Sometimes when I'm driving, I'll visualize myself losing control of the car and smashing into a guard rail, or running over a curb and plunging into a holding pond. I'm not sure what triggers this latent paranoia, but after spending the last few days with my parents, I'm pretty sure I know where it came from.
It was getting late last night, and my parents and I were babysitting my nephews and neice so my sisters could go out and have fun for once in their lives.
My parents communicate primarily in sighs. Dozing on the couch between them, I wondered whether they have developed a kind of Morse code during their 40+ years of marriage that only they can interpret. Were they talking about me?
After ten minutes of sighs, coughs, and throat clearings, I heard my dad say "maybe you should ride home with Evan to make sure he doesn't fall asleep at the wheel." Now, just so you don't think I'm a narcoleptic in denial, during my cross country trek this summer, a friend and I took turns driving from Macon Missouri to West Palm Beach. We drove a 24 foot box truck for 25 hours straight. I drank two 16 oz red bulls in a row at 5 in the morning to fend off fatigue. I'm not recommending this to anyone, but driving the 0.75 miles to my house at midnight is a walk in that park after that trip.
Last year when I made the mistake of telling my mom I was going skydiving, she said "if God had wanted us to fly, he would have made us angels." When I told her I was statistically 40 times more likely to die in a car accident on the way there, she offered me $100 not to go.
I remember when I was 15 or 16, I came home from a party. My mom was sleeping in her recliner, her friends at Fox News singing her a lullaby. She has an interesting wardrobe. At night, she wore an African robe and matching headdress to mask her curlers. She lunged at the door when I opened it. It was terrifying, like being bum-rushed by Nelson Mandela. I screamed as she slammed the door on my shoulder that it was just me, Evan, her son. She returned to her La-Z-Boy, sat down, deployed the footrest and said "I thought you were a robber."
I can only imagine a world where all of the things my parents are nervous about come true. There would be an Amber Alert every three minutes. People wouldn't leave their houses without assault rifles, and would drive cars only when they wanted to attempt suicide.
I'm still relatively certain my car won't inadvertently go sailing off the PGA bridge any time soon, but after spending the last week with my folks, I'm starting to really wonder.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Man Arrested for Shoplifting Embarassing Products
Donald Jacobs was arrested Wednesday evening for shoplifting a number of decidedly embarrassing products from Wal-Mart.
Employees said they immediately suspected Jacobs, and surveillance footage confirmed their suspicions.
"I could tell he was up to something," said Marla Brown, a supervisor at the store. "He was anything but a smooth criminal. He had a hat pulled down over his eyes. I noticed him browsing the feminine hygiene products, and there was just something so strange about that."
When Jacobs was stopped by security, he was frisked and found to be harboring a box of Preparation H in his waist line. When they searched his messenger bag, they found a box of condoms, a bottle of KY liquid , a tube of Vagisil, a bottle of Imodium AD, a box of Ex-Lax, a box of tampons, and the bottom of a toilet plunger.
"I was preparing for the worst," said a sheepish Jacobs. "And besides, some of that was for my wife. I mean, what am I going to do with a box of tampons? Give them to my wife, that's what."
Employees said Jacobs was cooperative with security, but that it is Wal-Mart's policy to prosecute shoplifters to the full extent of the law.
"He probably thought he could sneak out of our store with all that stuff, but we're on top of our game here at Wal-Mart. You ain't getting out of my store with so much as a candy bar," said Brown. "If he was so smart he would have just ordered that stuff on the Internet."
Jacobs, thinking long and hard about what he has done.
Employees said they immediately suspected Jacobs, and surveillance footage confirmed their suspicions.
"I could tell he was up to something," said Marla Brown, a supervisor at the store. "He was anything but a smooth criminal. He had a hat pulled down over his eyes. I noticed him browsing the feminine hygiene products, and there was just something so strange about that."
When Jacobs was stopped by security, he was frisked and found to be harboring a box of Preparation H in his waist line. When they searched his messenger bag, they found a box of condoms, a bottle of KY liquid , a tube of Vagisil, a bottle of Imodium AD, a box of Ex-Lax, a box of tampons, and the bottom of a toilet plunger.
"I was preparing for the worst," said a sheepish Jacobs. "And besides, some of that was for my wife. I mean, what am I going to do with a box of tampons? Give them to my wife, that's what."
Employees said Jacobs was cooperative with security, but that it is Wal-Mart's policy to prosecute shoplifters to the full extent of the law.
"He probably thought he could sneak out of our store with all that stuff, but we're on top of our game here at Wal-Mart. You ain't getting out of my store with so much as a candy bar," said Brown. "If he was so smart he would have just ordered that stuff on the Internet."
Jacobs, thinking long and hard about what he has done.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
"Angry Birds" Phone Ap Tears Family Apart
A Palm Beach Gardens man is planning to sue Finland-based Rovio Mobile, designer of the phone application Angry Birds.
Mark Malnick claims that Angry Birds was directly responsible for the destruction of his marriage and subsequent loss of custody of his children.
"A friend from work was playing it one day on break. He told me I could download it for free," said Malnick as he ran his fingers across the touch screen of his phone. "Before I knew it, I was slinging birds every chance I got. My wife asked me to stop during dinner one night, and I shouted at her. I'd never so much as raised my voice during our twelve years of marriage before that. I was stuck on this level where you've got to use one of the little yellow birds to demolish the base of the structure to kill all the pigs. They kept oinking at me."
Heidi Turner said she tried to be understanding about her ex-husband's obsession, but could not come to terms with it and had to leave.
"Mark had gone through phases before, with cars, or with golf, but never anything like this," a downcast Turner stated. "It just got worse and worse. He would promise to only play on weekends or after the kids went to bed, but then he'd be in the bathroom for hours and I'd walk by and hear chirping. One night I took his phone after we'd had a big argument about it, and he nearly broke the door off it's hinges. When I told him I had dropped his phone in the toilet, he stormed out of the house, pawned my grandmother's wedding ring and went to the Apple store. Ultimately, I had to do what was best for the children."
Malnick stood firm in his opinion that the game should never have been on the market. "What they did is just really despicable. It grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go. I used to be different. I used to be a man of integrity, a man who meant the world to his kids. Sure, big tobacco is responsible for thousands of deaths a year, but you don't hear about people missing their kid's only base hit in the little league play-offs to smoke a cigarette," said Malnick.
"I haven't found a lawyer that will take my case yet, but when I do, it's over," said Malnick, not looking up from the 21st level of Angry Birds, Holiday Edition. "Will you look at this? They've got a freaking advent calendar for the thing! I stay up till midnight every night waiting for the next level to come out. What they're doing is worse than genocide."
Mark Malnick claims that Angry Birds was directly responsible for the destruction of his marriage and subsequent loss of custody of his children.
"A friend from work was playing it one day on break. He told me I could download it for free," said Malnick as he ran his fingers across the touch screen of his phone. "Before I knew it, I was slinging birds every chance I got. My wife asked me to stop during dinner one night, and I shouted at her. I'd never so much as raised my voice during our twelve years of marriage before that. I was stuck on this level where you've got to use one of the little yellow birds to demolish the base of the structure to kill all the pigs. They kept oinking at me."
Heidi Turner said she tried to be understanding about her ex-husband's obsession, but could not come to terms with it and had to leave.
"Mark had gone through phases before, with cars, or with golf, but never anything like this," a downcast Turner stated. "It just got worse and worse. He would promise to only play on weekends or after the kids went to bed, but then he'd be in the bathroom for hours and I'd walk by and hear chirping. One night I took his phone after we'd had a big argument about it, and he nearly broke the door off it's hinges. When I told him I had dropped his phone in the toilet, he stormed out of the house, pawned my grandmother's wedding ring and went to the Apple store. Ultimately, I had to do what was best for the children."
Malnick stood firm in his opinion that the game should never have been on the market. "What they did is just really despicable. It grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go. I used to be different. I used to be a man of integrity, a man who meant the world to his kids. Sure, big tobacco is responsible for thousands of deaths a year, but you don't hear about people missing their kid's only base hit in the little league play-offs to smoke a cigarette," said Malnick.
"I haven't found a lawyer that will take my case yet, but when I do, it's over," said Malnick, not looking up from the 21st level of Angry Birds, Holiday Edition. "Will you look at this? They've got a freaking advent calendar for the thing! I stay up till midnight every night waiting for the next level to come out. What they're doing is worse than genocide."
Monday, December 20, 2010
Woman in Critical Condition after Toys"R"Us Brawl
A Palm Beach Gardens woman entered the hospital in critical condition Saturday after what is said to be the worst brawl in Christmas shopping history.
Sharon Hess being taken into custody
The fight erupted near the toddler section of Toys"R"Us Saturday afternoon when two mothers simultaneously grabbed the last Baby Alive on the shelf. The two began shouting obscenities, and it wasn't long before the situation became violent.
Sharon Hess was taken into custody by the Palm Beach County Sheriffs Department. Hess was unrepentant about putting her adversary, Claudia Hiles, in the hospital.
"I mean it was obvious that I was there first. You can ask anyone in the store. I'll be damned if anyone is going to stop my daughter from getting a baby doll with anything less than a complete digestive tract. I'm teaching her a lesson - that she does not want to get pregnant at sixteen. I don't care what MTV says," said Hess.
They were like animals," said Michelle Muller, who observed the incident from behind a stack of Pillow Pets. "They were all bared teeth and flailing arms. I saw one of the women grab the other by the throat and start choking her. Then they went to the floor. It took several employees to break up. The staff had to use cat litter to soak up all the blood. When my daughter asked me what all the red stuff was, I had to tell her that they got into a Kool-Aid fight."
Muller encourages mothers throughout the country to take precautionary measures before they go shopping. "I used to think it was safe. I used to think all I needed was a can of pepper spray and a rape whistle, but times have changed. My husband bought me an early Christmas present Sunday - a taser. I'd like to see someone try to grab my daughter's Sing-a-ma-Jig from my shopping cart when they've got 1,200 volts surging through their body.
Hiles was in critical condition Saturday, but doctors say she has stabilized and is expected to make a full recovery.
Sharon Hess being taken into custody
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Parents Secretly Celebrate the Death of Family Pet
A local mother and father have admitted to secretly celebrating the death of the family's black lab, Cocoa, on Monday. Cocoa died of natural causes Monday morning.
"We adopted her thirteen years ago. She used to be so happy and full of life," said
Kim Reynolds, as she attempted to scrub a stain out of her living room carpet. "Toward the end though, she was anything but fun. She kind of just sat around
and whimpered. Every once in a while I'd come home to a pile of feces in front of the television. She really knew how to make the lady of the house feel special," said Mrs. Reynolds.
"I mean, the kids loved her, but they'd just as soon fall in love with a pet rock. A pet rock doesn't grow disgusting toenails or have to go outside every five minutes, or look up at you with big, brown, baleful eyes every time you try to eat dinner, or hump your friend's legs when they come over for cocktails," said Mrs. Reynolds.
Tom Reynolds was found dismantling the poorly constructed wire fence in the back yard. He shared in Mrs. Reynolds contempt for Cocoa. "Don't tell my kids this, but that little son of a bitch was the bane of my existence," said Mr. Reynolds, wiping sweat from his brow. "If I could have predicted the 3 grand in veterinary expenses I shelled out this year, I would have drugged him and buried him alive instead of holding a back yard funeral for my children."
Mr. Reynolds lamented over Cocoa's wake of destruction: "Have you ever had a pair of loafers that fit just right, that defined comfort, that were official enough for the office, but casual enough to wear around the house? Well, I have, and that flea bag tore them to pieces. I'll never find another pair like that one," he said with a sigh.
"The night Cocoa expired, Kim and I waited for the kids to go to bed and uncorked a bottle of wine we had been saving for our anniversary. We talked about our future, and how nice it will be not to have to use that damned lint roller every time we leave the house," said Mr. Reynolds.
"We adopted her thirteen years ago. She used to be so happy and full of life," saidKim Reynolds, as she attempted to scrub a stain out of her living room carpet. "Toward the end though, she was anything but fun. She kind of just sat around
and whimpered. Every once in a while I'd come home to a pile of feces in front of the television. She really knew how to make the lady of the house feel special," said Mrs. Reynolds.
"I mean, the kids loved her, but they'd just as soon fall in love with a pet rock. A pet rock doesn't grow disgusting toenails or have to go outside every five minutes, or look up at you with big, brown, baleful eyes every time you try to eat dinner, or hump your friend's legs when they come over for cocktails," said Mrs. Reynolds.
Tom Reynolds was found dismantling the poorly constructed wire fence in the back yard. He shared in Mrs. Reynolds contempt for Cocoa. "Don't tell my kids this, but that little son of a bitch was the bane of my existence," said Mr. Reynolds, wiping sweat from his brow. "If I could have predicted the 3 grand in veterinary expenses I shelled out this year, I would have drugged him and buried him alive instead of holding a back yard funeral for my children."
Mr. Reynolds lamented over Cocoa's wake of destruction: "Have you ever had a pair of loafers that fit just right, that defined comfort, that were official enough for the office, but casual enough to wear around the house? Well, I have, and that flea bag tore them to pieces. I'll never find another pair like that one," he said with a sigh."The night Cocoa expired, Kim and I waited for the kids to go to bed and uncorked a bottle of wine we had been saving for our anniversary. We talked about our future, and how nice it will be not to have to use that damned lint roller every time we leave the house," said Mr. Reynolds.
Kim Reynolds said her children were at a loss for how to cope with Cocoa's death. "The kids are devastated. It's sad how young and naive they are. Some day when their carpet is covered in paw prints and their feather pillows lie disemboweled on the living room floor, innards strewn about the house like confetti, they will get it. Until then, they are going to have to settle for a fish tank."
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Beardo
I haven't shaved in a little over a week. It started as a bet - one of my coworkers and I started a beard pool with a $20 buy in that would be judged at the end of the month, with points being awarded for style and originality. I have light hair, so right now you might see me from across the room and think, "Hey, that guy looks normal." As you draw closer, though, you will slowly realize the awful truth and think "Ew. Gross. A beard."
I don't understand why someone would grow facial hair if not to earn capital, so I decided to examine some of the popular facial hairstyles and do some research as to why they exist.
According to a caption just above this fine fellow, on this foreign website, "Facial hair help the men either to express or conceal their look just after being stimulated by their instincts." Hmmm, sounds very primal. It's no wonder neanderthals are believed to have been rocking the full beard.
According to Wikipedia, male facial hair is often culturally associated with wisdom and virility, while mustaches are often associated with sexual perversion, serial killers, and law enforcement officers. If you see a man with a beard, you should ask him a question, but if you see a man with a mustache, you should probably get your children away from him, or, if he is wearing aviator sunglasses, give him a donut.
Jeffrey Dahmer is known for dismembering people and refrigerating them. He is NOTORIOUS, though, for his mustache.
The last facial hairstyle I came across is known as the the "door knocker" or "Van Dyke" and is allegedly used to disguise a weak jawline or add the illusion of length to a round face. I understand why it's called a door knocker, because if anyone wearing one of these ever knocked on my door, they'd be knocking for a long time. It's a shame more Jehovah's Witnesses don't have them.
After all of my research, I've concluded that men grow facial hair to look wise, to attract sexual prey, to go with their aviators, to keep people from answering the door, and to scare their wives into submission.
I've decided to shave tomorrow.
I don't understand why someone would grow facial hair if not to earn capital, so I decided to examine some of the popular facial hairstyles and do some research as to why they exist.
According to a caption just above this fine fellow, on this foreign website, "Facial hair help the men either to express or conceal their look just after being stimulated by their instincts." Hmmm, sounds very primal. It's no wonder neanderthals are believed to have been rocking the full beard.
According to Wikipedia, male facial hair is often culturally associated with wisdom and virility, while mustaches are often associated with sexual perversion, serial killers, and law enforcement officers. If you see a man with a beard, you should ask him a question, but if you see a man with a mustache, you should probably get your children away from him, or, if he is wearing aviator sunglasses, give him a donut.
Jeffrey Dahmer is known for dismembering people and refrigerating them. He is NOTORIOUS, though, for his mustache.
In some serious cases, mustaches have been known to multiply like cancer so that they grow down and around the mouth, forming what is known in popular culture as a "fu man chu." This facial hairstyle is typical of men who have been inbred, and may also result from over consumption of Natural Light and/or Natural Ice. Fu man chu wearing men are responsible for the existence of the majority of battered women's shelters throughout the US. Their most notable achievements can be read about in the Darwin Awards.
The last facial hairstyle I came across is known as the the "door knocker" or "Van Dyke" and is allegedly used to disguise a weak jawline or add the illusion of length to a round face. I understand why it's called a door knocker, because if anyone wearing one of these ever knocked on my door, they'd be knocking for a long time. It's a shame more Jehovah's Witnesses don't have them.
After all of my research, I've concluded that men grow facial hair to look wise, to attract sexual prey, to go with their aviators, to keep people from answering the door, and to scare their wives into submission.
I've decided to shave tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Speeder's Luck
For some strange reason, cops have always loved me. Even though I spent the majority of my teens and young adult life breaking all kinds of laws and covenants, I never got in legal trouble for it. Besides that one time I went to jail in Texico, which you can read about in my book once it's finished.
Once, when I was living in Los Angeles, I pulled out of a gas station and made a spur of the moment U-turn. My tires screeched as I whipped around into the left lane. Then I rolled through a red light while turning right. That's when the lights came on behind me. The cop told me I was driving like I was in the Indy 500. I told him I was in a race against time to get to San Francisco. We laughed about it like a couple of old friends, and he told me to drive safely.
A couple of years ago I was at a 12-step conference in Stuart. One of my headlights was out, so I was reluctant to drive at night. Me and a couple of sleep-deprived friends decided that a trip to Denny's was inevitable at about 3 AM. I noticed a couple of squad cars sitting at the top of a bridge we were approaching, and warned my friends that we were about to be pulled over, but not to worry because police love me.
Whenever I get pulled over, I always pull into a parking lot of some sort. It's one of my little tricks. I think the cops like it. On this particular occasion I accidentally turned the wrong way down a one way street. Then, when I did make it to a parking lot, I parked in a handicapped space. My plan was backfiring. When the cop approached my window, he asked me if I had been drinking. The irony! I didn't pull out the "No, as a matter of fact I was just at a 12 step conference" card, because I know that even people with a BAC of .4 or higher still don't park in a handicapped space when they get pulled over. I just said "no."
After calling the entire Stuart police department so they could assemble and laugh at my parking space, the cop gave me a warning and drove away.
Just now, on the way home from a friends house, I was pulled over for going 58 in a 45. Whoops. After the cop ran my license, he came back to my window and told me he'd cut me a break and "just give me a seat belt ticket."
"But I was wearing my seat belt," I said, not realizing how indignant I sounded until I had already said it. Call me spoiled.
"Really, I could have sworn you weren't wearing it when you leaned over to get your registration. Look, I'm cutting you a break here. Maybe I did see it, maybe I didn't."
"Ohhh," I said, understanding what he meant. I feel like I just bribed him, without really having to bribe him. Maybe I bribed him with my pretty blue eyes.
I must be getting greedy, because I'm thinking about fighting this ticket. I did have my seat belt on, after all. I'm thirsty for justice, and this just doesn't sit right with me.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Grand Old Larceny
Recently, my boss decided to add a convicted felon to our ranks. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
He's a different breed, this one. He's tall and lanky, with an asymmetrical face and a belly that sticks out in front of him like a pregnancy simulator vest. There is a baby gate affixed to keep the office dog from bolting out the front door and into traffic when we get visitors. Instead of sliding it open like everyone else, he lifts one of his long, spindly legs into the air and steps over it, like he is trying to mount a horse. Then he steps over it with his other leg. I've seen him catch his foot in the lattice on more than one occasion and almost go sprawling onto the tile.
We've started calling him lurky because of his tendency to lurk around the parking lot while he fights with someone on the phone.
While I was in Iowa a couple weeks ago, our office manager texted me his mugshot. Allegedly, she had been performing an impromptu background check. Coincidentally, our operations manager found a $20 bill at the very moment and was asking if anyone lost it. "I did!" said lurky, at the same instant she read the words "grand larceny."
When she told our boss, he responded that our office was "the land of second chances."
Our little jailbird doesn't know that any of us have caught wind of his past. One of my guilty pleasures is making him sweat.
"Does anyone know what happened to my Monster?" Dan said a couple days ago.
"No, I think we've got a thief here," I told him.
Today I had to send a certified letter to an ex-roommate's parents threatening to sue them because he stole a bunch of money from me a while ago.
"He got in trouble for GRAND LARCENY just last September because some lady let him watch her house and he pawned all her jewelry," I said, standing behind lurky's chair.
"Oh man!" he said, feigning ignorance.
I don't know why I get such sick pleasure out of tormenting him. I guess it's part of a last ditch effort to maintain my sanity in the work place.
Maybe next we will hire a registered sex offender. Then the fun will really start.
He's a different breed, this one. He's tall and lanky, with an asymmetrical face and a belly that sticks out in front of him like a pregnancy simulator vest. There is a baby gate affixed to keep the office dog from bolting out the front door and into traffic when we get visitors. Instead of sliding it open like everyone else, he lifts one of his long, spindly legs into the air and steps over it, like he is trying to mount a horse. Then he steps over it with his other leg. I've seen him catch his foot in the lattice on more than one occasion and almost go sprawling onto the tile.
We've started calling him lurky because of his tendency to lurk around the parking lot while he fights with someone on the phone.
While I was in Iowa a couple weeks ago, our office manager texted me his mugshot. Allegedly, she had been performing an impromptu background check. Coincidentally, our operations manager found a $20 bill at the very moment and was asking if anyone lost it. "I did!" said lurky, at the same instant she read the words "grand larceny."
When she told our boss, he responded that our office was "the land of second chances."
Our little jailbird doesn't know that any of us have caught wind of his past. One of my guilty pleasures is making him sweat.
"Does anyone know what happened to my Monster?" Dan said a couple days ago.
"No, I think we've got a thief here," I told him.
Today I had to send a certified letter to an ex-roommate's parents threatening to sue them because he stole a bunch of money from me a while ago.
"He got in trouble for GRAND LARCENY just last September because some lady let him watch her house and he pawned all her jewelry," I said, standing behind lurky's chair.
"Oh man!" he said, feigning ignorance.
I don't know why I get such sick pleasure out of tormenting him. I guess it's part of a last ditch effort to maintain my sanity in the work place.
Maybe next we will hire a registered sex offender. Then the fun will really start.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Ordering Stakeout
Yesterday, I pretended I was on a stakeout in a prostitution sting while I was sitting at the mall waiting for my friend to meet me for dinner.
I was playing with my iPhone, which is my MO while sitting on random benches, when I heard something that caught my attention.
"I'm not a prostitute," the woman on the bench across from me told the man who sat down next to her.
I couldn't hear much else that was said for over the next few minutes, but by the man's body language, I could tell that he was trying to convince her of something. I think he was trying to persuade her to come out of retirement just this one time, that he would get her career as a street-walker back on track.
He went into the mall for a minute, most likely to go to an ATM or do a few lines of cocaine, and returned to the bench. Then he pulled out his wallet and opened it, operating under the assumption that "money talks."
I was playing with my iPhone, which is my MO while sitting on random benches, when I heard something that caught my attention.
"I'm not a prostitute," the woman on the bench across from me told the man who sat down next to her.
I couldn't hear much else that was said for over the next few minutes, but by the man's body language, I could tell that he was trying to convince her of something. I think he was trying to persuade her to come out of retirement just this one time, that he would get her career as a street-walker back on track.
He went into the mall for a minute, most likely to go to an ATM or do a few lines of cocaine, and returned to the bench. Then he pulled out his wallet and opened it, operating under the assumption that "money talks."
After listening to a couple more minutes of his persuasive antics, she finally threw in the towel and said "I hope you ain't the police."
Then she pulled out a piece of paper and started writing something, presumably her phone number. I can't be certain though, they could have been playing tic-tac-toe.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Truck Stops Here
I've always had this morbid curiosity about truck drivers. I think it stems from this time when I was a little kid visiting my Dad's family in Kentucky. Somehow the conversation turned to the secret language truckers use to communicate over CB radio. I don't remember much, except that when they would refer to attractive women as "seat covers," as in, "check out the seat cover in that convertible." Why my mind decided to lock this away in my memory bank, I will never know.
Dan sandwiched between his two best friends
Someone from our manufacturing company picked us up at the airport, and in the morning we left our factory in Palmer Massachusetts and headed for Cleveland. We drove a 26-foot box truck that refused to go over 70 no matter how hard I pressed the gas and groaned in protest every time we went up a hill.
Dan was sick, and every time I cracked a joke and he started laughing, he would practically have an asthma attack. I tried to keep things somber, but it was hard when we stopped at places that actually found it necessary to post signs like this:
We spent the night in downtown Cleveland, after some confusion about where the hell in downtown Cleveland our truck would fit. We ended up just parking it in front of the hotel, where the tour busses go.
Somewhere between Cleveland and Sioux City Iowa we found this place where we could worship if we wanted:
Our second day we spent about 17 hours on the road. We spent three days in Sioux City exchanging 800 pound trash compactors at McDonalds stores. It was pretty anticlimactic besides when we were unloading one of the machines from the truck and it almost crushed Dan.
Our big night to unwind was Saturday. After we had finished exchanging all of the compactors and loading everything up in the truck, we went to a Casino in Sioux City that was shaped like a boat.
Dan had been trying to convince me all day that he was going to win thousands. He even told me that if he won over $200 he would give me 20%. I made the same deal with him. After losing $12 on video poker, I decided to try my luck with the John Wayne slots.....
I lost a couple more dollars, and then went to check on Dan. I didn't really understand how slot machines worked, but I saw Dan hitting "bet max" over and over, so I followed suit and sat down two machines away from him. On my first hit I won $75.00. I immediately cashed out and spent the rest of the night walking around feeling smug and secretly taking pictures of the patrons:
Dan lost some money, and when we got back to our room and realized we had forgotten our key, we played rock, paper, scissors to decide who would go to the front desk. He lost at that too.
We finally left Sioux City sunday morning. Our plan was to spend the night in St. Louis across the street from the gateway arch, but our truck broke down in this small town called Macon, Missouri. Within minutes, six rednecks had flocked to our broken down Penske truck like vultures to a rotting carcass. At first I thought they were going to rob us, but it turns out they just wanted to see if their pick up trucks would be able to tow our truck around the parking lot. One of them happened to be a diesel mechanic, and told us what the problem was before we could even get Penske on the phone.
They were friendly people, they really were. Penske sent a mechanic out and when he couldn't fix it, they sent us another truck. We sat around in the parking lot drinking red bull and talking to these guys for a couple of hours:
We found out our truck wouldn't arrive until about 2 in the morning, so we walked a mile to a hotel. It had a hunter's lodge theme, and was actually the best smelling hotel we stayed at all week. The lobby was lined with animal heads.
We reloaded all of the equipment in the new truck at 4 in the morning and, after coming to the conclusion that we were both pretty much over this road trip, decided to drive 25 hours straight through when we woke up monday morning. And that's what we did.
Over the past week, I've had a chance to experience trucking culture first hand. We flew into Hartford tuesday evening. I was wedged between a man who smelled like balogna, which reminded me of jail, and a woman who was reading a book and periodically sobbing throughout the flight. My nosiness got the best of me, and when I caught a glimpse of her book I saw that she was reading White Fang. I haven't seen that book since my middle school book fair. Apparently it's a real tear-jerker.
When I looked to my left, I saw my friend Dan, who was to be my copilot during this cross-country trek, making friendly conversation with what I thought at first was a husky man with several tattoos. When we landed, I asked him what the deal was with his neighbor, and learned that it was actually a woman who operated garbage trucks for waste management. She had been venting to him about her problems with bed bugs, lamenting about how bad they itch. She said she thought she saw one in the windowsill at her last hotel, but it turned out to be a caterpillar, so she left it alone.
Dan sandwiched between his two best friends
Someone from our manufacturing company picked us up at the airport, and in the morning we left our factory in Palmer Massachusetts and headed for Cleveland. We drove a 26-foot box truck that refused to go over 70 no matter how hard I pressed the gas and groaned in protest every time we went up a hill.
Our windshield quickly became speckled with insects, and the grill of our truck started to resemble the butterfly exhibit in a museum.
We only stopped at truck stops during the first leg of our journey because we were so nervous to park anywhere else. Our truck looked pretty unimpressive beside all those semis, but in my mind we had earned the respect of every flannel-clad hillbilly that tilted a nod in our direction.
Dan was sick, and every time I cracked a joke and he started laughing, he would practically have an asthma attack. I tried to keep things somber, but it was hard when we stopped at places that actually found it necessary to post signs like this:
We spent the night in downtown Cleveland, after some confusion about where the hell in downtown Cleveland our truck would fit. We ended up just parking it in front of the hotel, where the tour busses go.
Somewhere between Cleveland and Sioux City Iowa we found this place where we could worship if we wanted:
Our second day we spent about 17 hours on the road. We spent three days in Sioux City exchanging 800 pound trash compactors at McDonalds stores. It was pretty anticlimactic besides when we were unloading one of the machines from the truck and it almost crushed Dan.
Our big night to unwind was Saturday. After we had finished exchanging all of the compactors and loading everything up in the truck, we went to a Casino in Sioux City that was shaped like a boat.
Dan had been trying to convince me all day that he was going to win thousands. He even told me that if he won over $200 he would give me 20%. I made the same deal with him. After losing $12 on video poker, I decided to try my luck with the John Wayne slots.....
I lost a couple more dollars, and then went to check on Dan. I didn't really understand how slot machines worked, but I saw Dan hitting "bet max" over and over, so I followed suit and sat down two machines away from him. On my first hit I won $75.00. I immediately cashed out and spent the rest of the night walking around feeling smug and secretly taking pictures of the patrons:
Dan lost some money, and when we got back to our room and realized we had forgotten our key, we played rock, paper, scissors to decide who would go to the front desk. He lost at that too.
We finally left Sioux City sunday morning. Our plan was to spend the night in St. Louis across the street from the gateway arch, but our truck broke down in this small town called Macon, Missouri. Within minutes, six rednecks had flocked to our broken down Penske truck like vultures to a rotting carcass. At first I thought they were going to rob us, but it turns out they just wanted to see if their pick up trucks would be able to tow our truck around the parking lot. One of them happened to be a diesel mechanic, and told us what the problem was before we could even get Penske on the phone.
They were friendly people, they really were. Penske sent a mechanic out and when he couldn't fix it, they sent us another truck. We sat around in the parking lot drinking red bull and talking to these guys for a couple of hours:
We found out our truck wouldn't arrive until about 2 in the morning, so we walked a mile to a hotel. It had a hunter's lodge theme, and was actually the best smelling hotel we stayed at all week. The lobby was lined with animal heads.
We reloaded all of the equipment in the new truck at 4 in the morning and, after coming to the conclusion that we were both pretty much over this road trip, decided to drive 25 hours straight through when we woke up monday morning. And that's what we did.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Armed Snobbery
I finally got a new car Monday, and it has turned me into one of those Palm Beach douche bags I resented so much when I was rolling around in my beloved Corolla (see I Brake for Nothing if you didn't catch the sarcasm.)
I was on my way to the gym after work, when I took one final look around the inside of my Corolla and decided that I had had enough. I turned around and headed to Earl Stewart Toyota, where I was schmoozed by an army of sales people who pretended to be my best friend. I'm the type of guy they drool over. I don't know much about cars, I didn't have anything specific in mind, and if the only thing left on the lot had been an El Camino with three tires, I probably would have driven it home instead of my old car.
After about four hours of paperwork and over-excited sales pitches, I drove away in my new Scion TC. Not to brag, but it is a pretty cool looking car when you're used to a wood paneled station wagon or a little green buggy that looks like it was attacked by an angry divorcee with a golf club.
Now that my ego has been inflated to the size of a blimp, I can accidentally make people hate me. Yesterday, we hired a new sales person - a fast talking little guy from New York - who I helped train on our database.
One of my coworkers, Brian, noticed that our neighbor had bought a newer sporty looking Kia that was parked a few cars down from mine.
"I guess he saw your new car and had to keep up," said Brian after coming inside from sucking down a Black & Mild.
"Yeah, but that things a #$*%&@ Kia!" I said. For whatever reason, I've always hated Kias. I think it's because I don't like the way the words "Kia Sephia" sound together.
Anyway, turns out the Kia didn't belong to our neighbor. It belonged to the new sales guy. The sales guy that was standing right next to me when I said that.
This morning, Brian pulled me aside and told me. I feel like one of those white trash people that won the lottery. Before I know it, I'm going to be one of those monsters who wrinkle their nose at the servers in restaurants that don't offer Perrier. Please pray for me. I need all the help I can get.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Evan "Relic" Hunter
This morning, I woke up and went downstairs to find my friend Sara and my mother having a chat on the porch. Ever since I can remember, my mom has risen at some ungodly hour, say, 5:30, and started funneling coffee. By the time I wake up, she has developed an entire monologue to bombard me with as I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I've learned to accept this, but sometimes I worry that my friends won't be prepared for it. Their heads might explode from the overload of information that comes spewing out of her mouth like water from a run-over fire-hydrant.
This morning it was the nature walk she was riled up about. Last year when we came up here to visit, she guided us up a steep hill behind their house to what she claimed was either an Indian burial ground (Pet Sematary?) or civil war camp. I was looking at the ground to make sure I didn't step on any loose rocks or snakes, when I noticed a dingy old piece of metal lying on the ground. I picked it up out of curiosity, and when my mother saw what I was holding she almost had a seizure.
"You found a relic!" She exclaimed. I looked over the object I was holding, which appeared to be some kind of tarnished paper weight. "Let me see!" She said, and sauntered up the hill toward me, her eyes wide with excitement.
"It looks like it came from Pier 1, mom," I said. I didn't want to burst her bubble, but at the same time I didn't want to carry this rusty piece of garbage with me for the rest of the hike and risk getting tetanus. I tried to find "made in China" engraved on it somewhere, but I couldn't.
A few minutes after I'd found it, I casually let it slip out of my fingers and fall to the ground. When we got back to the house, my mother asked me about it and made me give her an estimate of where I had I dropped it.
When we got in at around 11 last night, one of the first things she said was "Look up on the mantle." There it was. She had gone back, probably with one of her metal detectors, and recovered her beloved relic. She even mounted a candle on it.
This morning my friends and I were sitting on the front porch drinking our coffee when my mother emerged from the house with two walking sticks. She set them down against the railing, and said "It's seventy degrees now, going to be seventy-five soon..."
"Hint, hint." I said to my friends. She was chomping at the bit to get us out in the woods. She's told me before that I have great eyes, and that ever since I was a little kid I've been good at finding things. I think that she believes one of these days I will find her a valuable artifact that will be her big break.
As we made our way up one of the hills, I noticed an old car battery. "Look, mom, a relic!" I said.
"I need somewhere to sit down," she said, unamused. She had been walking up the hill with two walking sticks, and looked like one of those long-long legged rabbit creatures from The Dark Crystal.
"Why don't you sit on the car battery?" I asked her.
"She'd get a real charge out of that," said my father, king of the puns.
That was the only real discovery I made today. Maybe next year I will find her a frying pan from Bed, Bath, and Beyond that she can mount somewhere in her kitchen.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Golf Cart Hell Ride
When I was a kid, my mother told me she had poor depth-perception. I had noticed the bruises on her legs from running into our coffee table, and I knew she didn't have a driver's license, but I never put the two together.
Having mastered the technique of mentioning places she'd like to go in order to indirectly request rides, she's relied on the good will of my father for transportation throughout their marriage.
I heard through a family member that she almost drowned herself and my nephew in one of the alligator-infested canals that line the glorified trailer park where my parents spend their winters last year.
We were on a golf cart ride one sunny afternoon when I asked her to tell me about it. She pointed out the spot where it happened. She had tried to make a U-turn between two canals, but miscalculated. The golf cart started sliding down an embankment into the murky water, and she and my nephew jumped off either side.
She woke my father up from a nap to let him know, and they went back to find the golf cart almost completely submerged. My father told me it still works although it "doesn't sound quite the same."
After hearing this story, I'm thankful she doesn't have a license. If this is the kind of trouble she gets into with a golf cart, who knows what would happen if she ever got behind the wheel of a car, or, God help us, an SUV. I could picture her trying to explain away the orange road barrier that had attached itself to her muffler after she ran it over.
"I thought there was a speed bump there!" She would tell my father after he got an angry phone call regarding the neighbors dachshund.
She used to go on and on about how she wanted a segway, but I'm not sure if even that is a good idea.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Dental Damn
According the Jerry Seinfeld, the only difference between dentists and sadists are newer magazines. I'm inclined to agree with him after yesterday's visit to the sterile torture-chamber where I elected to have my teeth cleaned.
I'd been reading Catcher in the Rye in the waiting room, and the dental hygienest complimented me on my taste. She asked me if I were reading it for school after sticking one of those things in my mouth they use when they give you X-rays, and smiled as I tried to articulate an answer. When she took it out, we chatted about how I had quit smoking since my last visit. She told me about her two-year old. She seemed like a real sweetheart.
But there was another side of her. A darker side. A side you don't even want to think about.
It first came to the surface when she produced a water pick from outside my peripheral vision. She was ruthless, this one, and she might as well have been tattooing my gums with it. I asked her if it were a pressure washer for your teeth after she "accidentally" sprayed me in the face with it, and she said "that's exactly the way I describe it to people!"
Then she took out one of those pointy devices they use to scrape the plaque off your teeth. I could see the smile widening behind her mask as she examined it, probably wondering what it would feel like to stab me in the eye. Allegedly, they call this device an explorer, which makes sense because she dug into my gum line like she was searching for buried treasure. My body tensed as she tried to scrape away what was left of my gums. She's just doing a good job, I told myself. From the amount of blood on her gloves, you would have thought she was performing open heart surgery. "Are you comfortable?" She asked.
"Yeah," I said, lying. I was about as comfortable as a prisoner of war.
Finally, she left the room. The dentist came in and prodded my teeth with her explorer, searching for cavities. She found three small ones, and wrote up a treatment plan that would cost me a fortune.
I thanked them for all of this, and thanked God that I wouldn't have to go back for another six months. Except, of course, to get the three fillings the dentist said she probably won't even need to numb me for.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Look at my Family!
You know what really depresses me? Those stickers that people line up on the back of their minivans and SUVs to show the world how many children they have. At least they used to tell you how many children they have. Now they concentrate on the finer details, like whether their children play soccer or have pig-tails.
First of all, these stickers are a serial killer's wet dream. If you're driving around with those on your car, and you don't live in a gated community, you're practically begging to get slaughtered. "A woman living alone with her two small children, and no dog? I'm there," the Ted Bundys of the world must say to themselves.
I saw one the other day that had a woman and five or six cats and dogs, and man was that sad. You know they must be all she has to live for, and what's worse, she's got those damn stickers on her car to tell everyone about it. I could just picture her driving home from the animal shelter where she works to lie down on her mangy living room floor, where she coos to her animals until they come and rub themselves up against her.
Sometimes I want to put those stickers on my car as a joke. Maybe have just one guy and about thirty children taking up the entire window. "Different mothers," I would say when questioned about it. Or maybe on my friend's car I could put just two men and a cat.
Fortunately, I don't think I'm acquainted with anyone that's got these stickers. If you know anyone who does, you should do them a huge favor: peel them off and incinerate them. Or at least peel their heads off.
First of all, these stickers are a serial killer's wet dream. If you're driving around with those on your car, and you don't live in a gated community, you're practically begging to get slaughtered. "A woman living alone with her two small children, and no dog? I'm there," the Ted Bundys of the world must say to themselves.
I saw one the other day that had a woman and five or six cats and dogs, and man was that sad. You know they must be all she has to live for, and what's worse, she's got those damn stickers on her car to tell everyone about it. I could just picture her driving home from the animal shelter where she works to lie down on her mangy living room floor, where she coos to her animals until they come and rub themselves up against her.
Sometimes I want to put those stickers on my car as a joke. Maybe have just one guy and about thirty children taking up the entire window. "Different mothers," I would say when questioned about it. Or maybe on my friend's car I could put just two men and a cat.
Fortunately, I don't think I'm acquainted with anyone that's got these stickers. If you know anyone who does, you should do them a huge favor: peel them off and incinerate them. Or at least peel their heads off.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Eves Dropping has Never been so Dangerous
I've overheard some strange and disturbing conversations during the last ten minutes. The first came after I had received my evening coffee from the short barista at the Barnes and Noble. He looks like Kim Jong Il, and I had to beg his pardon when he asked me if I was a member.
As I stood there waiting for my coffee, I noticed a large circle of women who had rearranged the entire south side of the cafe to accommodate their posse. One of them, pudgy and bespectacled, was crafting what appeared to be either a knit cap or an oven mitt. Yellow yarn was coiled on the floor beside her thick calf. When my coffee was ready, I wandered over to the table that housed the cream and sweeteners. As much as I tried to mind my own business, I couldn't help overhearing the woman talk about a recent encounter she'd had with one of her teachers.
"He made me dress up in my nicest business clothes to meet with him," she said. I tuned her out for a minute after that, thinking that this group of gossip-mongers reminded me of a group of women who used to meet at the coffee shop where my sister worked in Los Angeles. They called their meetings Stitch 'n Bitch. Then she said something that caught my attention:
"I have a pair of purple sparkly fishnets," she said. Before I could block it from entering my mind, an image of her wearing them, holding a ball of yarn, was burned into my consciousness.
I finished stirring my coffee as quickly as possible, and sat down beside a couple of teenagers, who appeared harmless. I opened Word, and started to scan through what I'd written yesterday. Then the boy beside me started talking:
"Let me thee. I can't find it. Well anyway, it theth in here thomewhere that there will be a bunch of earthquaketh." Were it not for his lisp, I might have been a little more frightened by the apocalypse talk. He was trying to explain the book of Revelation to his little girlfriend. I thought of asking him if he'd ever considered seeing a speech therapist, but then decided I liked him better with a lisp. Besides, they seemed to really be hitting it off, and I didn't want to interfere with true love. I moved on, relocating to my beloved spot in the corner by the trashcan.
Now I'm listening to horrible muzak and wondering how many times I can hear Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" played by an orchestra before my eardrums start bleeding. Sometimes I think the whole world has gone crazy.
As I stood there waiting for my coffee, I noticed a large circle of women who had rearranged the entire south side of the cafe to accommodate their posse. One of them, pudgy and bespectacled, was crafting what appeared to be either a knit cap or an oven mitt. Yellow yarn was coiled on the floor beside her thick calf. When my coffee was ready, I wandered over to the table that housed the cream and sweeteners. As much as I tried to mind my own business, I couldn't help overhearing the woman talk about a recent encounter she'd had with one of her teachers.
"He made me dress up in my nicest business clothes to meet with him," she said. I tuned her out for a minute after that, thinking that this group of gossip-mongers reminded me of a group of women who used to meet at the coffee shop where my sister worked in Los Angeles. They called their meetings Stitch 'n Bitch. Then she said something that caught my attention:
"I have a pair of purple sparkly fishnets," she said. Before I could block it from entering my mind, an image of her wearing them, holding a ball of yarn, was burned into my consciousness.
I finished stirring my coffee as quickly as possible, and sat down beside a couple of teenagers, who appeared harmless. I opened Word, and started to scan through what I'd written yesterday. Then the boy beside me started talking:
"Let me thee. I can't find it. Well anyway, it theth in here thomewhere that there will be a bunch of earthquaketh." Were it not for his lisp, I might have been a little more frightened by the apocalypse talk. He was trying to explain the book of Revelation to his little girlfriend. I thought of asking him if he'd ever considered seeing a speech therapist, but then decided I liked him better with a lisp. Besides, they seemed to really be hitting it off, and I didn't want to interfere with true love. I moved on, relocating to my beloved spot in the corner by the trashcan.
Now I'm listening to horrible muzak and wondering how many times I can hear Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" played by an orchestra before my eardrums start bleeding. Sometimes I think the whole world has gone crazy.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Fine Art of Procrastination
I realized today that I am probably the world's biggest slacker. Every time I sit down to do something quasi-productive, such as work on my book, I find myself immediately getting up to do something just the opposite. Usually, the first thing I do is pay my fridge a visit, scanning it's contents for something to keep me occupied. I don't do this because I'm hungry, but lazy. I honestly think that some of the world's most obese people are also the people who sit down to work on the most projects, and decide to go to the fridge instead.
If the fridge doesn't provide me with a viable alternative to the thing I actually set my mind on accomplishing, I go to the bathroom. After that, I check my iPhone, which was designed for people who, like me, are constantly seeking out things to distract them from all the things worthwhile in life. After I check my Facebook, see that nobody left me a comment, scan through the entire news feed to see what all of the people I haven't spoken to since high school are doing, I go to my Words with Friends ap, which is essentially a never-ending scrabble game. I usually have between 10 and 12 games going at any given time, which serves to gobble up about 15-20 minutes of my time. Once I have played words that make me feel like a prodigy in some games, and cursed my friends for having better letters than me in others, I check foursquare to see where the few friends I have on that ap are in our fair city, and see if I have earned any badges or mayorships.
Then I go back to the fridge for a minute, this time looking in the freezer. I didn't even think about the freezer the first time. I take out the sherbet, and make myself a bowl. I go back and sit down at my computer, really meaning to write this time.
After cranking out one painstaking sentence that looks stilted and awkward, I sit back, crack my knuckles, and wonder if I should even be writing. I think about calling a few different people, and think better of it. I stare at my blinking cursor, and decide that I need some caffeine to jumpstart my muse.
On the way out to the car, I have what alcoholics call a moment of clarity, and realize that I'm never going to write today if I remain in my natural habitat. I go upstairs and get my laptop, and drive to Barnes and Noble, where I am now sitting, help captive by the heavy downpour outside.
I haven't started working on my book yet, but this counts as warming up, right?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Crutchy
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Evan Hunter"
> To:
> Sent: Tuesday, October 03, 2006 2:00 PM
> Subject: Crutches
>
> > Hi,
> > I sprained my ankle skateboarding and I'm interested in the crutches, are they still available?
> >
> > Thank you,
> From: "Evan Hunter"
> To:
> Sent: Tuesday, October 03, 2006 2:00 PM
> Subject: Crutches
>
> > Hi,
> > I sprained my ankle skateboarding and I'm interested in the crutches, are they still available?
> >
> > Thank you,
Evan Hunter
======== At 2006-10-05, 08:48:00 you wrote: ========
Evan, yes they are still available.
Mark
Mark
From: Evan Hunter
To: Mark S.
Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2006 12:00 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Crutches
Hi Mark,
To: Mark S.
Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2006 12:00 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Crutches
Hi Mark,
Unfortunately, I bought some before I got this. Thanks though.
Thank you,
Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com
2006-10-05
Thank you,
Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com
2006-10-05
======== At 2006-10-05, 09:11:00 you wrote: ========
Before you got this? What do you mean by "this"?
I emailed you at least 5 times now, starting with right after you originally emailed me.
Please help me understand here.
Thanks,
Mark
----- Original Message -----
From: Evan Hunter
To: Mark S.
Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2006 11:50 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Crutches
Before I got your original email. In other words, I don't need the crutches.
Thank you,
Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com
2006-10-05
======== At 2006-10-05, 11:00:00 you wrote: ========
Oh ok! So you mean between the time you emailed me and the hour later in which I replied, you bought some. OK I think I understand.
So why wouldn't you just tell me so? Why not reply to my 5 or so previous emails? (Don't you think that would be the courteous thing to do?)
Thanks,
Mark
----- Original Message -----
From: Evan Hunter
To: Mark S.
Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2006 12:20 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Crutches
I'm extremely busy, and this is my work email address. If you have nothing better to do with your time than shame me for not buying a pair of crutches then you need a hobby. I figured you would just let it go if I didn't respond, but obviously you won't so I apologize. Hope you can find someone to take those crutches off your hands.
Ta,
Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com
2006-10-05
======== At 2006-10-05, 17:48:00 you wrote: ========
Hi Evan,
Oh you're extremely busy? Oh!!!!!!!!
Cool, cause that was kinda my point. How come you don't understand that others are extremely busy too? Perhaps you're the only one on the planet that's extremely busy? I think that's what you're trying to say, cause that's the impression I'm getting.
You see, I'M EXTREMELY BUSY TOO. That's why I asked you So why wouldn't you just tell me so? Why not reply to my 5 or so previous emails? (Don't you think that would be the courteous thing to do?)
Maybe you get my point now. Or maybe not. Maybe YOU are the only one on the planet that's extremely busy. I'm just trying to figure it all out.
Thanks,
Mark
----- Original Message -----
From: Evan Hunter
To: Mark S.
Sent: Friday, October 06, 2006 12:00 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Crutches
Dear Mark,
If you're so busy, why waste your time writing 5 emails to someone who didn't respond to your first one? You are wasting your time if you think you can hold everyone on Craig's list accountable. I'm starting to think you have some kind of mental disorder.
Thank you,
Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com
2006-10-06
======== At 2006-11-03, 07:40:00 you wrote: ========
You are welcome to think I have some kind of mental disorder. The fact is, you've still never answered my questions, and you just talk in gibberish.
Before you got "this"? What do you mean by "this"? I emailed you at least 5 times, starting with right after you originally emailed me. Are you simply just a selfish pig? What's the delio? So you mean between the time you emailed me and the hour later in which I replied, you bought some crutches? If so why wouldn't you just tell me so? Why not reply to my 5 or so previous emails? (Don't you think that would be the courteous thing to do?)
Please help me understand here.
----- Original Message -----
From: Evan Hunter
To: Mark S.
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 12:00 AM
Subject: Re: Re: Crutches
Mark,
I expect that the courteous thing to do would be to leave me alone and stop writing me the same email over and over again. I already received this last week. Were you trying to sell your crutches so you could buy your next fix? You seemed quite desperate. If so, I suppose I can understand why you composed 5 emails in such rapid succession. Please understand that crack cocaine is not a healthy escape from reality. You would be well advised to seek help and learn cope with all the curve balls life throws at you.
Cheers,
Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com
2006-11-03
======== At 2006-12-04, 07:19:00 you wrote: ========
Dear Even,
You keep writing about your "diagnosis" of my supposed mental disorders, and the reasons you guess that I was selling the crutches. Yet the issue at hand is neither of those.
The issue is simply why you would email me and waste my time, for an item that you were never going to buy anyway.
As I've told you many times now (but for some reason it just hasn't sunk in), I responded immediately to your initial email. (see below). Not only was there never a chance of any transaction taking place, but you just ignored all of my emails for quite a long time. Then in addition, instead of just saying "I'm sorry, I'm a rude idiot", your approach was to go on the attack and to try to insult me. I find that highly rude, don't you? Did your mother teach you to behave that way?
Are you by chance in sales over there at Cellularbroad? If so, I wonder if you like "customers" who just jerk you around, waste your time, and never intend to buy anything. I'll bet your top sales boys even have a name for that type of person. (And I bet it's not a very nice word). If you're not in sales over there, could you run this by the sales boys and see what they think about it?
Thanks,
Mark
Dear Merk,
You are writing about your "diagnosis" of what my job title is, yet you are making the wrong assumption. My job is to deal with people, who, like yourself, demand compensation for all of the bogus things life has thrown at them. They channel their unhappiness into daily interaction with coworkers and acquaintances, until everyone they know realizes how over the top and neurotic they are, and can't help but to mock them as soon as they leave the room.
It struck me as funny that you called me a rude idiot in the same sentence as you condemned me for insulting you. My mother died of cancer when I was eight years old, so no, she didn't teach me to behave this way. I taught myself how to deal with whiners such as yourself. And that's what you are Mark, you are a whiny little baby. I mean look at the tone of your email. Do you honestly think I care about anything you have to say? Why don't you grow a pair of testicles and get back to me, and then I will see about being polite.
Best regards,
Evan Hunter
2006-12-04
| But again, the issue is simply why you would email me and waste my time, for an item that you were never going to buy anyway. It's a characteristic we see in "Nigerain scammers". Are you really a scateboarder? Thanks, Mark Actually, Nigerian scam artists use stolen credit cards to place orders for merchandise they couldn't possibly afford. I know a thing or two about them, trust me. I just sent you an email asking if some crutches were available, and I actually bought some at the pharmacy a couple of hours later because I saw a physician and realized that my foot was broken, not sprained. Having fulfilled my need for crutches, I ignored your 5 or so emails, seeing as I was preoccupied with the goings on of every day life. Had I known it would hurt your feelings this much, I might have responded sooner. Or maybe not, because this is all pretty hilarious to me, being the selfish pig that I am. I'm not sure what a scateboarder is, but I certainly am a skateboarder. I'd send you pictures if I wasn't afraid you were going to find me and come slit my throat a 'la OJ Simpson. Cheers, Evan Hunter 2006-12-14
======== At 2006-12-14, 10:05:00 you wrote: ========
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