October 2002

October 31, 2002
Life.

Fair or unfair? You be the judge:

Injury:

Insult:

October 29, 2002
My new favorite commercial, maybe you've seen it, is for some wireless phone service. I think it has a "T" in the name.. "T Mobile"? Sounds like a cell phone company, right? Cause it should. Cause somebody was paid a lot to think of that winning name. Or, more accurately, some agency was paid a lot. The guy or gal who thought of that crappy name likely got a pat on the back and was sent directly back to his or her cube. Anyhow, there's a string of these spots, all featuring Catherine Zeta-Jones, who used to be hot, but now somehow seems kinda creepy to me, like... I look at her and I see hints, forboding whispers, of Elizabeth Taylor (the creepy Elizabeth Taylor, not the hot one). I can hear Sean Connery, who costarred with her when she was hot, forcing this past his prodigious jowls: "Yuh usesh to be a saushy bitcsh! Now look atsh yuh!" Sean Connery used to be hot, too, so apparently it doesn't only happen to chicks.

But I digress.

In this advert, there's some "gen x slacker guy" (don't you just love "gen x slacker guys"? Cause if you watch any tv at all and you don't just love "gen x slacker guys" you'll want to claw your eyes out with a rusty grapefruit spoon. They're fucking everywhere. (The gen x slacker guys, not rusty grapefruit spoons. Corroded utensils are hard to come by on the telly, but I can hook you up if you're in need.)) waiting in line at the bank or the post office or somewhere else where you wait in line for what seems like several lifetimes between each paltry, short shuffle forward.

So, Catherine Zeta-Taylor admonishes the "gen x slacker guy" to use his phone to call his buddy - let's call him "gen x slacker guy", so we don't get the two confused. "gen x slacker guy" asks "gen x slacker guy" what he's doing. "gen x slacker guy" says, "Watching a kung-fu marathon." (the high point of the commerical, obviously) "gen x slacker guy" says, "Cool. Turn it up."

So that he can listen to the tv over his cell phone.

That's their selling point. When you're bored out of your fucking pumpkin standing in line at the grocers/post office/bank, you can take advantage of their obviously superior cellular technology to call a friend and listen to his/her television. That's the killer app of their service. The one that they chose to spend MILLIONS OF FUCKING DOLLARS TO HIGHLIGHT. I mean, don't get me wrong, I get all misty eyed thinking of cozying up to the old tube receiver and listening to the Shadow serials way back when. I just figured that in 2002, when we thought we'd all be driving flying cars and shit, the shining example of cutting edge technology maybe wouldn't be to call a friend, not to actually converse mind you, but to LISTEN TO THE FUCKING TV VIA CELL PHONE.

I must be on really good crack (the kind I picked up on Cass Avenue when I was in Detroit (Rock City) a few weeks back. Shit broke bad there - it was south of 8 Mile. Which reminds me of something I forgot to note when I related the story of Mark (not me, the other Mark) and I (not the other Mark, me) and our lil road trip to Detroit (Rock City). If you haven't read that tale, number one, shame on you, number two, you're Muslim outta luck, cause I ain't gonna relate the whole ghaddamned tale again. When Mark (not me, the other Mark) handed the border guard (bonus points if you remember his name - Asshair Sandwich. Did you remember? Bully good you cheeky devil!) the paper with the directions to the Notorious D.U.G's pad, it said, "Follow Route [whatever] through Detroit. Stop off at Cass Ave. if you want to pick up some hookers and crack." I'm guessing Mr. Sandwich didn't see that, cause he seemed a bit humorless, and might not understand that we really weren't interested in procuring crack cocaine.) (Who the fuck doesn't pick up some hookers when they hit a new town?)) cause that spot doesn't compell me to sign up for T Mobile service.

October 22, 2002
I noticed this news item yesterday: Oldest evidence of Jesus?

What surprises me is not so much that there are ancient records of a guy named Jesus. (I mean, people have wanted their plates cleared since the dawn of time, right?) (keep your eyes out for my new album, "Asinine as I Wanna Be.") What gives me pause is the fact that the news outlets seem to be largely glossing over the fact that the box o' bones in question bears the inscription "James, son of Joseph, brother of Jesus." Uh. Whazzat? Brother of Jesus? I grew up Catholic (hey, we've all got our crosses to bear.) (A little Christ Humor^TM there for ya. Enjoy.), but I must have missed the part about Jesus havin' a bro. Apparently, based on their über-blasé delivery, all the news anchors have a handy, tear-out wall chart of Jesus' family tree that includes Brother James, The Son Of God's sis, Marcy, and step-brother, Hecky.

I can only begin to imagine how many times Jesus' siblings heard, "Why can't you be more like your brother?"

October 20, 2002
Oh, and perhaps the most key piece of information I gleaned during my stay in Detroit:

Shit breaks bad south of 8 mile.

"Shit breaks bad" was the phrase of the moment, for pretty much every moment I spent in Michigan. It's precious, isn't it? It multi-purpose, too. For example, when your domestic partner urges you to take out the trash, you can complain that "shit breaks bad by the dumpster" hoping for a reprieve via obfuscation. Same goes for a myriad of other situations.

I would've liked to have offered "shit broke bad with the dog last night" in lieu of "spot munched my homework" in grade school. Probably would've garnered a concerned call to Mom and Dad but the earned street cred amongst the other 10 year olds might've been worth it.

October 18, 2002
I learned a couple things in Detroit:

1. Being an FBI agent means never having to say, "I'm sorry."
2. Round closing time, after an evening spent downing vodka martinis like Lenin was giving them away, when the bartender offers to make you and your friends a drink largely comprised of an alcoholic liquid "you can't buy in this country," the appropriate response is not to pull a quick huddle to determine if three shots each is going to "do it."

Doug and Kristen's wedding was inspiring. In the harried, final pre-wedding days, they were nearly-unnervingly calm. And during the ceremony they were the very picture of grace under pressure. And there's a lot of pressure associated with most weddings. Shit, I'm surprised the brides and grooms don't turn into fucking diamonds by the time they smoochy-smoochy. (that's the first and last appearance of the phrase "smoochy-smoochy" in these pages, by the way.)

Those crazy kids looked so crazy about each other it was fucking... crazy.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the groomsmen, listening to the priest, looking at the happy couple, I could only think of one thing: I gotta pee. Ok, two things: I gotta pee and love is all there is.

October 16, 2002
The highlight of the trip from Rochester (Flower City) through Canada to the Notorious D.U.G.'s place in Detroit (Rock City) was undoubtedly the stop at the border going from Canada back into the ol' U. S. of A. Well, as long as you discount the bazillion miles of flat, homogenous farmland that apparently comprises our enemy up North. That was fucking prime.

I've said it before I'm sure, but I find it ironic how the U.S. border guards always act like jealous girlfriends when you reenter the country from Canadia. I mean, the Canadians couldn't be more pleased that you're coming up to drop some bills in their quaint little (populationally speaking) country. As long as you don't answer the question, "What's the purpose of your visit?" with "To hunt Canadians." you're pretty much set.

However, when you come back to the Muterland, it's all, "Where have you been? Where did you go? How long did you stay?" All delivered with a gaze that says, "You're fucking guilty and I know it and you know it and welcome back to the country where your taxes likely pay my salary. I'm mad at you."

Pricks.

Anyhow, so, I've established that the U.S. guys don't exactly welcome you back home with open arms, yes?

Mark (not me, the other Mark) pulls the car up to the guard post. The guard... let's call him, Asshair Sandwich... Mr. Sandwich asks some warm up questions - citizenship, length of stay in Canada, etc. - followed by...

A. Sandwich: Where are you headed?

Mark (not me, the other Mark): Um... (looks at the directions to Dougie's house) Marsh Street.

Now, in Asshair's defense, Mark answered his question with a street name. No state, city, town, nothing. We're at the U.S./Canadian border, and he offers: "Marsh Street." Mr. Sandwich was so fucking puzzled by this response that all he could do was blink twice, turn to his little keyboard/monitor setup and enter "Marsh Street." [the street name has been changed to protect the innocent] [and Doug] Actually, I'm assuming that's what he entered, it could have been "Send backup" for all I know.

There's some back and forth while the guard tries to tell Mark (not me, the other Mark) he'd like a little more, um, detail regarding our destination. Like, the town or city, for starters. Finally, our fearless driver gives the directions another cursory glance.

Mark (not me, the other Mark): Decatur.

The guard stares blankly at Mark (not me, the other Mark) for what seems like an hour but was probably closer to two hours and then goes back to his typing.

I look down and notice that there is a mention of a "Decatur Street" on the way to Doug's place, but apart from that, the directions seem conspicuously Decatur-free. I begin to suspect Mark (not me, the other Mark) has heard that the body cavity searches here are not to be missed. I decide it's time for the voice of reason to be heard.

Mark (not the other Mark, me): Actually, sir, I believe the house is in Detroit. Or... maybe a suburb.. uh... of Detroit. It's our friend's house. That's where we're headed.

Mark (not me, the other Mark): Yeah, we're going to visit a friend.

(more typing)

A. Sandwich: In Decatur?

Mark (not the other Mark, me): No, I, uh, think it might be... Detroit? (looking at the directions) It says here --

Mark (not me, the other Mark): (interrupting, matter-of-factly) We're going to a wedding.

At this point, Mr. Sandwich seemed to have determined (or, more accurately, his computer seemed to have determined) that we were so fucking stupid that the only possible threat we posed was to ourselves and dismissed us.

Quick and easy. Just the way I like it. Hopefully, the wedding would follow suit.

October 15, 2002
I left at 1 am last Thursday morning, eventually bound for Detroit (Rock City). The only thing better than a several hundred mile drive is one completed largely while the rest of the world sleeps. I figured that would put me in Rochester around 7 am. Not too bad. I'd grab breakfast with the other white Mark, and then we'd jump into his auto, cut across Canada, and arrive in Michigan sometime in the afternoon.

Indeed, I managed to avoid flying once again. And did so by way of a nice long road trip. Success, so sweet. The only slightly dicey aspect of the trek was that I'd be driving the pimped-out Tercel. With the standard AM/FM. See, I don't mind driving, like, forever, but I have two rather stringent requirements: coffee and CDs. I figured the coffee was very nearly a sure thing. However, without the guarantee of listenable music and plenty of it to go with my Joe, my dependency on rumble strips for safe arrival at Point B increases tenfold. No worries. I've found that even put-putting down the pike in the middle of Pennsylvania (where "Dueling Banjos" is still in the Top Ten) in the dead of night in the dead of winter, there's Elvis to be found if you spin the dial long enough.

You know you're just a blown tire away from squealing like a pig when you only have to hit "seek" three times to traverse the entire FM spectrum.

BEEP

"... Christ, we are all sinners..."

BEEP

"bbrrrr...ffff....mmbrrrr..."

BEEP

"... I'm just a hunka hunka burnin' love!"

I pretty much hit a four or five hour streak of aural luck. The highlight was probably my attempt at 75 mile per hour Karaoke: "Maggie May" as sung by Peter Murphy. Yeah. It kinda rocked.

"OH, MAGGIE I COULDN'T HAVE TRIED... ANY MORE. LOW! ROOM!"

Around 3:30 am-ish, I had a premonition: I imagined a deer, a big one, in my headlights and I got an awful feeling in my stomach. It could have been the fifteen cups of coffee, of course, but I'm always one to pay some mind to my intuition. And indigestion. Anyhow, I took a long look at my short hood. It was beginning to look more and more like a deer ramp to me. A deer ramp hurtling down the highway in search of utilization. I started to think that hitting Bambi at a fair rate of speed would likely lauch the thing antler-first through my windshield and Mike would need a shitload of Oxy Clean to make things right again. I grew up in what you'd likely call a rural area. Well, actually, you'd call it West Bumfuck, but you're a foul little creature, aren't you? Anyhow, I've cruised by many a deer on the road in my days, but I've never particularly had any concerns or cares about the experience.

Eventually, it passed. I cracked the window out of necessity. Damn coffee. And later even, my fears subsided.

Around 5:30 am-ish, there she was. Or he. Buck, doe, whatever, there was a big fucking deer in the left lane of the highway. I was traveling in the right lane. The deer ramp sighed, we drove on.

October 6, 2002
Exchange of the day:

Me: I'm not any stupider than your average guy, you know. All guys are basically this stupid.

Mike: I know.

October 2, 2002
I lost my cell phone. I always put it in the same exact place so I won't lose it. I lost my cell phone.

I'm pretty sure tomorrow my asshole will fall off.

October 1, 2002
I know just slightly more about football than I do about cars. So, it follows that my nervous system has reserved a special brand of terror for moments when my car displays unexpected behavior. Like, when the "check engine" light pops on. I imagine it's somewhat akin to someone coming up from behind you and screaming at you in a foreign language (I mean, in a foreign language you don't speak a word of) (as awful as German sounds, I guess it wouldn't be peepee-pants-scary if you actually understood the braying Gunter was heaving at you).

So, on my way to work last week, the "check engine" light pops on. While I'm on the Mass Pike heading into Boston. Immediately, I saw myself clogging up the center lane for a thousand thousand miles, the scorge of a thousand thousand commuters. Each one screaming at me in that horrible Boston-native-tongue. (it's worse than German. Really.) "Move yah CAAAAH, AHSS-HOLE!" (to which I would reply, "Win a World Series, you fucking losers!" I know just slightly more about baseball than I do about football. Basically, I know that Boston sucks at winning. I'd probably get in a "Yankee's rule!" before I was buried by a thousand thousand loquaciously-challenged Massholes. I love New York.) (anyway, back to my story.)

Stiff as a board, I cut the tunes and listened intently to the car as we hauled towards Beantown. As if, upon hearing anything out of the ordinary: 1). I'd know what the fuck an out of the ordinary sound was, or 2). I'd know what the fuck to do about it. Luckily, I heard nothing but the completely-in-the-ordinary, gentle pur of our 2000 Honda Civic.

I lean heavily toward Japanese autos, since from what I understand (ha), they've historically been more dependable than domestic gocarts. Although, I believe the playing field has somewhat leveled in recent years, partially due to America putting out some decent cars, and partially due to some "Japanese imports" seeing substantial amounts of their construction taking place in American factories. Anyhow, I haven't seen a great deal of trouble over the years - my rice burners have served me exceedingly well, especially given the amount of attention I've shown them. Of course, there was that one time when the dealer called during some 30 bazillion mile routine maintenance visit to let me know there was no oil in the car. Which, I'm judging by context, is a bad thing. What really got me, was that they called me in the middle of the servicing. Like, what was I going to do about it from home? Did they think I was going to say, "Hell no! I won't pay you to put oil in the confounded thing!" I probably said something glib like, "Um, ok. Better put some oil in there, huh?" According to most owner's manuals, you're spoda check the oil every time you stop for gas. Maybe that shit flew when clean cut guys in jumpsuits came blazing out of the service station like Special Forces Gas Attendants to clean your windshield and check your fluids, but nowadays, who's got the friggin time? I've pretty much settled for the standard 3k mile oil change. I've found it's a nice balance between the everytime-you-stop check, and the wait-until-acrid-black-smoke-billows-from-the-air-vents strategy, which is one I employed with my puke green '77 Chevy Nova. Poor gal. Nobody deserves a watery death like she suffered.

Where the hell were we?

Oh, so I called the dealership (cause I'm an idiot) and I told the nice lady who answered, "I'd like to bring my car in - the 'check engine' light came on. I checked the oil (cause that's the only thing I know how to do) (cause I'm an idiot), but it doesn't seem to be that."

The harpy offered thusly: "We're all booked up due to a bunch of recalls (she obviously just moved over from their P.R. department). We can get you in... in about three weeks."

"Th-Three weeks?" I stammered, "Um. I need the car to get to work. I really need to bring it in sooner than that. Can you do anything for me (besides stab me in the back once I take delivery of my car)?"

"What did you say... the 'check engine' light?" the albatross bespake.

"Yes."

"It's probably your gas cap. Have you gotten gas in the last couple days?" spilled from her open maw.

"Yes."

"Did you tighten the gas cap? Cause if you didn't, that can cause the 'check engine' light to come on. Did you tighten the gas cap?" Bearer of Great Sorrows inquired.

"Yes."

"Hm. Well, we can't see you for three weeks," she hissed like an asp.

So, I did a little digging (read: cracked the owner's manual), and it seems that if you fail to tighten the gas cap past three clicks, this can, in fact, cause the 'check engine' light to, well, alight. And after properly tightening it, it may take three trips in the car for the light to shut off. Dandy. I was willing to concede that I may have neglected to properly tighten the gas cap at the conclusion of my last fillup. Mostly, because that would be a free solution to the problem. (unless I can come up with an accurate valuing system to determine the cost of spending a couple days filled to the brim with dread.) Cheerio. That must've been it: Failure to tighten cap. 'Check engine' light goes blinky. Tighten cap. Light don't go blinky. Problem solved.

I'm certain that when they said "three trips" they meant "thirty." I'm sure that's what they meant.

Or forty.

Fifty?

October 1, 2002
In deepest darkness, the faintest light shines bright. In deepest darkness, the faintest light shines bright. In deepest darkness, the faintest light shines bright.