I hate Voicemails

1. Dentists call and leave voicemails as reminders for appointments.
2. I had a dentist appointment scheduled for Monday.

A. Sidekick mobile phones "pop" open, with a strong magnet that keeps the keyboard covered until you press it just so.
B. I have a Sidekick mobile phone.

I. I have Jack Burton-like reflexes.

This morning I was getting ready to go into the office (doing a bit of contract work to stave off the inevitable starving/homelessness). I was on autopilot, planning my day and gathering my accessories (keys, water bottle, etc.) when I came back into my bedroom and saw that my Sidekick (see: B., above) had a message waiting.

I decided to multitask and check my phone and get my wallet from the jeans I wore last night. Crazy, I know.

I unlocked my phone and saw it was a voice mail, rather than a txt, so I (keeping the phone closed) called my voice mail and held the phone up to my left ear/cheek. I reached down to get my wallet, and then disaster struck.

Evidently, I moved my face too far from my left shoulder, because the phone started to fall down. Using my incredible dexterity (see: I., above) I reached up with my left hand, while keeping my right one in the pocket of the jeans on my dresser.

Unfortunately, this maneuver was too complicated. My left hand successfully pushed my phone back up against my left cheek, and I was able to continue to listen to the voicemail from my dentist's office (see: 1. and 2., above)... BUT I also triggered my phone to open (see: A., above).

The cover of the phone flipped open with some force... directly into my left eye.

Ouch. My eye is still hurting and watering and I'm reminded, once again, that I hate voicemails (see: Subject for this blog entry).

Twenty Star Town

I like spicy food. Spicy food is something that seems self-perpetuating, insofar as once one starts to eat spicy foods, milder food seems bland. Whether it's because of damage to taste buds, some sort of restructuring of the synapses or because of a decree of the Capscaicin Gods... it just seems to be a lobster trap (you can go in, but you can't get out).

I wasn't raised eating Korean food or spicy homemade chili. I enjoyed (and still do) Americanized Mexican food. I don't know where my penchant for spicy food came from. But it exists.

Maybe, actually, it's because I have a poor sense of taste and smell... non-spicy food just isn't strong enough. On the other hand, maybe my sense of taste and smell is poor because I've eaten so much spicy stuff over the decades of my existence. (It's like how I think... do I think as an attorney because I went to law school or did I go to law school because thinking as an attorney does was something I already did?)

Last night I was at a birthday dinner party for ... in Belltown. I had the distinct pleasure of being seated between ... , the birthday girl, and LOL. It was like Speed Dating all over again, with chicken satay with peanut sauce substituted for an awkward conversation with a female Coast Guard member.

When it was time to order food, the waitress was working her way (in an oddly unstructured order) around the table. LOL asked me the star/spiciness scale. I assumed it was up to five stars, but I promised her I'd ask... and after breaking the promise I made to attend HER birthday get-together some weeks back, I dared not let her down again.

I had planned to order n+1 stars, where n=max number of stars on the scale. There's a thrill involved (at least for me... maybe only for me) in getting slightly spicier than is the normal max. Plus I usually am able to consume it without a problem.

It was my turn to order, and the waitress and I had this exchange:

Me: What's the maximum stars in terms of spiciness?
Her: One to four star.
Me: Is it possible to get spicier? Like five stars? [Note to readers: solve for 3n/(n-2)]
Her: Oh, yes. You want more star?
Me: Sure. Like how high does it go?
Her: As high as you want to go.
Me: Like what? A hundred stars? Ten thousand?
Her: Oh... ten, twenty star.
Me: Well, however hot you can make it, thanks.
Her: Twenty star?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.

I've never been a person who says that he has no regrets in life. I make innumerable mistakes--great and small--on a fortnightly basis. It's rare, though, that I make this kind of mistake.

That shit was hot. One bite in and I knew I was in trouble. Strike that. Once glance at the seed-laden plate of pad see ew and I knew I was going to be in for some pain.

I think I got through about a seventh of it before I threw in the towel... not literally, because the napkin I had was too tear- and sweat-soaked to actually throw without risk of damaging a fellow restaurant patron.

I commandeered a second water glass and consumed about 10,000 fluid ounces of H2O to wash away the pain. My lips burned for the rest of the night (at least until the rum kicked in). I have the leftovers in my fridge, but they've got to be laughing their collective Thai-accented, noodle-based ass off, knowing that if and when I take another crack at it I'll just be putting myself through pain.

Best Thai food experience ever.

A first (taking a request)

It's 2:37 AM on Friday morning. I went out with some of my boys on Thursday night... starting with a prefunk of Sparks and Absolut 100 at my place, leading to Chopstix and ending at Ozzies.

Towards the end of the night, I found myself, essentially, alone. I have alcohol coursing through my veins but I had seen TM2000 and Thor leave me, and Buddy 1 elsewhere (consistent with his 86'ing from Ozzies). I was drinking water after a pair of $1 Jamison shots to cap the night, and I was sharing a table with a 21st birthday party.

The girl's name was Britanny. Given her age, "Brittany" would have been a good guess for her name, behind "Jennifer" and "Katherine", or some version thereof.

Brittany was turning 21, you see, and had the paper crown to prove it. My first experience with her was an inane one:

Me: You turning 21 today?
Her: (With a "duh" look on her face) Uh, yeah.
Me: I almost wore that crown tonight.
Her: Good thing you didn't. ("Retard" was understood.)
Me: You have many guys buy you drink tonight?
Her: Some. You wanna buy me one?
Me: No.
Her: ... uh. OK, then. Later.

That was about 15 minutes before I found myself sitting at their table. The birthday girl was singing a song, and the dudes started swarming, as they tend to do at around 1:15.

As the dudes swarmed, I remained seated and tried to be respectful by not leering at her. I started talking to her friends and a woman sitting across from me revealed to me that she was the birthday girl's mother.

I'm getting old. I had to break out my driver's license twice tonight to prove that I'm not a liar. But I'm getting to the point where women almost my age are capable of having women that I find attractive as children.

Not sure that the sentence structure is solid. But I'm drunk. And I promised the birthday party I'd make a blog entry tonight. So this will have to do.

The birthday girl was adorable and I still find it hard it to believe that her mom was her mom. BUT... it is what it is. :)

Cardio + Animal Planet = No Bueno

Since I am no longer gainfully employed, I have been going to the gym more. It serves the purpose of working off the Taco Bell I consume on a regular basis and it also serves the purpose of punishing me for not having a job.

A key part to the time I spend in the gym is doing cardio. Many people run around town for free, but I've paid for a three year membership so I can have lower impact exercise in front of televisions.

And it was the television directly in front of me that is the catalyst for this blog entry.

There are about a dozen TVs scattered about the cardio area of my local 24 Hour Fitness Express, and about four of them were visible from where I was exercising. Evidently there are things called "remote controls" that allow for the channels to be changed, but I am not one to rock the boat, so even if I'm the only one who can see a TV, I leave it on the channel it's on.

Sometimes it works out well, if one of the ESPN family of networks is on. I can live with E! and CNN and most of the regular ones (for some reason, one of my favorites (History International) does not appear very often).

But today? Today I found one that does NOT work for me. That channel? Animal Planet.

I like animals. I like pets. I like pets and animals too much to watch Animal Planet, especially when I'm sweating in public.

I caught the end of one show about veterinarians learn on the job. "Whatever," I thought as I kicked off my cardio workout, "it might be interesting, and in any case since yesterday was their holiday I might as well celebrate Veterinarian Day with them by watching this."

Well, seven minutes later there was a gibbon with a badly broken arm that was going under the knife. Even under the best of circumstances, I am not a big fan of monkey innards, and when I was just breaking a sweat it was no less appealing. By the time the other case study, involving a cute puppy that needed some sort of surgery for eye trauma, I was feeling a bit queasy but I didn't want to interrupt my workout so I averted my eyes and crossed my fingers (not literally; they were grasping the elliptical machine in ever-growing weariness) that the next show would be better.

It wasn't.

Now, I know dogs are loyal. And I know that some people treat dogs like horseshit. What I don't need to see, as I gazed around, wistfully looking for a cute butt to stare at for the remainder of my cardio time, is for a dog to be super-loyal after being treated like horseshit.

Animal Planet clearly disagreed.

In "San Francisco Animal Cops" or some such, there was a case of a dude keeping a little dog named Sexy outside on a SHORT chain (not even a collar) with an open dog house and feeding him scraps for his entire life. Sexy's life. Not the owner's.

Never had taken the dog for a walk. Never had let the dog inside.

When the Animal Cop took possession of the pooch, he had to cut the chain off from around the dog's neck. And Sexy made a bee-line for the owner that had neglected him so thoroughly and for so long.

Maybe it's that time of the month for me, or maybe it was the sweat getting into my eyes, but I felt like crying, it was so sad.

Crying in the middle of a 24 Hour Fitness is no bueno, though, so I bit my lip and cursed Animal Planet for making my cardio so emotionally difficult as well as physically taxing.

A short story

Buddy One and I were in Peso's on Thursday night. The night before Halloween. I think there were like five people dressed up in the city of Seattle. I was a vampire, Buddy One was a zombie.

We got our drinks and a waitress interacted with us. Her mistake.

Waitress: You guys look good.
Buddy One: Oh, yeah?
Waitress: Yeah, you look scary, but...
Buddy One: But what?
Waitress: But you are too nice. You have to be meaner.
Me: (Waiting for the waitress to start to walk away) Shut up, bitch!
Waitress: ...
Me: Like that?

I don't know that she liked it. At least I didn't get us tossed out.

Fighting racism, two fists at a time

Buddy One and I used to go to Ozzies together. We'd drink and sing and generally make merry. One night, though, the peaceful environment was corrupted with ignorance and ended with blood running on the streets.

How does something so right go so wrong? Allow me to explain.

BO (nice shortening of the nickname... you're welcome!) and I wandered in and saw a fella wearing a Michigan shirt. We'll call him Michigan. BO had recently purchased a Detroit Tigers hat and I have found that only Australians like me more than Michiganders, so we took a couple minutes to talk to him. Nice guy. Kinda plump, but a nice guy.

BO and I (at this point I might just see how often I can use "BO" in this story) took a seat in the singing area and saw our buddy, Black Karaoke Buddy, there. ("Why that nickname?" you might ask. Well. He's black and he's our karaoke buddy.) We had a good time, singing our songs and singing along when other people sang theirs... standard stuff.

Standard, that is, until it was Michigan's turn to sing. He chose Vanilla Ice's generation-defining "Ice, Ice Baby"... which is both extremely repetitive and, at times, challenging. Challenging, especially, for guys who have had some alcohol and don't really know the words that well. Guys like Michigan.

In any case, we were singing along. BO, BKB and I. Michigan's buddy was watching and leaned in to our table's flight zone and declared (seemingly good-naturedly) to BKB these fateful words:

"Keep that up and they'll have to revoke your card!"

The three of us heard it. BKB, probably (unfortunately) more used to this racist sort of stuff, didn't make a big deal out of it. I, being me, don't make a big deal out of anything that doesn't involve some sort of typographical error.

BO, however, took umbrage. He looked at us with an "Is he SHITTING me?" kind of look on his face. He then swiveled in his chair and told Michigan's buddy, known in this blog as Racist, that it was not cool and not to be racist. Whether Racist heard or not is unknown, but further incidents at Ozzies were avoided.

At Ozzies, they were avoided.

Somehow BO and I started talking to four chicks at the end of the night. Not only is that a lot for us to bite off at the end of the night, but they were professional softball players and lesbians. But I was drunk and had nothing better to do, so the six of us wandered over to another bar for a final drink before closing.

Unfortunately for ignorance and oppression, Michigan and Racist were at the same bar. We got our drink and BO, looking down at the end of the bar where Racist was sitting, stated in a rather loud voice, "There's that racist motherfucker!" And when prompted by the professional softball players to explain, he elucidated by stating, "That guy is a racist asshole!"

Which obviously cleared things right up.

Unfortunately, sometimes to make an omelette you need to break a few eggs. BO did not go for the Eggbeater-based omelette. He was going for the real deal, and that involved breaking some eggs. And some blood vessels. (Ick. Maybe the thought of breaking eggs with blood vessels in them isn't such a good image; I don't like blood in my breakfast foods as a general rule.)

Racist heard the proclamations. Rather than trying to clear up the matter, though, he took extreme umbrage. He returned that he wasn't a racist. He cursed back at BO.

And things were taken outside.

With the four professional softball players still in tow, BO and I went outside and took a right on Queen Anne... heading back to vehicles and (in my case) apartment.

Michigan and Racist were right behind us. Racist and BO were talking and at some point the two got closest enough for one punch to be thrown, and one punch was enough for BO to drop Racist.

BO kept talking, but he caught up to me and the professional softball players. Michigan was restraining Racist, who was raging and wanted a piece of BO. (Of course, as it turns out, he did NOT want a piece of him, but it seemed a good idea at the time.)

It would have been easy for us to disperse. For BO to take his 1-0 victory and for the professional softball players to go their own way (go their own way...) but easy is not always best, most just, or most fun.

BO kept yapping. We could see Michigan holding Racist back and it was simultaneously admirable of Michigan, idiotic of Racist, and hilarious to watch.

A pair of black guys walked past and BO told them that he'd just dropped a racist guy, and one of them rolled up his sleeves, as if he were going to drop Racist if he made it past the Michigan defensive perimeter.

Fortunately for everyone, as Racist made his way slowly up the block to our position, all non-involveds left... just the six in our party were left, waiting, when Racist charged.

BO stood his ground and Racist waded into a short flurry of punches that staggered him. He lurched backwards and fell onto the sidewalk. His head hit pretty hard, and in my medical opinion, he was concussed.

He popped up, though, with a bit of the ol' "I've just been concussed" crazy-eyes... and blood streaming down his left arm. I'm not sure how or where it came from, but he bled a lot in a very short amount of time.

Seeing a bleeding dude who'd just had his skull bounce off the sidewalk pop up ready for more of an ass-whooping, the professional softball players skee-daddled. Leaving just Michigan, Racist, BO and me.

Michigan was at the end of his rope. He was a decent guy who didn't want to see his friend get beat up. He started talking--pleading--with me to leave and to take BO with me. Of course, I wasn't going to risk my hide by getting in between the two guys, especially since my friend was winning. I calmly explained that I lived very close and that THEY were the ones who ought to leave, especially considering Racist had started it all.

Michigan tried to explain his perspective, and he managed to dig himself a nice little hole as he recounted the matter:

Michigan: My friend saw your friend singing my song, and--your african american friend might have been gay, I don't know, and he--
Me: What?
Michigan: He might have been gay, and he--
Me: Uh... he's not gay, first of all, but who gives a crap if he is?
Michigan: OK. He might not be gay, but my friend...

I kinda tuned him out there. He could sense it, and he started pointing the finger at me, personally, for not keeping my friend under control.

This conversation was taking place on the street corner. Where were BO and Racist? They were in the crosswalk, circling and talking and taking one another's measure... at least BO was taking Racist's measure... Racist might have been counting the hallucinations the bruises on the back of his brain were causing.

As I spoke to Michigan, I was keeping and eye on the in-the-street hostilities to ensure that BO was doing OK. I didn't want to escalate things with a four man brawl for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I'm the worst fighter on the planet.

Or at least that's what I thought. Then I saw Racist finally make his move.

He rotated his hips so he was in profile, facing BO. He then did two weenie little sidekick things towards BO's stomach. One missed entirely and the other connected, but it (shockingly, I know!) lacked any sort of power.

After the two kicks of fury, Racist didn't change tactics. He went to the well, as it were, once too often.

The third kick was one that BO was ready for. When it approached, BO caught it and sort of twisted Racist, who hit the pavement like a concussed ton of bricks.

If BO were a trained fighter, I think Racist could have ended up in the hospital at this point. As it was, BO got a couple more licks in before Michigan finally pulled the bloodied but still outraged Racist away. Racist, at that point, claimed he was going to go get a knife and kill BO.

*yawn*

BO and I wandered back to my place to cool down. He had blood on his shirt and various spots on his upper body. Seen, in part, here:

Racist was taller than BO, Racism had the reach on him, and Racism had the cultural and institutional inertia.

But Racism lost. Big time.

Three assholes

I think I'm a pretty easy-going guy. Much of my easy-going nature is rooted in laziness, of course, but as my personality manifests itself towards people, I tend to get along well with most people, I think.

I don't actually LIKE most people, but I can tolerate them and realize that they're good people without going out of my way to be buddies with them. The flipside to this general indifference is that I rarely actively dislike anyone. I don't know whether it's a reflection of my optimism that the number of people I like (as relatively meager as it is) outweighs the number I dislike, or whether my optimism reflects that positive imbalance.

In any event, I rarely dislike people. I can count on one hand the number of people that, right now, I can tell you that I don't like. As a matter of fact, I am going to do that in this post.

To protect the identities of these poor SOBs, I am going to do some creative time management. I hope that, by reading these descriptions, an observer won't be able to tell about whom (or from what time in my life) these three emerged on my radar screen. I will tell you (a) none of them are on my MySpace friends list, and (b) this blog is friends-only. [Blogger.com migration note: (b) is no longer accurate.]

Without further ado, and in no specific order (such as chronological or intensity) here we go. Three assholes.

1. Once upon a time, I liked a woman. She liked me for a bit and then changed her mind. Time went on and I still clinged to the feelings and, after a considerable haitus from communicating with her, we met up and spent the better part of an evening together. We talked about this and that and then we talked about a guy. A guy she had a crush on. Her smile lit up and as she shared specifics I felt like I was going to vomit.

I had never met the guy, but there are ways of learning things about people (muhahahaha) and she'd given me his name so, after a week or two, I knew things about him. What he looked like, where (generally) he worked, where he played high school baseball (OK, Google.com sometimes returns some crazy shit).

I also knew that I didn't like him (although I didn't know, one day, that I would be blogging about him).

One day I was walking downtown and I saw him walking down the street and I wanted to spit on his shoes. Or punch him in the groin. I restrained myself.

Did he do anything wrong? No. Might he be a nice guy? Yes. Do I give a crap? No. He's someone I still don't like, and even if he never meets me or knows who I am he'll always be an asshole.

2. My family all lives in other parts of the country nowadays. I don't visit as much as I'd like (although maybe more than they'd like), but the second guy on this list emerged during one such visit. I had a redeye flight and I was lying on a couch, watching TV, in anticipation of some sort of party or gathering of friends (none of whom I knew). I was dozing happily in spite of the hustle-bustle of the house when I felt something hitting me in the face. I kinda brushed it away but it persisted and I finally opened my eyes.

Standing over me was a guy with a goatee and an annoying voice. I learned both of those things simultaneously, as he apologized half-heartedly (in terms of emotion, not in terms of volume) for opening the blinds next to the couch, and the drawstring things were hitting me in the face.

He was going out to have a smoke on the porch, you see, and wanted to see the television. He was unconcerned, it seems, that I was trying to get a bit of sleep. He had to have his nicotine and he couldn't miss any part of the game that he was watching.

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt... after all, I am a sports fan, too.

But the guy was annoying. Loud (as mentioned), short, a big-talker (slightly different from merely loud)... just generally extroverted and lacking in anything I would consider a sense of humor. He also had a pretty darn cute wife. And his family had money.

Asshole.

3. There have been a few times in my life where I've been between jobs. I have never been comfortable or confident talking myself up, so the application and interview process is terrifically uncertain for me. At one of these points of unemployment, I got a lead on a job and jumped through a few hoops to get an interview.

I was expected to speak to multiple people and to give a presentation in front of a group. Lunch with a group of employees was a possibility, as well. The longer the interview process went, the thinking went, the better my chances of getting a job.

Things were going swimmingly for the first couple of hours ... until I walked into the room to give the presentation. I noticed a face I'd recognized--someone I had worked with previously--and I gave him a smile and said hi. He gave me a stoneface in return, but I thought he just had his gameface on and so I moved forward. I spent the rest of the day with the company. Things went well.

My former coworker, as it turns out, had an issue with me. With my personality? With my work ethic? With my beautiful hair? I never learned. But he said something--or somethingS--bad about me, and I didn't get the job offer.

After initial confusion, my emotion resolved into anger. I have always got along with people I've worked with. I was shocked that someone would go out of their way to submarine my chances to get a job.

Why would he do that? I was higher on the food chain when we worked together, but we simply didn't share many tasks or conversations. Had he held some kind of grudge for that time, and when he was presented with an opportunity to "get even", he did?

Who would do that? An asshole.