Archive for Rant
Many the miles.
I find myself oddly nostalgic about London right now. I knew it would hit me later than the rest, but I think I’m only just now starting to feel the pangs of desire to just sit on the underground and watch London pass by from several feet under.
This is strange for me only because I find myself fairly content with the present.
No- that’s a lie.
I never find myself content with the present. In fact, like most people, I trudge through most of my days looking ahead towards the next hour. And after that you’re just forced to keep trudging until the hours finally give way to the next day. Where you can resume trudging.
I hate trudging. I hate the word, the feeling it gives me, but it’s also the perfect image for what I’m feeling right now. I feel like each step is a little too mucky, a little to difficult to even bother. With every step the reality of the present gets a little bit closer, and suddenly you’re just stuck, in the now, and you’ve forgotten whichever way you were going in the first place. It’s at these moments, I’m forced to ask myself: “What the fuck?”
How do I get out this?
I don’t think London felt like trudging. At least with perspective filtered through fond memories, it’s hard to see it that way. I was having a lot of sex in London, and now I haven’t had sex in more than four months.
Sex never feels like trudging. God.
fear breeds you
I’ve been thinking a lot about fear lately. Mostly because I am full of it. I’m bursting with it really.
If I were any more fragile right now I’d be made of meringue.
There are moments in your life when reality hits you so hard in the face, you have to take a step back and wonder why it would do something as awful as that. One of those moments where you ask yourself, “did that really happen? Did life really just bitchslap me in front of all of our friends at Kelly’s birthday party, and then just walk out of the room like everything is normal, and then pretend the next day like it doesn’t have anything to apologize for, and say that it isn’t even worth talking about?” I just had one of these moments.
It turns out, through a series of events that would not be interesting enough to outline here, that I am completely and unequivably fucked. I, at the tender of age of 21 have had a complete mid life crisis and suffered a startling loss of direction. I used to have a pretty firm grasp of my goals, my desires, what I wanted to get out of life, and how I was going to get there. Things seemed pretty clear, because I planned for them to happen, and I’d be damned if I’d let anything get me down.
Well, consider me damned. You can also consider me fucked up the ass, fisted and verbally abused while you’re at it.
This of course all comes back to that wonderful thing we call money. It’s no secret that my finances have always been in a sorry state. I never factored in being rich anywhere in my grand life plans before, because being comfortably poor has been the one constant in my life. In fact I can say that it’s definitely been one of the few facts of life that hasn’t let me down at some point. Well, not to deviate from the norm, money has once again stuck it’s big, fat fist up my ass.
(I apologize for the graphic gay talk. I just finished season one of Queer as Folk, and I now dream of a world where queer terminology just becomes something second nature and colloquial)
I’ve been sitting here for the past couple of minutes trying to come up with a more eloquent way of saying thing, but really the best image I can come up with that will adequately illustrate not only my emotional state right now, but also the situation as it stands now… I’m fucked.
I’ve been backed into a corner. A corner that includes taking a management position at family video and indefinitely putting off my dreams of being that kick ass twenty-something living it up in the city trying to make it as an artist. While the idiom “starving artist” has its charms, in my case the starving part may become a bit too literal to be healthy. I always had these big aspirations about struggling for a couple of years to pay the rent , then being discovered for my intense amount of talent and being able to live a comfortable life of noteriety and financial stability.
That’s not going to happen for a long time. Because dreams like that, dreams that big take time. They take focus and dedication, and more importantly they take people. Meeting lots of interesting people who can help facilitate your rise to the top. Working 60 hours a week in Kansas City for Family Video so I can pay off my staggering, dear I say paralyzing amount of debt won’t leave a lot of time. It won’t leave a lot of room for a life either. At least not the life that I ever thought I’d be living.
And without all that, I feel hopeless. I feel like for the first time in my life the luck has run out. I don’t think I can talk my way out of this, nor can I wait around for some kind of miracle to happen that’ll get me through. I’ve been a fool, and now life’s little lessons have finally caught up to me. And it ain’t pretty.
It took me a long time to be able to sit down and right about this. It took me a long time to sort out my feelings about the whole thing. I’m scared. I’m scared that I won’t be able to hack it. That everyone who’s ever thought I’d fail will be right, and I’m afraid more than anything that I’ll lose something about myself in the process. This is all, of course, fairly dramatic, and like a lot of things I’ve ever blogged about will serve as a milestone in my own self-absorption and will only be looked back on with scorn and a maybe a slight laugh on my part.
That’s what I’m hoping at least. I’m hoping that the mix of my defeatist attitude, and my alarmist nature have finally met cute and are looking at have one big life-sized baby called a stress related ulcer.
Let’s hope that at least doesn’t happen.
save money, learn to couplet.
A few things have interested me as of late.
One of those things has been how quickly the word “maverick” has spread into popular culture, and how the definition has grossly expanded thanks to Governor Palin, Senator McCain, and SNL. No longer does it hold the singular meaning of an unorthodox or free thinking individual, but the word now brings along with it a host of grey shaded (mostly dubious) meanings. I can’t count the number of times today that I uttered, or heard someone else utter things like “let’s do this maverick style,” “it’s probably because he’s a maverick,” “that’s a little too maverick for me,” “fucking mavericks need to shut the fuck up,” “those mavericks think they own the place,” or more simply, “let’s do this mavericks.”
Perhaps this hasn’t spread all throughout popular culture as much as it has infected the microcosm of life that I have found myself in these past few weeks, but I have a feeling maverick is something that will either stay with me for a long time (“fierce”) or find it’s away into my mental waste basket along with words like “jiggy,” and “dealio.”
The other thing that has come to my attention to today is my aversion to human cruelty of any sort. I suppose aversion isn’t the right word. Aversion would imply that I avoid it, and unfortunately the opposite is most often the case. I somehow found my way onto youtube tonight researching something else I’m writing, and instead found videos of people like Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh and Michael Moore and pundits like that. I don’t care whatever political views they may espouse, i don’t care what political views you stand by, there’s no excuse for the filth that these people spew in front of television cameras, microphones and the shocking amount of followers that somehow find reason to justify their just plain meanness. Maybe I’m just in a particularly sensitive mood lately, but I find it really hard to understand why people find it necessary to be so evil. I’m probably sounding in large parts both naive and whimsical in my diatribe against mean people, but I just don’t think any degree of cruelty is necessary in situations like that. Meanness should be reserved for fictional characters and people who wear crocs.
But as much as I find it loathsome and despicable, I find myself more and more drawn to just keep clicking on “related videos” and watching more and more of it, and making myself feel really depressed about the state of the human condition. I mean honestly. Think what you like about anyone’s politics, since when has calling someone a “rag head” or imitating their parkinson’s symptoms on your podcast been even close to classy? It’s not. And dagnabit, I think people should just try to be nice if they’re going to disagree with people. Is it really that entertaining to see someone be so mean? I don’t get it. I just don’t get it folks.
I always find interesting breakthroughs in my writing when I realize the characters I’m creating have large bits of myself ingrained in their ugliest qualities. Once I realize that I’m really kind of emotionally purging all over my macbook, things just seem to go much easier. Whoop whoop!
I get more hits a day on this thing because I wrote about a creepy crush I had on Jeremy Roloff. Seriously. You’d be shocked by the amount of people google “Jeremy Roloff shirtless” on a daily basis.
(it’s like fourteen).
happy smiles and laughing yaks
an excerpt from a recent e-mail:
something tells me this is an epidemic.
I’m sitting comfortably in a rather english (if not mostly commercial coffee shop), sipping my macchiato and I feel an odd sense of emptiness that I can’t quite describe. No- it’s not emptiness exactly. It’s more like this vacuum of creativity has suddenly taken up residence in that part of my brain that houses all of my creative muscle. I can feel it withering up there. If I shook my head fast enough right now I almost feel like I would hear a pitiful kind of jangling noise where the most important kind of communications used to reside.
It’s like a void.
I think it’s an epidemic. Hopefully. Not hopeful really, just hoping that I’m not completely alone.
I haven’t been able to pick up a pen, pencil or dry erase marker to write for what seems like months now. Reading back through my last several journal entries everything has seemed fairly forced, and a little bit bland. It’s all I can do write now to try and make this interesting. But admitting to myself in the past couple of days that I have just come into contact with this huge creative road block has helped immensely in terms of remedying the problem. I’m writing now, aren’t I?
It’s scary though. To think that something that has always come so easily to me in the past is suddenly impossibly beyond my reach. I feel stagnant, and I honestly think it’s taking some kind of emotional toll on my psyche not being able to pour out anything- not a note, a rhyme, a sentence of any of the shit that’s been rolling around in my head since I’ve arrived in London. I keep asking myself what’s wrong, and keep trying to just muscle everything out, but it’s been painfully evident that none of that has worked. I’ve been journaling since I was eight, and I’ve been blogging for almost a decade now. Even when I haven’t been able to pull some juvenile poem out of my ass, whip up some fantastical tale or try my hand at theatrical fiction, I’ve always been able to make some kind of feeble attempt at making my daily life seem interesting. But not lately. I’m living in one of the largest and most multicultural cities in the world, just got back from a trip to Athens, and all I can seem to think about is how I can’t talk about any of it.
Maybe it’s all just a bit overwhelming. That seems a bit obvious, doesn’t it? But even if it is (or was, as the case may be) it’s not the least bit comforting. it’s not comforting or helpful to know that I’ve finally reached that point in my life when, faced with something completely untrivial, I can’t make write about it. I can’t reflect about it because it’s too big. Maybe that’s not what it’s about, but if it is I’m fucked. I’m fucked because I’ve built myself such an identity on being this budding writer. An author who sits in coffee shops and writes. Which is what I’m doing right now, sure- but if all I can do is write about life’s minutia, and not about the big stuff than that’s all my stuff will ever be. Small, tiny, unimportant. Pick up a thesaurus and keep going if you want. But any way I look at it, it only makes me feel more inept and incapable.
Life has been pretty happy the past couple of weeks. I’ve built up a nice routine, found a couple of good friends and did some amazing things, and it’s like I can’t write about anything but my own neuroses. I’m sure that’s probably been a pretty static feature of most of artists of the 20th century (and beyond), but it’s kind of gross, don’t you think?
I think ultimately what I’m just scared most days that life is getting too out of hand to write about. That I can’t really button down any one part that seems condensible enough to fit into this blog. And in the end none of it seems all that important. We’re in the midst of a huge financial crisis, a presidential election, and on the brink of world war if things don’t start to calm down over in Eastern Europe. What makes writing a play about a bunch of backpackers important anymore? What makes my stories interesting, vital, necessary? I’m sweating, thinking about all of this is stressing me out so much. I’m sitting in this coffee shop sweating, surrounded by a bunch of London scene kids in their hipster clothing and all I want to do is lock myself in my bathroom and never hear about anything important again. I want to feel like I’m building my life up to something that’s going to be world changing, and monumental and something that will make me feel alive. It’s all pretty grand when I read that over again to myself, but it’s how I feel. When I take all that out of it, All I’m doing is grasping at straws, and I might as well just jerk off all over the pages of my journal, because that’s what I’m going to create in the end.
And it’s all just so scary.
oviedo.
It all seems a bit odd to me still. Being here, in London. It’s been messing with my head a bit I fear. Even my internal monologue is a bit sketchy over here. It must have been damaged in the flight over, because I just can’t seem to find my voice.
My biggest hope was that I would travel here and that it would somehow inspire me to new heights of artistic brilliance. But so far all this pollution must have seeped into my brain and created some kind of creative tumor there. Even that last bit seemed a bit forced, didn’t it?
I suppose my biggest hope was that I would fall in love. Silly, right? Right. However, it just seems that if I was going to have a first real love, what better city or time to have one? Other than in Paris, during a period of my life when I wouldn’t be leaving in three month’s time. But if it were all to happen here, I wouldn’t disregard it because, honestly, it’s not like my success rate back in the states has been all that stellarl right? Maybe a bit of distance is what I really need. All I need.
Distance addles the brain I think. Judging from everyone else around here (myself included, read up above kids), all this distance (or maybe it’s the pollutants?) has caused a severe downshift in sanity. I’m thankful for my single room, and I’m thankful for my unbearable contentedness with being alone in the face of a new country. I think for the most part people just feel trapped. The group is their security blanket, but they’re steadily getting a little bit more restless with the same group to cling to. Where do you go in situations like that? I’m slowly garnering a new found understanding of those people in the Real World houses. Living with the same group of people, working and partying together isn’t exactly the best of times. It’s not always the worst either though.
They didn’t have to deal with two and a half years worth of emotional baggage either though. And to be perfectly, frustratingly honest, I think some of us might have exceeded the weight restrictions where that’s concerned.
You know how on the Real World when outsiders are introduced to the main cast of characters, for some strange reason people just don’t mesh well with the housemates. I kind of feel like that. While I pray a little prayer every day to find interesting London folk to take me under their wing and teach me their bizarre, European ways, I also fear that breaking away from the group may somehow be seen as some kind of great transgression against brotherhood, or sisterhood, or circle jerks- or something.
I always read in novels about “palpable tension.” I never understood what that really meant until I lived with hormonal, high maintenance, sensitive theatre majors. It’s a dish best served with lexipro and lots and lots of wine.
Take note, I don’t take myself out of that heath-ledger-inspired-cocktail equation either. We’re all stuck on this crazy ship, and I might as well stick a hat on my head, spit on my neck and call myself skipper.
I can feel the momentum building, and eventually I’ll get back to a place of peace and brilliance. But we can only hope.
I can’t spell, but I’m real good at getting it close enough for spell check to figure it out for me.
After a severely pleasant week experiencing a self-inflicted solitary confinement here in Decatur, I can honestly say that I enjoy living alone. And here I am getting ready to move out of my apartment. Seeing as the direction that my life has a habit of turning is never anything but ironic, I think this is especially apropos.
All this time alone, cleaning incessantly, experimenting in the kitchen, and making up new life stories to tell the poor people who have the privilege of hearing them on my daily campus tours has given me a lot of time to think. About what you ask? Why, none other than the state of the current political climate.
Now you come right back to the computer and start reading this again this instant. This isn’t going to turn into one of those masturbatory posts on all of my obnoxious political views or how I’m so sick of Obama, or how I’m so over McCain or something equally avoidable like that. In fact, it’s the complete opposite.
All I can think about these days is how unfortunate it is that no matter who becomes the president this fall, somewhere around half the country will be completely bitter and heinously irate about it for the next four (to eight) years. And all I can say is that I am so glad I will be out of the country to experience the aftermath.
Don’t get me wrong, I have very strong political leanings and thoughts and ideas and musings and blah, blah, blah along with the rest of the ardent bloggers out there. I don’t spend all day watching gay porn and musing about the state of Britney’s health. I do spend a great deal of time at my desk, flipping between Fox, CNN, and MSNBC to gather all the stimulating campaign news I can devour. Yum. But one thing I have noticed as of late, is everyone’s obsessions to vomit these ideas all over you in any way they can. Whether it be a genial debate on some youtube video comment section, or the various “I <3 Obama” or “NObama” facebook groups that I get daily invites for.
Free speech is a beautiful thing. I think it’s great that people like me can write mindlessly for as long as they please on blogs like these all over the nation. Props to the constitution. We geddit. But don’t we all have better things to do with our time than banter back and forth with those who stand on the opposite side of the partisan line? I hate to break it to everyone who dreams of someday astounding a Liberal with their brilliant Conservative ideas, but it’s never going to happen. And the same goes for you tree hugger- you’re never going to get that guy to trade in his Ford F1-50 for an environmentally aware electric dealy.
I think the one thing that I’ve learned is that every strong political ideal I’ve ever held in my life has never once been swayed by someone else arguing with me on a message board. Any changes (and there have been many) have come from living my own life, and gradually growing into my own ideas of what is right and what is wrong. And I guess my overall point here is something akin to “give peace a chance” or something equally laughable, but can’t we all just agree to disagree and realize that calling each other the scum of the earth for sitting somewhere a little too far left or right of the political spectrum isn’t all that bad? In fact it’s what makes this country so great.
But then I suppose what would be the point of free speech if there weren’t a bunch of irate college students arguing for hours back and forth on some message board? I guess I just can’t make myself care all that much about what other people are thinking, because I’ve come to accept that they’re going to think what they’re going to think no matter how ridiculous it is. You can post all the links you want to reputable news sources, proving whatever candidate you oppose is in fact a factious, communist who is hell bent on destroying whatever ideals you believe this country was built on. Inevitably they’ll just conclude that there is some kind of liberal/conservative bias behind it, and write it off immediately. It’s all just so frustrating. Too frustrating, which is why at the ripe old age of twenty I immediately pull out like a drunken frat guy at toga party whenever someone pushes me to “debate” with them on whatever issue it is that is just bugging them at that moment. I’ve finally learned that the word “debate” really means arguing ruthlessly until everyone involved walks away with hurt feelings, bruised egos, and feeling like they somehow proved their point.
Don’t get started with me on the importance of “intelligent dialogue on important issues that are facing this country” either. Because I can have plenty of that with people who are equally as unwilling to get so invested that they’re willing to debase themselves to a level of what should be just sheer embarrassment. I won’t ever call one of my friends an idiot for believing whatever the hell they want to believe. At least not to their face.
Oh, and don’t worry- I’ve already got my absentee ballot, so I’m still voting. Even if it is all a little bit hopeless to argue about it, I’m going to put my energy in a place where it really matters in the long run: Googling “absentee ballot” until I found out how someone actually gets one of those. Hopefully all that work won’t go to waste in November.
On a much lighter, and possibly illegal note…
This weeks installment of Illegal Crush of the Week may have actually opened up avenues to a possible new segment on this blog called Little Person Crush of the Week. If I haven’t given it away already, I’m speaking of course this week of the undeniable hottie, Jeremy Roloff. Oldest son, and star of the TLC reality show Little People, Big World, Jeremy is one of the main reasons I tune in on Sunday afternoons when I have nothing better to do but watch reruns of this mediocre show. At the ripe old age of 17 Jeremy quick starts my loins every time I see him running around after his four-foot tall mom out in their suburban yard… Kicking something around. I think it’s a soccer ball. I don’t care though, because he usually has his shirt off, and it makes me feel in equal parts tingly and gross (for feeling tingly). I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely counting down until this kid’s eighteenth birthday.
Here’s a picture I awkwardly (and possibly illegally) ripped from his myspace (just wrong, I know).
He’s the one on the left, and his arm is wrapped lovingly around what the caption on his myspace reads “BFF.” They both look pretty gay to me. Is all I’m sayin’. They’re sporting the gay buzzcut and frosted tips between them! GAY.
bison, the other, other, other white meat.
I recite affirmations to myself every morning, and it still hasn’t done much to quell the onslaught of negative feelings I have about my body. My psyche just will not let me accept myself for the beautiful man that I am. I’ve always been fairly happy being a skinny asian boy, but now that I’m developing into a skinny asian man, something has clicked inside my head, and now i’ve found myself drinking heinous protein shakes and pondering my pecs every time I find myself shirtless around the apartment.
There are too many mirrors in this world.
Not to mention the constant flashing of the world’s idea of the perfect male form on my television screen whenever I flip on the boob tube. If US is so obese, why aren’t they showing more obese men on TV? Kevin James doesn’t count.
I’m not sure when I developed such a complex. I suppose in gay-years I’m hitting adolescence where suddenly I cease to be the logical young scholar that I came into college as, and become on par with your average thirteen year old girl who is still wearing that sports bra she grabbed off the Pennys bargain rack. I still contend that by college I should have pecs.
It seems petty to be so worried about my body when there is so much else going on. Disease, war and the coming presidential election- It distresses me that I’m so concerned whether or not my abs are rock hard, instead of the rising price of gas. Perhaps it will just be another passing obsession. Like when I was really in to europop.
I blame the amount of gay porn that I’ve been watching in the hours of boredom that I find myself intrenched in on a daily basis here in Decatur.
As a sidenote, the movie Teeth has only reaffirmed my aversion to the vagina. While I realize that most women do not possess a set of fangs on their clit, this movie serves as a cautionary tale for all those who have ever considered going near one.
It makes me want to go ew, ew, ew… Gross.
y’know. shrug shrug shrug.
I love being twenty. I love being in my twenties. There are many reasons to love (arguably) the “prime” of your life, but for me the best part about being twenty (henceforth I’ll just say “my twenties” as not to alienate the other twenty-somethings who are, y’know, twenty-two or twenty-five, because this all probably applies to them as well. Probably not the twenty-seven’s and up though), is the excuses.
Stealing a bit from a recent conversation I had with my parents about an upcoming trip I’m taking to visit friends in Wisconsin, they asked me where I was staying. While I had given it some thought, I decided that this detail wasn’t really that important, because I’d be spending most of the night awake and drunk. I realize this may sound reckless, and my parents thought so too, which is why they pressed me on the subject. Having no other answer, I simply replied “I don’t know. I’m twenty.” And with a quick shrug I solemnly changed the subject to Tony Snow.
Apparently this excuse was good enough to pacify them, because either they were so distracted by the death of the former press secretary, or the fact that I’m twenty was reason enough to do something irregular and fairly rash.
After giving it some thought, I realized that I’ve probably used this excuse for other reasons as well. Joel, why you can’t get impossibly inebriated for nine days in a row! I’m twenty. Ok.
It’s important to follow this declaration with a careless shrug. Otherwise the impact and the magnitude of what you’re saying may not impact the person you’re speaking to. Maybe they’re wondering why you haven’t eaten anything but Hardees and McDonalds for the past five days, or question the safety of bar hopping just hours after an invasive surgical procedure. Simply roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders and explain to them in some kind of blase tone, “i’m twenty.” All further disputes will be quelled.
Perhaps it’s because your twenties is the time when you have the bravado of a teenager with all the legal rights of an adult, or maybe it’s because everyone knows that your twenties is that time in your life when you do stupid, unhealthy, psychologically scarring shit and anyone who’s lived beyond them knows that it’s the only time you can get away with it all.
Maybe we’ll never know. All I know is that as long as I pay my rent, get my car payments in on time and don’t flunk out of college or get fired- I’ll live off of ovaltine and ramen, facebook until my eyes bleed, and drink way too much malt liquor for as long as I possibly can. Because dammit it all, I’m twenty.
squeak squeak squeak
I’m finding it difficult to sleep tonight. You see, there is something especially distracting about the rhythmic humping of my upstairs neighbor and his girlfriend, the frantic squeaking of their mattress, and the not-so-muffled grunts of what I suspect is the beefy lacrosse player that is one of four equally uncouth gentlemen that live above me. (this I find particularly distressing only when I’m trying to fall asleep).
While normally I might be able to ignore their carnal escapades, if not finding them at least somewhat noteworthy, tonight I find it nearly impossible to overlook. Not only is it noisy in the most unflattering and unentertaining way, it also sounds unenjoyable and painful. The kind of sex where two pelvis bones are banged together in what can only end in a trip to the emergency room, a child, or at least some light bruising. I can’t imagine that this is the type of sex that anyone is having fun engaging in. This is only emphasized now by the loud, groaning finish; the unmistakable sound of hurried, almost panicked text messaging; and the male partner’s declaration of “I promise it won’t always be that way” not once, not twice, but three times. Rather loudly from various rooms in the apartment. Apparently he felt the need to shout this from the kitchen, the living room before finally having the decency to speak it in a somewhat normal (but still quite audible) tone of voice back in the living room. Either that or his sexual partner is partially deaf. How I managed to hear all three declarations and she didn’t is beyond me.
This comes on the heels of my recent realization that this summer has been the longest period of time that I’ve lived on my own since my conception and birth. While I’ve lived beyond the walls of familial confinement for some time now, since entering college I’ve always found myself with a roommate at least half of the time. However this summer the lease is solely in the my name, along with all the uninspiring duties that a bachelor living on his own is faced with on a daily basis. What a hum-drum life I’ve lived these past six weeks. But despite the insipid nature of soy living, I find it incredibly comforting to find that it’s not all that bad, and that a life of solitude is something I am fully equipped to handle- when that kind of life is forced upon me. Personally I like to think that I’ll always have a roommate to come home to in some form or another. I enjoy playing the Thelma to someone else’s Louise, or probably more accurately, the Will to some unfortunate hag’s Grace. But I can just as easily see myself in a run down, rent controlled apartment, microwaving ramen for dinner all by my lonesome.
I just hope when that day comes, the walls will be a tad bit thicker.
the recipe.
An excerpt from today’s horoscope:
“A judicious mixture of wisdom, wit, and common sense. The result: Being able to offset any complications relating to a long range goal-and get your show on the road”
Keep this in mind as my story progresses.
Old Babette (my station wagon) is getting on, and I decided to deck her out in a brand new tire to try and make her feel pretty again. This had more to do with my safety and less about my car’s feelings, because one of her normally droopy tires had been looking especially decrepit as of late. So off to the Wal-mart automotive center I went to try and get her fixed up before my shift at Family Video started.
(I know that I publicly denounced them in my last post, but I didn’t feel like trying to wade through the seventy or so shady Decatur automotive centers before finding one that wouldn’t screw my car up while simultaneously ripping me off. So to the super store I went).
Things went fine at Wal-mart, after I finally convinced them that I did indeed want just one tire changed instead of all four (“But-but, that doesn’t make any sense at all…”). How about a few less exclamations of my seeming ignorance about cars and a little more do your fucking job and change my tire.
As I was waiting in line to pay for the tire, I noticed that the woman behind the counter was making a duplicate key for the gentleman in front of me. I thought back to a time this previous summer when Babette first came into my possession and how I locked my one and only key in my car. I remembered the 2 hour process of attempting to unlock the front door, and the agonizing cuts that I got on my hand as a result. It was right around now that I thought to myself, “wow, I should probably get a duplicate key so that I never have to do that again…”
(Foreshadowing, hint-hint).
After a seemingly ridiculous amount of time for just a single duplicate key, I stepped up for my turn. Before I could remember to ask about a spare key, there was some problem with the register and my credit card, and to make a short story even shorter, I forgot to ask. It wasn’t until I was pulling out of the parking lot to head to work that it occurred to me that I should’ve got one. “Ah well,” I thought, “I’ll pick one up later.”
I get to work and things go fine as they usually do. More than fine really. I actually enjoyed my shift, and by the time we finished, my co-worker (my poor, poor co-worker) and I were walking out to the parking lot mere minutes after midnight.
It was then I realized that I had in fact locked my keys in the car.
I would like to a take a moment now and point out that this story is completely true. None of this is fabricated, my life just sucks his bad sometimes.
After a few moments of panic, a few more moments of smoking several cigarettes, and a couple assurances by my co-worker that she would stay with me until we figured this out, I got out the phone book and found a reasonable lock smith to come and get me out of this jam. The device that I usually use to break into my car was, ironically enough, locked in my car with the keys. I’m a genius- I know.
The lock smith of choice was Al’s 24 Towing and Locksmith Service. It had the largest advertisement in the “locksmith” section of the yellow pages, so I had to assume that it was fairly legitimate. I checked quickly to see that it did in fact say “Debit/Credit Cards accepted,” and dialed the number. After a bit of embarrassing conversation Al himself informed me that he would be there in fifteen minutes, and that it would cost $45 to unlock my car.
Oh, I know- that sounded like highway robbery to me too. But it gets better.
Al shows up in fifteen minutes as he promised, and promptly took out a large barbaric looking flat pipe, and got my car open in less (LESS) than a minute. That’s right, Al was charging $45 for less than a minute’s worth of work. As I reached for my wallet to retrieve my credit card, Al took a moment to complain to me that I had woken him up in order to come out.
I submit that perhaps a 24 hour business is probably not the best idea for someone who becomes so cranky when actually called to do work past regular business hours. Al was a pretty big bitch if you couldn’t tell already. Don’t worry, it gets worse.
Upon giving him my credit card, Al wasted no time in informing me that they do not accept credit card payments after a certain time. The time, he explained to me, was at his discretion. It varies from day to day. I asked him why he didn’t tell me this when I called, but Al explained to me, as though I lacked the brain capacity to wipe my own ass, that I should’ve asked.
How the hell am I supposed to know to ask a question like that? It states pretty clearly in large fucking block letters on your advertisement that you accept debit/credit cards. Seeing as you’re a 24 hour business Al, I figured that you accepted them all of those 24 hours. Maybe you should put an asterisk next to that portion of the ad that states “only accepted sometimes. Whenever I feel like it. Because I’m retarded.”
Another moment of panic (I don’t have that much cash), another cigarette (Al is getting pissed now) and the agreement that he would follow me to an ATM, I was finally finished with this debacle.
The moral of the story is this: If I had read my horoscope this morning, and realized that if I had the wit, wisdom and common sense to get that damned spare key (or gosh, here’s a thought: maybe remembered not to lock my key in my car), I would not have complicated my long range goal of not spending an egregious amount of money that I don’t have and not sending myself spiraling down into the black abyss of debt that I could not possibly climb out of.
Read your horoscope, and perhaps you could avoid a long night of losing $45 to heinous locksmiths.
The end.
it’s going to be a long summer in Decatur.
