So about a month after killing Hugh (R.I.P, buddy) a new unwelcome guest decided to make our home his. He made no attempt to hide himself, either; typically an unwanted guest will hang low so as to not inflame the true inhabitants. Hugh was good for that. He was timid. We would occasionally see him streak across the floor, a flash of grey and feet, but that was it.
The following story tells a bit more about the arrival, triumph, and ultimate defeat of Hugh:
Pink Mold
Elliott Sinclair the III, is a different breed than Hugh was. He's bold. He'll stand in the middle of our living room floor and give you hard looks.
Whenever we first christened Elliott Sinclair the III, we assumed with a name like Elliott Sinclair the III he was sure to be a classy character - he's a BLUE BLOOD, for fucks sake, same sort of pedigree as a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. Educated at Cornell, studied overseas, knows which fork to use with salad and which to use with steak (medium-rare, always with red wine.)
Elliott Sinclair the III, a true renaissance man.
I honestly thought our relationship with Elliott Sinclair the III was going to be different. The staring contest I could handle. I thought he was simply making his presence known, kind of a weekly debutante ball, except he was a dude. And a mouse.
The time finally arrived when we decided Elliott Sinclair the III had worn out his welcome. The debutante balls were increasing in frequency, making guests uncomfortable. He was pooping on the floor. He's a mouse.
I bought the, as the gentleman at Busy Beaver so eloquently described them as, 'Tom and Jerry' mouse traps. $1.49 for 2, what a sad way for someone with so much potential to go out.
I set the traps out, both armed with a peanut butter covered cracker.
Then.... nothing.
Elliott Sinclair the III had vanished!!! To the hamptons, I surmised, to party with Paris, Nicole, and those douchebag twin guys who are in that really shitty band.
Cheers Elliott! Like a true blue blood, you knew when your welcome was worn out!
A week passed.
Two.
The mousetraps stayed armed and dangerous, but still no sign.
I arrived home from work one day to find one of the mousetraps had been sprung; there was no cracker in sight; no dead mouse in sight.
The following day, the other mouse trap was sans cracker, but otherwise undisturbed.
'Elliott Sinclair the III!!! You have shown your true colors, my friend! The rich become rich by freeloading off the poor, you ivy-league fuck-tard!' I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I loaded the mouse trap with a carefully placed potato chip so as to not set the trap.
The following day, the potato chip was gone again! Crafty son of a bitch! I re-loaded the trap with a peanut.
I came home from work today to find the peanut had been snatched.
'This is WAR, Elliott! Motherfucking class war!" I screamed, for once eclipsing the sound of the crazy Russians arguing in the computer store downstairs.
I carefully loaded the trap with yet another peanut. I sat, watched the Penguins game, and ate dinner.
Elliott Sinclair the III came out for his debutante ball, dressed in his finest fur.
I merely shook my fist at him.
He scurried away, then within minutes, I heard snap! and say the mouse trap flipping about.
"I got you, swine!" I swore under my breath.
Alas, no Elliott Sinclair the III. He had merely sprung the trap, trying to steal the peanut from under my nose.
I will defeat you yet, Elliott Sinclair the III.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
the quick glance
1.)
Joy blew out the flame on her Sterno and settled into her saggy futon to enjoy her can of beans. She always felt like a bit of a hobo on bean night. 'A bottle of Thunderbird in a paper bag would make this night perfect' she said to herself. She felt that cold, empty feeling, wishing for a second that she did indeed have a bottle of Thunderbird.
Fred Rogers wasn't rolling too bad tonight. The extra aluminum foil she had put on her antenna seemed to really help pull in 'QED. Speedy Delivery came on and she laughed so hard beans flew out of her mouth. Joy finished her meal and quietly sang along to 'won't you be my neighbor?'
A single tear ran down her face as she finished the song. A good neighbor was all she ever wanted to be. She wanted to be everyone's neighbor.
Joy threw the can away and shook the Sterno to make sure she had enough fuel for the next meal. She turned off the TV. A loud 'click' and the picture shrunk smaller and smaller than made a quiet 'pop' noise. It was an old 19" with a rotary dial that she dumpster dove for. It was someone else's garbage but to her it was golden.
She gathered up what little change she had from her various hiding places throughout the flat and organized them into neat piles by coin type on her nightstand/kitchen table/countertop. She pulled the crumpled wad of bills from her pocket, flattened them out and counted up her funds. $9.55 would be enough to get food for at least 4 or 5 days if she stretched it.
Joy walked over to her mirror, found on another dumpster dive, and looked at herself. A beautiful 25 year old woman with long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin, eyes from heaven, and a knockout smile looked back.
She brushed her matted blond hair with a brush half broken and continued to see the past.
Joy took put her money in her right front pocket, the change pocket, for safety.
She clipped her Walkman to her belt, put her headphones on, and slid in her Bel-Biv-Divoe tape. She had dozens of tapes in her flat but always found her self listening to Bel-Biv-Divoe. It reminded her of prom and being crowned queen.
Joy walked the back way to Giant Eagle. Ever since the clubs opened, there were always assholes making comments to her on the main street. She could still be a good neighbor in the back alleys.
She smiled with her mouth closed as the woman rang her out. "Is this it?" the cashier always asked Joy, as if she expected Joy to one day walk in with a hundred or an EBT card and buy pounds of shrimp and steak and milk and everything else rich people by.
"That's all today, Joyce" Joy said through pursed lips. Joy didn't hate Joyce. She was a good neighbor to everyone, Joy was. Joyce just got a little nosy sometimes.
$9.55 bought Joy 4 cans of Cambell's Chunky soup. 4 Cans of baked beans. And an 8 pack of generic hot dogs. That was enough food for 4 days, and 4 days was enough time for Joy to find a job, even an odd one.
She would never take hand outs. Never put her head down. She was a good neighbor, she added to the community. She couldn't name a specific instance when she picked up trash because she did it so often, it was instinct. She occasionally volunteered at the shelters she was eligible to eat at.
"Have a nice night, Joy" leaked through Joy's headphones as 'B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?' whirred on.
"You too, Joyce." Joy kept her head up and walked out into the night.
2.)
The night air burned her lungs a bit, woke her up, and made her feel alive. 'People bitch about the cold!' she said to her neighbors 'I embrace it!' She took deep breaths to match her long strides. Walked right past the alley headed for Carson St, to see her neighbors.
She trucked past 16th street. On the corner of 17th and Carson, she happened exchange a quick glance, a chance glance, that lasted an eternity for Joy.
A kid, no, a man, a man sitting on his skateboard, his face young but his eyes weary from life, exchanged quick glances with Joy.
She smiled slightly in this instant and blinked and saw an eternity.
"How are you doing tonight, beautiful?" he said, and then her life changed from that of rags to theirs of riches. He had a job, insurance, a house, a car, a life, a future. He picked her up, made her feel beautiful again, and spun her around and around without ever letting her touch the ground. She was able to be more than a good neighbor, she got to be a great neighbor, spending her time attending to various charities, helping children, helping friends, families, animals, neighbors. She didn't have to worry about herself because he did; she only had to be a great neighbor.
Her eyes opened and her right foot fell to the pavement followed by the left foot instinctively carrying her forward.
The glance ended and so did her dream.
Joy blew out the flame on her Sterno and settled into her saggy futon to enjoy her can of beans. She always felt like a bit of a hobo on bean night. 'A bottle of Thunderbird in a paper bag would make this night perfect' she said to herself. She felt that cold, empty feeling, wishing for a second that she did indeed have a bottle of Thunderbird.
Fred Rogers wasn't rolling too bad tonight. The extra aluminum foil she had put on her antenna seemed to really help pull in 'QED. Speedy Delivery came on and she laughed so hard beans flew out of her mouth. Joy finished her meal and quietly sang along to 'won't you be my neighbor?'
A single tear ran down her face as she finished the song. A good neighbor was all she ever wanted to be. She wanted to be everyone's neighbor.
Joy threw the can away and shook the Sterno to make sure she had enough fuel for the next meal. She turned off the TV. A loud 'click' and the picture shrunk smaller and smaller than made a quiet 'pop' noise. It was an old 19" with a rotary dial that she dumpster dove for. It was someone else's garbage but to her it was golden.
She gathered up what little change she had from her various hiding places throughout the flat and organized them into neat piles by coin type on her nightstand/kitchen table/countertop. She pulled the crumpled wad of bills from her pocket, flattened them out and counted up her funds. $9.55 would be enough to get food for at least 4 or 5 days if she stretched it.
Joy walked over to her mirror, found on another dumpster dive, and looked at herself. A beautiful 25 year old woman with long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin, eyes from heaven, and a knockout smile looked back.
She brushed her matted blond hair with a brush half broken and continued to see the past.
Joy took put her money in her right front pocket, the change pocket, for safety.
She clipped her Walkman to her belt, put her headphones on, and slid in her Bel-Biv-Divoe tape. She had dozens of tapes in her flat but always found her self listening to Bel-Biv-Divoe. It reminded her of prom and being crowned queen.
Joy walked the back way to Giant Eagle. Ever since the clubs opened, there were always assholes making comments to her on the main street. She could still be a good neighbor in the back alleys.
She smiled with her mouth closed as the woman rang her out. "Is this it?" the cashier always asked Joy, as if she expected Joy to one day walk in with a hundred or an EBT card and buy pounds of shrimp and steak and milk and everything else rich people by.
"That's all today, Joyce" Joy said through pursed lips. Joy didn't hate Joyce. She was a good neighbor to everyone, Joy was. Joyce just got a little nosy sometimes.
$9.55 bought Joy 4 cans of Cambell's Chunky soup. 4 Cans of baked beans. And an 8 pack of generic hot dogs. That was enough food for 4 days, and 4 days was enough time for Joy to find a job, even an odd one.
She would never take hand outs. Never put her head down. She was a good neighbor, she added to the community. She couldn't name a specific instance when she picked up trash because she did it so often, it was instinct. She occasionally volunteered at the shelters she was eligible to eat at.
"Have a nice night, Joy" leaked through Joy's headphones as 'B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?' whirred on.
"You too, Joyce." Joy kept her head up and walked out into the night.
2.)
The night air burned her lungs a bit, woke her up, and made her feel alive. 'People bitch about the cold!' she said to her neighbors 'I embrace it!' She took deep breaths to match her long strides. Walked right past the alley headed for Carson St, to see her neighbors.
She trucked past 16th street. On the corner of 17th and Carson, she happened exchange a quick glance, a chance glance, that lasted an eternity for Joy.
A kid, no, a man, a man sitting on his skateboard, his face young but his eyes weary from life, exchanged quick glances with Joy.
She smiled slightly in this instant and blinked and saw an eternity.
"How are you doing tonight, beautiful?" he said, and then her life changed from that of rags to theirs of riches. He had a job, insurance, a house, a car, a life, a future. He picked her up, made her feel beautiful again, and spun her around and around without ever letting her touch the ground. She was able to be more than a good neighbor, she got to be a great neighbor, spending her time attending to various charities, helping children, helping friends, families, animals, neighbors. She didn't have to worry about herself because he did; she only had to be a great neighbor.
Her eyes opened and her right foot fell to the pavement followed by the left foot instinctively carrying her forward.
The glance ended and so did her dream.
Giant Eagle
When he came to he was staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers. It took him a second to get his bearings. His hands were tightly grasping the stale orange handle of a shopping cart that was presumably his. He was leaning with approximately 65% of his body weight on the cart. He was staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers, and past that the dairy aisle.
The trip through the supermarket was mentally walked through in reverse mentally by the man in less than an instant. Kind of chose your own adventure, where you're trying to recall the last 15 minutes of your life.
This was happening more and more often and during the instantaneous recollection of what brought him to staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers he felt a little worried.
He had just looked at the new issue of Thrasher magazine and got a sense of deja-vu, half way through realizing he had leafed through the exact same magazine only days earlier.
Before that, a trip up the cleaning aisle for some dran-o for the fucking toilet that had clogged again that morning via the paper aisle for some tee-pee and tissue paper, all generic, all on sale. Half-gallon of milk and some O.J., Orange Juice on sale, milk was not. Two birthday cards for two birthday boys and before that some fruit from produce.
Bananas. Bananas contain alot of B vitamins and potassium and help keep the liver functioning when you drink a ton of booze.
He heard the clack clack clack clack clackclackclack clickety clack again in his ears as loud as it had been minutes earlier and the muted small talk of the strangers in motion and he felt like he was going to lose it again, the same feeling of being on edge he had while in produce.
3-300 seconds had gone by and he was still staring at the goddamn non-alcoholic beers and the mixers and wondering why the last five minutes of his life had disappeared as soon as he laid eyes on the O'douls, the O'douls in particular.
'The booze?' he thought,' is this some kind of trigger, my brain is so hard-wired to it, that any kind of stimulus puts me into a daze?'
It had been four days since he had a drink and yet here he was, pavlov's dog, losing his mind over the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers.
Neon lights always got him excited.
He pushed his cart back into the sea of anonymity, checked out, and prepared for the next day, same as every other.
The trip through the supermarket was mentally walked through in reverse mentally by the man in less than an instant. Kind of chose your own adventure, where you're trying to recall the last 15 minutes of your life.
This was happening more and more often and during the instantaneous recollection of what brought him to staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers he felt a little worried.
He had just looked at the new issue of Thrasher magazine and got a sense of deja-vu, half way through realizing he had leafed through the exact same magazine only days earlier.
Before that, a trip up the cleaning aisle for some dran-o for the fucking toilet that had clogged again that morning via the paper aisle for some tee-pee and tissue paper, all generic, all on sale. Half-gallon of milk and some O.J., Orange Juice on sale, milk was not. Two birthday cards for two birthday boys and before that some fruit from produce.
Bananas. Bananas contain alot of B vitamins and potassium and help keep the liver functioning when you drink a ton of booze.
He heard the clack clack clack clack clackclackclack clickety clack again in his ears as loud as it had been minutes earlier and the muted small talk of the strangers in motion and he felt like he was going to lose it again, the same feeling of being on edge he had while in produce.
3-300 seconds had gone by and he was still staring at the goddamn non-alcoholic beers and the mixers and wondering why the last five minutes of his life had disappeared as soon as he laid eyes on the O'douls, the O'douls in particular.
'The booze?' he thought,' is this some kind of trigger, my brain is so hard-wired to it, that any kind of stimulus puts me into a daze?'
It had been four days since he had a drink and yet here he was, pavlov's dog, losing his mind over the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers.
Neon lights always got him excited.
He pushed his cart back into the sea of anonymity, checked out, and prepared for the next day, same as every other.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Slowest Printer Ever!
I'm printing out a copy of my novel for submission to Six Gallery Press. They're an indie publishing house here in the burgh. I think if I have a shot with anyone at this point it's with them.
It's kind of disheartening to send out 25 query letters to 25 literary agents and receive 25 rejection letters back. I see why people give up on their hopes and dreams. I'm pretty sure I will never realize my dream of being a writer, making a living off of it, writing what makes me happy (not Technical fucking Manuals).
I feel like I need a change, a spark, something to get the fuck out of this day to day mundacity of work, drink, work, drink, skateboard. I'm rapidly careening toward a life of white picket fences and couples only dinner parties and I don't know what that's going to be like. Sick of it all. Death or Glory? Fuck. The desire that once burned inside, forcing me to try and seek greatness, has dwindled.
It's kind of disheartening to send out 25 query letters to 25 literary agents and receive 25 rejection letters back. I see why people give up on their hopes and dreams. I'm pretty sure I will never realize my dream of being a writer, making a living off of it, writing what makes me happy (not Technical fucking Manuals).
I feel like I need a change, a spark, something to get the fuck out of this day to day mundacity of work, drink, work, drink, skateboard. I'm rapidly careening toward a life of white picket fences and couples only dinner parties and I don't know what that's going to be like. Sick of it all. Death or Glory? Fuck. The desire that once burned inside, forcing me to try and seek greatness, has dwindled.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
So this is the New Year....
2008 was rung in with 320 glasses of Gin N Tonic. Well. I don't know why they call it well. I guess it's legit if they're saying that as in 'tastes like it was pulled from a well' not well meaning good. I puked about 10 times throughout the course of the day. My body was that offended by being fed so much crap it forced an all day purge. Not even Dabney Coleman could help me. He's my imaginary friend. That's my new years resolutin - to have Dabney Coleman as an imaginary friend. I'm pretty F-ing stoked. It's going to be like Cloak & Dagger except I work in a fucking office. So like Cloak & Dagger but the complete opposite.
So what of the new year? What of the old year?
2007 came and went. I can't believe it's 2008. Fucking craziness.
I traveled alot this year. Florida thrice. London twice. Beijing twice. Travelling is not the same as it used to be when there's someone at home waiting. I guess it's lost its' luster. All part of growing up and growing old, settling down and settling in.
I'm changing jobs in April. That is, if they don't lay me off first. Those motherfuckers. I dunno. They dude who's replacing me is starting on Jan the 14th. As long as we get the Vegas monorail contract, things look good for getting back into Mechanical Design. I think going in that direction is the smartest move for me right now. I can't stand manual writing and training anymore. It's driving me fucking nuts. I might have one more trip to Taiwan in April. Boo hoo.
I just realized that blogging is making me depressed.
So what of the new year? What of the old year?
2007 came and went. I can't believe it's 2008. Fucking craziness.
I traveled alot this year. Florida thrice. London twice. Beijing twice. Travelling is not the same as it used to be when there's someone at home waiting. I guess it's lost its' luster. All part of growing up and growing old, settling down and settling in.
I'm changing jobs in April. That is, if they don't lay me off first. Those motherfuckers. I dunno. They dude who's replacing me is starting on Jan the 14th. As long as we get the Vegas monorail contract, things look good for getting back into Mechanical Design. I think going in that direction is the smartest move for me right now. I can't stand manual writing and training anymore. It's driving me fucking nuts. I might have one more trip to Taiwan in April. Boo hoo.
I just realized that blogging is making me depressed.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Pink Mold
We had pink mold on our shower curtain.
We still have pink mold along the caulking that seals the corner between the tub and the plastic wall thingy. Actually, I use the term 'seals' loosely, because the caulking is cracked all to hell, perhaps due to the pink mold. It's neon pink. There's stigmata on our walls from the 'hard' city water we have here in the 'burgh, but the stigmata is a rusty color. The mold is pink. I have a degree in engineering, and biology was always one of my weakest subjects, so although I find pink mold fascinating, I have no idea WHY it is pink mold, or more importantly, why it is growing in our bathroom.
Fortunately, it hasn't started growing on our new shower curtain yet.
It's actually so bright pink it looks like it belongs there, like it's a design cue for our bathroom.
NEXT ON PROJECT RUNWAY: make an outfit using only the pink-moldy caulking in Ben, Erin, and Ross's bathroom! GET ER DUNN!!!! (or whatever that dude says)
Shut up, my fiance watches it. So I do too.
We have a mouse in the apartment. I think I'm going to name him 'Hugh.' We tried to catch him with all these clap-trap 'humane' mousetraps I found on the internet but none worked.
1.) I rigged up a bunch of cardboard to make a ramp leading up to a garbage can. At the top of the ramp, I precariously balanced an empty toilet paper roll with a piece of cheese, some peanut butter, and a piece of popcorn at the very end. Ross wrote 'Cheese this way!!!' and drew an arrow pointing up the ramp in black magic marker.
The idea: mouse smells cheese, sees sign. Runs up ramp to eat cheese. Right when gets past the center of the toilet paper roll, he (or maybe she) goes tumbling into the bottom of the garbage can.
It didn't work. We tried different types of cheese, and everything, to no avail.
2.) A tray placed on the floor with an overturned cake pan supported by a bent shish-ka-bob stick above it. A piece of cheese is stuck on the end of the shish-ka-bob stick. Whenever the mouse runs and takes a bite of delicious cheese, the shish-ka-bob stick will fall, thus trapping the mouse.
It didn't work! We tried this for 3-4 days and nothing.
3.) A package of 6 mouse traps guaranteed by the Yinzer at Home Depot to 'Break those fuckers necks.'
In progress.
I feel really bad, because I was watching Star Trek: The Next Generation with my fiance a couple nights ago, and it was the episode where they caught a wayward Borg and nursed him back to life and all became attached to him so rather than using him to destroy the Borg they named him Hugh then let him rejoin the Collective, by his choice, which he had a hard time grasping the concept of, but then when he understood he had a choice, he said he'd rejoin the collective because it was too dangerous to stay on the ship and endanger everyone, especially Jordi. I think he liked Jordi a whole lot because everyone wants to be friends with a black dude. Seriously, even the Borg Hugh was like, man, it would be cool to be friends with a black dude, even if his other gig is Reading Rainbow.
So to make a long story short, I'm watching this show, and I felt really bad for Hugh, and I started thinking about our little mouse friend, who I decided to name Hugh, and how he's just trying to do his thing, like be a mouse, and hang out, and he's not evil, you know, individually, but, like the Borg, you know, collectively, we kinda assume he's an evil or some shit.
But the mouse traps are still out there with the peanut butter loaded in them, but a part of me is hoping that Hugh won't fall for it, will make a choice, and maybe run out in the parking lot and rejoin the collectively, or maybe just wind up getting eaten by one of those mean fucking alley cats out back.
We still have pink mold along the caulking that seals the corner between the tub and the plastic wall thingy. Actually, I use the term 'seals' loosely, because the caulking is cracked all to hell, perhaps due to the pink mold. It's neon pink. There's stigmata on our walls from the 'hard' city water we have here in the 'burgh, but the stigmata is a rusty color. The mold is pink. I have a degree in engineering, and biology was always one of my weakest subjects, so although I find pink mold fascinating, I have no idea WHY it is pink mold, or more importantly, why it is growing in our bathroom.
Fortunately, it hasn't started growing on our new shower curtain yet.
It's actually so bright pink it looks like it belongs there, like it's a design cue for our bathroom.
NEXT ON PROJECT RUNWAY: make an outfit using only the pink-moldy caulking in Ben, Erin, and Ross's bathroom! GET ER DUNN!!!! (or whatever that dude says)
Shut up, my fiance watches it. So I do too.
We have a mouse in the apartment. I think I'm going to name him 'Hugh.' We tried to catch him with all these clap-trap 'humane' mousetraps I found on the internet but none worked.
1.) I rigged up a bunch of cardboard to make a ramp leading up to a garbage can. At the top of the ramp, I precariously balanced an empty toilet paper roll with a piece of cheese, some peanut butter, and a piece of popcorn at the very end. Ross wrote 'Cheese this way!!!' and drew an arrow pointing up the ramp in black magic marker.
The idea: mouse smells cheese, sees sign. Runs up ramp to eat cheese. Right when gets past the center of the toilet paper roll, he (or maybe she) goes tumbling into the bottom of the garbage can.
It didn't work. We tried different types of cheese, and everything, to no avail.
2.) A tray placed on the floor with an overturned cake pan supported by a bent shish-ka-bob stick above it. A piece of cheese is stuck on the end of the shish-ka-bob stick. Whenever the mouse runs and takes a bite of delicious cheese, the shish-ka-bob stick will fall, thus trapping the mouse.
It didn't work! We tried this for 3-4 days and nothing.
3.) A package of 6 mouse traps guaranteed by the Yinzer at Home Depot to 'Break those fuckers necks.'
In progress.
I feel really bad, because I was watching Star Trek: The Next Generation with my fiance a couple nights ago, and it was the episode where they caught a wayward Borg and nursed him back to life and all became attached to him so rather than using him to destroy the Borg they named him Hugh then let him rejoin the Collective, by his choice, which he had a hard time grasping the concept of, but then when he understood he had a choice, he said he'd rejoin the collective because it was too dangerous to stay on the ship and endanger everyone, especially Jordi. I think he liked Jordi a whole lot because everyone wants to be friends with a black dude. Seriously, even the Borg Hugh was like, man, it would be cool to be friends with a black dude, even if his other gig is Reading Rainbow.
So to make a long story short, I'm watching this show, and I felt really bad for Hugh, and I started thinking about our little mouse friend, who I decided to name Hugh, and how he's just trying to do his thing, like be a mouse, and hang out, and he's not evil, you know, individually, but, like the Borg, you know, collectively, we kinda assume he's an evil or some shit.
But the mouse traps are still out there with the peanut butter loaded in them, but a part of me is hoping that Hugh won't fall for it, will make a choice, and maybe run out in the parking lot and rejoin the collectively, or maybe just wind up getting eaten by one of those mean fucking alley cats out back.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Kids we picked on in high school
Its funny when you grow up and get out in the Real World and start to realize what a complete and total dick you were in high school. Well, at least I was. I think there were a few people who made it four ish years without tormenting some other poor soul but these were few and far between – there's always the random 'nice' popular kid, who doesn't fuck with anyone but is good looking/rich/tough enough where he/she doesn't get fucked with. Otherwise, the shit pretty much flows downhill and I spent four years at the bottom of the trash heap of the High School popularity hierarchy searching desperately for a milk crate to stand on, thus allowing the shit to trickle downward to some unlucky sap.
But I digress.
I was at work yesterday, CorpComm we'll say, when I overheard the new guy in my department talking about how his Ebay account got hacked and someone from China (???) sold a bunch of stuff through his account, like Thomas the Steam Engine books and shit, but actually delivered all the goods and wound up HELPING his seller rating.
As he's saying this, I have a mental image of Perch drunk off whiskey, firing a gun in the corner, laughing hysterically while selling ridiculous stuff through dude's ebay account.
Back story: A few weeks ago, I noticed a flier in my co-workers cube for new kid's band (you know you're getting old when you refer to those in their early twenties as 'kid'), playing a gig in my sorta hometown. I asked the new kid where he went, and he said (my high school.) Pound it and I asked him when he graduated. Asked him about family and I realized his older brother had been mercilessly tortured by a few of my younger friends. Actually, I thought my friends may have ruined his life, and I definitely encouraged this kind of behavior, especially since we were the (High School) Skate Mafia and he was a poseur.
I called Perch a few nights later and asked him if he knew dude's younger brother, the one I work with, and he laughed and told me a few instances of torment, the best (worst) of which involved throwing a shovelful of gnarly dirty snow in this kid's face. Damn, man.
I guess it's nice to see that as hard as we tried to ruin people's lives back then it didn't always work out.
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