hot dishwashing, flat tires, and german engineering

as i sit here in my unders - dripping in front of an industrial sized steel fan, creating a wind tunnel only rivaled by those at NASA, i realized that the hottest afternoon of the year was perhaps not the wisest time to do a load of dishes. the hot steam hissing from my ancient appliance raises the ambient temperature 12 degrees. and the consecutive decision that now would be the perfect time to make a scalding shot of espresso because of my caffeine addiction adoration? i'm now beginning to loathe myself on an unhealthy level. i feel like at this point i might as well put on my fur coat and take a quick jog around the neighborhood to really push my lightheadedness to it's maximum threshold.

the icing on this weeks cake was a few days ago. i was driving home after work, having not eaten anything in nine hours besides two saltine crackers and a dixie cup of lemonade - i was not in the most chipper mood. scratch that, i was seeing red. then my gas light flicks on to remind me that i'm STILL below empty, just like it was when i left for work. i was one mile from my exit on the freeway so i stomped on the pedal, just wanting to petrol up and get home.

it was around this time that i began to hear a steady pulsating noise. maybe it was possible to hear the sound of ones own rising blood pressure? i turn the music down to determine the source. having just spend $800 to fix my engine, i was mentally willing the car to get me to my destination hassle-free. it was around this time that the putrid aroma of burned rubber came wafting into my nose. excellent! i have a flat tire!

i crank the wheel hard right and punish the break pedal till it jerks to a resting position on the side of the road. i step out of the car and notice amongst the various road debris lies a crumpled, filthy styrofoam Red Lobster cup. was this the universe's way of telling me it's time for a life change? not in the mood for any philosophical thoughts about my future, i decide to stick with a tire change for now.

i flip open the trunk and wrestle the spare tire out, hurling it through the air and onto the side of the road like i picture Andre the Giant doing. this is my first tire change with a german vehicle and i find everything neatly packed into a perfectly engineered case. cursing myself for forgetting to replace my flashlight's battery years ago, i'm forced to use the screen of my cell phone as my primary light source.

i use the tiny light to illuminate my inventory; tire iron, tow-rope, a jack, and several metal tools that i've never seen before in my life. i grab the recognizable tools and begin the task at hand. i've changed many tires over the years, it's such a simple task and i just wanted to get it over with and be on my way. yet, as i place the car jack on the ground i realize i have absolutely no idea how it works. these über-geniuses took it upon themselves to design a car jack that defies all american laws of physics. teetering on the border of blackout-rage, i squint my eyes and shine my cell phone beam onto the instruction sticker on the side of this monstrosity. worthless. look guys - there are a couple things that are standard in this world. you aren't supposed to go making up kooky designs for fire-extinguishers, life preservers, or heart defibrillators. i'm fairly certain there is a charter in the geneva convention addressing these very issues.

a solid six minutes later i figure out which end goes up and i crank the car into the air so fast it looks like i'm churning butter on the side of the road. two wheels into the air and i'm ready to get these bolts off and call it a night. tire iron is in place. cue muscles. and...the bolt doesn't move an inch. this was quickly followed by a burst of raw masculinity as i kick the tire iron with all my might to push the bolt into submission. and yet...no movement. it was at this point that a dusty memory comes floating into the forefront of my mind about needing some sort of "key" to "unlock" the "tires".

i madly tear through the entire vehicle in search of this mysterious "key" and come up with absolutely nothing. now on the verge of tears (masculinity long deceased), i attempt to thumb through the 800 page owners manual in the pitch black, in search of some clue to the mystery key's location.

after 20 minutes of agonizing squinting i find the key tucked away in my center console. let the games begin! my arms move in a blur of motion as i change the tire so fast i momentarily consider calling NASCAR in the morning for an interview. as the changeover occurs i notice something out of the corner of my eye. out of nowhere, a man approaches me.

there is not another car in sight. no police cruiser to speak of. alarms immediately go off in my head. great! my car breaks down right next the ONE serial killer who happens to hide in the bushes next to my exit on the freeway. as we're taught to do with bear encounters, i stand to my full height and puff myself out, tire iron ready for action. i was flirting with the idea that he was german and i could exact my carefree revenge through the cold steel in my fist.

in a stern voice i shout to his rapidly approaching figure, "hey! can i help you?"

he just kept advancing towards me, without saying a word - michael myers style. my fist clenched tighter. when he's finally within arm's reach he decides that's the time to speak. he tells me that his car broke down and he's been walking for about four miles. having apparently exhausting all his words, he simply continues walking past me. so now i'm attempting to change the tire in the pitch black while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on charles manson, who eerily stops about 50 feet from me and stares through the shadows of the 525.

hastily, i cram the bum tire along with the bogus tools into my trunk and speed off before this creeper can $skin me alive and store my body next to my own german engineered tool kit.

mutts, butts, and a triple lutz

i hate pets. i'll just put it out there.

i could try to soften the words by saying that i'm not really a 'pet person', but that would be distorting the truth. either way, it never fails to elicit a frown from the person who just asked me if i'm a 'dog person' or 'cat person'. as if these were the only two pets to choose from. just one time, i want to see their reaction when i tell them with a straight face that i'm a 'cobra person'.

there's a certain assumption that human beings as a whole love some things unconditionally. babies, sex, ice cream, sunshine, and pets. but these assumptions fail to take into account the infertile, the eunuchs, the lactose intolerant, the albinos, and the mail-carriers.

the confused face that contorts in response to my lack of dog/cat devotion, is the same response i frequently receive when asked what position i play in football. "i don't play football" is always promptly followed by a literal jaw drop and amazement that someone with 'my frame' didn't play. "what a shame. such a waste." they'd mutter as they walk away. i imagine it to be the same issue that black men over 6' 5" struggle with when they're asked what NBA team they play on. people don't fit into a tiny convenient box.

as for pets, i just don't like the idea of sitting on someone's couch where i know for a fact their cat regularly rests its anus on the exact spot i'm about to sit. it's not socially acceptable for me to rest my naked genitalia upon on a friend's furniture, but their beloved family mutt can rub it's junk wherever it pleases - no questions asked.

most people are weird about sharing chapstick with another human, but have no problem placing their lips to a labrador tongue (which incidentally has come into contact with toilet water, it's own excrement, and the dead sparrow it just left you on the back porch).

my hands are in a constant state of being prepped and ready for surgery at all times - due to my debilitating addiction to purell. so i find it disconcerting that i'm forced to manhandle a filthy animal as it grinds it's hips into my shin because it's in heat; while their dunderheaded owner laugh at pooksie's use of my appendage as a sexual outlet. the owner reaches for a spray water bottle to deter the illicit behavior, while i make a mental note trying to remember to place 'pocket taser' on my christmas wish list.

knowing that i eventually want to have children, i thought i'd try being responsible for another life and purchased a beta fish as the litmus test for future fatherhood. showering my new life form with lavish gifts to show how serious i was in this endeavor, i bought the expensive food (which smelled like the sawdust at the bottom of an outhouse), a humongous bowl, and some polished stones which would surely become the showcase item on our little version of MTV Beta Fish Cribs.

i went to the kitchen to set up his upgraded home. i meticulously cleaned every inch of the bowl and gently placed the stones in the bottom; blue ones on top, to accentuate his smoky blue eyes. i slowly filled it up with bottled water from the swiss alps, and sprinkled a dusting of food flakes on the surface to excite his palate.

now for the big moment: the move. i placed the mansion-bowl in the kitchen sink and reached for him to make the transfer. quivering with excitement, i tilt his tiny cup so that he can make a clean slide into his new abode. to my amazement, he erratically performs a triple lutz and flops directly into the dark abyss of the garbage disposal. i panic and attempt to grope in the hole to grab a fin. after five minutes of trying to cram my huge hand into the depths of the disposal i give up and flip the switch, turning my little gymnast into sashimi.

frustrated at my lack of responsibility, i go straight back to the pet store and purchase another fish. i'm determined to make this one live.

and he does. for many weeks. one afternoon i decide it's time to change his water since it's becoming a little cloudy. with the mastery of an ichthyologist, i flawlessly make the change-over and transfer my little buddy to his clean room. thirty minutes later, i walk past his bowl and let out a tired sigh. i've killed another one - he's belly-up. i grab a spoon to scoop his tiny, lifeless body from the water. it's at this point i realize that the cause of death was the boiling hot water i accidentally re-filled his bowl with from the tap.

i hop in the car and drive to the pet store to purchase beta III. if this one didn't work, i promised myself that i wouldn't procreate until i could handle the delicate intricacies of fish ownership. as goes with youngest children; there were less pictures of him in the photo albums, i gave him all the hand-me-down polished rocks, and i was more lax when he misbehaved. but i still loved him just as much as the others.

our many months of fun adventures soon came to a head one dark september morning. i came downstairs and noticed his bowl was getting pretty cloudy. i crouched over and peered inside to find him, in order to temporarily transfer him for the cleaning. way too murky. i shook the bowl a little, scanning near the rocks to find him, in case he was hiding. nothing.

did he go for a walk and forget to leave me a note again? we had argued over this topic many times in the past and i had to drill it into his head that i wasn't trying to be domineering, i simply cared about his safety. i tried to explain it to him, but he never understood that the neighbor's cat was only being friendly to him because she had ulterior motives.

i took a step back to consider my next move when i saw it. a dried up apple slice? a curled up potato peel? no. i only wish it had been. beta III's stiff, inanimate form was twisted on the ground below the bowl. he had committed suicide by jumping out of the bowl in the middle of the night.

okay. so maybe this one wasn't my fault. at least that's what my therapist keeps trying to convince me.

groundhog day, murderous children, and fake fish

here is my life.

wake up. drive 30 minutes to work. work thirteen hours without taking a break. drive 30 minutes home. drop into my bed with faint fumes of seafood rising from my pores. crash.

wake up the next morning: rinse and repeat.

i'm living my own personal groundhog day the past couple of months with 0-1 days off per week. hence the lack of blog posts.

at work have a giant hundred-gallon water tank in the front lobby filled with live lobsters. whenever someone orders one, we snatch it out of the tank and walk it back to the kitchen for it's ultimate demise. yesterday, a lovely little girl slowly approached the tank and gingerly placed her grimy hands on the glass. she was in her own world, looking each individual lobster in the eye.

with the hustle and bustle of the front lobby, nobody was paying much attention to the harmless little cherub (let alone her mother). but i was. she leaned in closer, her lips nearly touching the glass, and whispered with the sinister tone and cadence of a practiced serial killer, "you're about to be dead, because we're about to eat you and everyone you know."

my jaw literally dropped.

then her mom grabbed her hand, "come on honey, our table's ready." "okay mommy!" she chirped; skipping to the table in excited anticipation at taking an innocent life and eating it's flesh with zero remorse.

then, last week i was in the process of explaining our fresh fish menu (as required by red lobster corporate) to a customer. rainbow trout, atlantic salmon, tilapia, et cetera. you get the idea. he then points behind me and says with a straight face, which one is that? is it on the menu? i turn around and see that he is referring to this hanging on the wall.

funny joke, buddy. yet he continues to stare at me, awaiting my response.

oh. he wasn't joking. he asks if that particular fish is tilapia. i then politely inform him that he is not looking at an actual fish, but a piece of artwork that in no way is meant to be a representation of our menu selections. he sincerely looks disappointed and orders some calamari instead.

another day, i dropped off the customer's check. the man hits me with a rapid-fire "wait! wait! wait! wait! wait!" as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. then i get to stand there while he files through his four inch thick wallet filled with 32 credit cards. finally he pulls one out, but only half-way. he cocks his head and looks up at me, "do you guys take visa?".

do you know who DOESN'T take visa? the tribesman in the jungles of Vanuatu.
do you know who DOES take visa? everyone else.

moron.

bernie madoff, thomas jefferson, and andrew jackson

is it just me, or does bernie madoff bear an uncanny resemblance to some sort of weird thomas jefferson/andrew jackson hybrid? his hair is so majestic with just a hint of that authentic elitist colonial landowner vibe.

bernie madoff: reminding america that a ponzi scheme has nothing to do with that guy from 'happy days'.

tax evasion, california, and the driving vest

my california state tax refund is now nearly one month late. the reason? after some online research i learned that california has no money.

i'll let that marinate for a moment.

they literally don't have the money to pay anyone their refunds. the fact is, if california were a country it would be the tenth largest economy in the WORLD. i'll do the math for you; that's more than ireland, tennessee, and the entire russian empire...combined. and they can't scratch together my $257. they're like that deadbeat friend who owes you money and ignores all your phone calls. until that one day you finally bump into them on the cereal aisle at the supermarket and they awkwardly avoid eye contact while mumbling, "i'll catch you next week because i'm kinda going through a rough patch in my life". i feel like i'm living in communist cuba where they'll cut me with a check for the half the amount owed, and the remainder will be repaid in tobacco leaves and a loaf of bread.
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allow me to switch gears and introduce you to a ridiculous invention called the 'driving vest'.

allow me to explain. you purchase this handsome vest for $17.95 and before you enter your vehicle, you are to place it on your torso (with ultra high-fashion velcro strips!) in order to protect your critical chestal area from any potential spills that may occur while in the car. the website claims that the fabric is made of "fashionable twill". i'm pretty sure twill hasn't been popular since looms were a common household object.

look, i understand accidents happen. but. how many people out there would place themselves into the 'habitual spillers' category? and if it's really that much of a problem, why don't they save some money and just place a large blue tarp and cover all critical areas of their wardrobe while driving to and from work?

applying make-up, eating a toasted bagel with peanut butter, crossing three lanes, and enjoying your grande skinny white chocolate mocha at the same? not a problem! let the crumbs/scorching liquid fall where it may! our vest will protect your valuable fabric/flesh!

unless people are off-roading in a monster truck on their commute to work each morning, this article of clothing is totally unnecessary. i'm sure it was developed by the same people who make their children wear helmets and leashes when out in public. get a bib.

mexico, cornnuts, and the norovirus

i'm home! i made it! now it's time to pull out the galoshes* from the closet and spray some febreeze on my stale wool jackets and embrace temperatures that my body hasn't seen in nearly two years. turns out that flip-flops and cargo shorts aren't exactly 'ideal' in sub-freezing temperatures. the last time i saw frost was on the outside of the margarita i was drinking during one of california's winter heat spells.

before the long drive home (1,191 miles/18.43 hours) i went on a cruise to mexico with my family. being my first cruise i didn't quite know what to expect other than the obvious gorging on buffet food and the gaining of the requisite ten pounds.

what caught me off-guard were the warnings about a mysterious 'norovirus'. not having wikipedia at my fingertips, i panicked and assumed it was some flesh eating disease (which would definitely be a downer). due to the risk norovirus spreading, they had hand sanitizer stations posted every 20 feet. it's like our cruise director was howard hughes; shuffling down the corridors with tissue boxes on his feet obsessing over germs while mumbling incoherently about some shuffleboard tournament at noon.

after scrubbing in, we made our way to the cabin. i'll start out by saying our cabin hallway smelled like a septic tank had exploded in the walls. afraid of inhaling free-roaming fecal particles or contracting the deadly norovirus, i smeared hand sanitizer around the rims of my nostrils just to be on the safe side.

it turns out my obsessive wikipedia addiction, along with excessive viewing of 'cash cab' came in handy when i learned of a little on-board treat called the DAILY TRIVIA COMPETITION. while everyone on board was on the main deck getting a nice tan, i met with a small group of pale white nerds in a poorly lit irish pub to get our trivia on. let's just say the fact that i know what catgut is made of AND what color a vulcan's blood is would make me ripe for mockery in the real world. but in our tiny cabal...i was a god among geeks.**

a quick breakdown of other ship events:

there was a chinese acrobat show that defied all known laws of physics. a health seminar on how coffee was toxic for your system (as i sipped my piping hot ninth cup of the day). the chocoholic midnight buffet (after which my pancreas threw in the towel and decided to take the night off). the asian man we sat next to at dinner who looked exactly like voldemort. the hairy chest contest that all the gentleman (and two ladies) were apparently competing in on the main deck. and of course the highlight of the trip being the giant walmart located directly off port in puerto vallarta. way to stay classy, puerto vallarta.

after the mexican festivities, it was time for the long trek home in the jetta. coffee and ranch flavored CornNuts silently waiting in the wings, ipod loaded and ready, GPS awaiting my orders, i throw my foot to the floor - anxious to get the hell out of this state once and for all.

about an hour into my trip i notice a white SUV on my tail, following my every lane change; and it's not a cop. this goes on for an hour or so. normally this wouldn't be all too alarming, were it not for the fact that i was traveling at 118 MPH the entire time. several more hours pass and i realize i'm low on petrol and snack food. i take the next exit and glance in my rear-view mirror. yep. white SUV.

i pull into the gas station; fairly certain that something is about to go down. i position my keys between my knuckles, ready to gouge some eyes out at a moment's notice. i begin to pump my gas, keeping them in my sights the entire time. the driver casually leans around the pump to make eye contact with me. she smiles and says, "you were going pretty fast back there."

i just nod my head once and continue pumping. "we've been following you the past few hundred miles."

"i noticed." was my curt reply.

then a man slowly rises out of her passenger side. he's about seven feet tall and looks like he just got paroled/escaped from prison. i of course assume he has a homemade weapon on him (shoddily made from a laminated road map and lighter), so i grip my knuckles even tighter around my car keys. he glares at me with a look in his eye that said "i'll see you in the shower" before continuing past me and into the convenience store.

"where you headed?" she inquires.

nice try, lady. "north" I reply.

"oh! us too! we're headed to seattle. we're from tennessee and headed there to pick up my boys."

do i tell her i'm also headed to seattle? better not. next thing i know she'll be asking what hotel i'm staying at so her convict boyfriend can break into my room at 3am to murder me and steal what's left of my CornNuts.

"have a safe trip" i blandly reply.

yet she continued, "hey! since you're headed north like us, is it cool if we follow each other? in case one of us gets a flat or something like that? maybe you can follow us until the next gas stop."

i hesitate before responding, "that's fine."

and so it went. we both continued our journey together, each swapping the lead every hundred miles or so. i progressively lowered my guard a little more at each gas stop and discovered that she was also a screenwriter and part of a little production company in memphis. this finally ended with us swapping email addresses and parting ways just north of the california border where i decided to call it a night and find a hotel with a strong dead-bolt. just in case.

the next morning - still in california mode - i proceed upward through oregon pushing triple digit speeds. speed traps being practically non-existent in california, i cheerfully whizzed northward without any worry of getting pulled over. i was sharply reminded that this was not the case in the great state of oregon. as soon as i came around the corner i saw him crouched in the bushes, waiting to pounce on me. i hit the breaks, but not soon enough. a member of my 'welcome back to the northwest' committee flashed some red and blue in my rear-view mirror.

"do you know how fast you were going?"

"yep."

"license and registration."

i see his pen rapidly moving over the clipboard. all business. he returns my license along with a yellow carbon copy telling me that i now owe the state of oregon $430. he bids me a safe trip and i roll up the window muttering some choice words about swine.

once the bubbling anger subsided within me, it hit home that $430 was a large chunk of change. which caused me to openly weep the remainder of the trip though the beaver state; while grudgingly traveling at precisely 59 MPH the remainder of the way home.

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*okay fine. i don't actually own galashes. yet.
** catgut is made out of sheep intestine and vulcans have green blood