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.

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.

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,
Evan Hunter

======== At 2006-10-05, 08:48:00 you wrote: ========

Evan, yes they are still available.

Mark


From: Evan Hunter
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

======== 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.
T
a,

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

evan@cellularabroad.com

2006-12-04

======== At 2006-12-14, 03:59:00 you wrote: ========

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

Dear 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
evan@cellularabroad.com

2006-12-14

======== At 2006-12-14, 10:05:00 you wrote: ========

Dear Evan,

You're not sure what a scateboarder is? Well I'm not sure who Merk is.

Your statement of "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" is the first thing you've said that comes close to even a little bit of truth, which is all I was asking for when I emailed you.

In your first email to me, had you said "hey dude, so sorry, I bought some before getting a chance to respond to you. Sorry for bothering you", it would have been all over. But you chose to ignore my emails, lie, squirm, be a smartass, etc. It's all pretty lame.

I think in your last email you are trying to say "Yes, you are right, I'm sorry. I emailed you for an item that there was NEVER A CHANCE IN HELL OF ME (you) BUYING, as I bought one before even getting your reply". Is that what you were trying to say Evan? And by the way, my first reply was within an hour of you sending your initial email.

And at this point, after a hundred fucking emails, even if you are saying that, I will still say "ok apology accepted, but you're still a lameass for emailing people regarding items you're not sure you're buying yet".

Now please realize, that if I multiply YOU by 20, because that's the typical % of people that do the same thing as you did (mostly lameass chicks though), then multiply by 3, taking into account Nigerian scammers and PEOPLE HARVESTING EMAIL ADDRESSES, PHONE NUMBERS, AND HOME ADDRESSES, I hope you can appreciate how much time is wasted on replying to emails that GO NOWHERE.


ARE YOU STARTING TO GET THE POINT EVAN? I HOPE SO.

Now just a few words on Nigerian scammers, Evan. Stolen credit cards is the least common scam these days. The most common scam is using fraudulant chasiers checks. But that's besides the point. You can easily check Craigslist for current info on NIgerain scammers.

Most conversations with Nigerian scammers look just like our Evan. The scammer simply goes away (ignores our emails) after realizing that the seller is
not a lameass, divulging all his/her personal info in the 1st email.

Then there are harvesters. They're just harvesting email addresses, phone numbers, and home addresses from sellers. Most conversations with harvesters look just like our Evan. They simply go away (ignore our emails) after harvesting the info that they were seeking.

Are you starting to get the point Evan? Have I made any sense at all? I hope so.

Mark

Dear Mark,

I wrote your name as Merk because you called me Even in the previous email (scroll down for proof.) I thought I was pretty polite in my first reply. Please understand that nobody forced you to write me five emails, one was plenty. You're lucky I replied at all, what if I hadn't? Who would be wasting your time writing email after email, me or you? There was a chance of me buying your crutches once upon a time, but that chance slipped right through your fingers, Merk. Wish you could have been a little bit quicker. Me, a smartass? NEVER. I don't think we're quite at a hundred emails, but we can keep going. Oh, and there's no need for profanity, curse words are for people with limited vocabulary, and you seem like a smart enough fellow. Your use of capital letters emphasises your anger toward those that harvest email addresses, please refrain from triangulating your rage toward me. These "lameass chicks," they wouldn't by chance be responding to your personal ads, would they? I sure hope not, you deserve better than that. I concur that it's obnoxious when people jerk you around for no reason, but I honestly think you're blowing this out of proportion. It's not like I was coaxing you by saying, "Yes Mark, I am interested in the crutches, but do you have them in hot pink?" I was pretty transparent and forthcoming in my emails to you. I thought so anyway. Well, happy holidays.

Thank you,

Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com

2006-12-14


======== At 2006-12-15, 07:25:00 you wrote: ========

Uhoh, ok I think you stung me really good this time. I'm kinda paralyzed now. Dunno what to say.

Even nailed me on typos. I'm gonna take a break, regroup, then see if there's anything left after your severe pounding.

My Dearest Mark,

How are you this fine day? Sorry to hear you are paralyzed, not even your crutches can help you now. Looks like you're going to have to find a wheelchair on Craig's list. Hope the person you buy it from is polite ; ) Sorry about calling you out on your spelling, you really should invest in a dictionary if you want to be taken seriously by a skateboarder. It doesn't look like the "C" is anywhere near the "K" on my qwerty keyboard, do you have a different kind? Hope you can muster enough strength to reply.

Thank you,

Evan Hunter
evan@cellularabroad.com

2006-12-15

Sunday, August 1, 2010

The Angry Bridge Troll has a Megaphone

Beware, Palm Beach Gardens residents: the troll that inhabits the little box on the PGA bridge and pulls the lever that makes you late for everything has been equipped with a loudspeaker. And he isn't shy about using it.

A few minutes ago, I went for a jog up PGA. I adjusted my pace while approaching the bridge so that I would get there about the time that it closed. I guess I was naive to think that the gate was put there mainly to keep the elderly from flying off the bridge into the inter-coastal, because when I ducked under it and ran toward the bridge, the speaker crackled on and the man in the box commanded me to get behind the gate. I almost expected turrets to start firing rounds at me by the tone of his voice. I took off my headphones, made an about-face, and started walking back to the gate, irritated that my heart rate was slowing.

Some tan men on a boat below the bridge yelled up to me "Get behind the gate." I wasn't sure whether they were mocking the bridge troll or reminding me, but I just threw my hands up in the air, as if to say "What's the big deal?"

I was about ten feet shy of the gate by now, and I turned around to look. The bridge was closed. I looked up to the control tower, and then back to the gate to see if it was on it's way up.

Suddenly, the speaker lashed out at me: "GET BEHIND THE GATE NOW!" It was the bridge troll, attempting to assert the small amount of power he has in this universe by keeping the gates closed until I fully complied with his orders. Startled, I continued on and ducked under the gate. Once on the other side, I gave the control tower a "thumbs up" and the gates started to open.

I finished my jog in peace, and now I know better than to use my pedestrian powers to try to get a head start on the bridge traffic.