; we still haven’t bought your $2000 vacuum, despite your kind offer for a “payment plan.” The day I take out a line of credit to pay for a damn vacuum is the day my identity has been stolen. Your van-ferried teenage salespeople in loose-fitting khaki’s and reeking of Hilfiger cologne can’t market for crap, the 2hr training session they went to only makes them come off like pre-pubescent used-car salesmen. Stop coming to my house, we know our vacuum sucks. It’s made of plastic and came from Wal Mart, yours is all metal and can tow a boat or suck up piles of my dead skin – I don’t care. My wife hates you and so do I.

It’s gone! He already took down the site, just as I was getting to like it. Owell. Loaded the Arcade Fire and Grand National to my MP3 thumbdrive and I’m ready for the flight tomorrow. Not related to anything, I found this in my old journal and loved it so much:

I describe, visually in the form of a Venn diagram, my ability to detach.

Dave out.