|
I am so sick of this. More and more as I age, I find myself in these increasingly absurd situations wherein people simply will not take my money away from me. In college, for instance, I collected toys. Eventually, as the hobby became "popular," stores like Target began to put these absurd limits on what you could and could not buy. You could only buy, say, three Star Wars figures. If you walked up to the checkout counter with five, even if they were five completely different figures, the clerk wouldn't let you leave with them. "But... they're not even the same...! I've been looking everywhere...! I only want one of each...! Isn't that fair?" "I'm sorry, sir. You cannot have that much of our supposedly-mass-produced, not-on-sale-in-any-way merchandise." "But... I want to give you my money in exchange for goods and services! That's still how this works, right?" More recently, the object of my ire was one of these @%#$%$&^ dance clubs. It was bad enough that I was being pushed into going there in the first place, but at one point early on I was informed that they would refuse people entry based on their clothing. Irrationally or not, I was livid. "You mean to tell me a dance club, a bar that charges me money for the honor of STANDING, thereby perhaps making the easiest money in the recorded HISTORY OF CAPITALISM... would take one look at me and deem my money unfit for the having???" "Well, maybe not in one of your nicer Hawaiian shirts." "And this is acceptable to you?!" "Actually, it's supposed to be a selling point. Upscale place, you know. Exclusivity." "Well that's bloody perfect! Apparently I haven't proven myself sufficiently elite simply by having enough excess money to afford to spend it on standing in a cloud of second-hand smoke! They would refuse to take my money because of my shirt! Well, I certainly want to fit in with a professional bouncer, let me run home and change! Maybe then I'll be lucky enough to be $5 poorer! I'll go get a tie, and a BOOT TO PUT UP YOUR @$$!" I know I overreact. It's just a sore point. Probably everyone who knows me has heard this rant at one point, concluded in an exaggerated tone, "But... I want to give you my money! Here! Here it is!" It's a fresh gripe today, because I just went to buy myself a new computer. I had forgotten what this kind of purchase can be like; you go in for a glorified Nintendo, and they treat you like you want them to float you a mortgage. It's one thing to get talked down to as a sixteen year old; it's another thing to get talked down to by a sixteen year old. I could barely stand for that s*** when I was sixteen myself. I'd gone to dinner at the folks' house, and I decided that on the way home I'd take advantage of the fact that the electronics superstore was near their house. I'd done some shopping at other stores, I'd priced some things online, and I decided that if I found a better deal I'd take it right then and there. No muss, no fuss. I didn't even need a monitor; just a box full of chips, maybe one of those mice with the cool scroll thingy in it. Quickest PC purchase ever. Finding the machine certainly didn't take long. "Hmm... that's pretty nice... I saw that one for less over by work... Good God! They go up to 800 Mhz already?? HOW much RAM?? Hard drive, 40 gigawhat?? 40 gigs! What am I, the Library of Congress?! Yeah, home users need that kind of power... for launching space shuttles...! How much? Really?! Sold! Pay the man, Discover card!" And that was that for the picking. Then it was time for the buying. I was in trouble from the word go, because I was wearing jeans and a hockey jersey. I just did not say "Rich and Stupid" to the sales staff. Normally, this would thrill me, but I'd put myself on a schedule and actually wanted my shopping to be interrupted by someone "helpful." So I went over and stood at the counter, where I was helpfully ignored for ten minutes. People walked past me to enter data into the store computer and walked off without even looking at me, and I was standing there trying desperately to buy possibly the most expensive item in the department. Never before has a man with $2 large burning a hole in his pocket been so invisible. I pondered the fun of making them get me what I wanted only to say, "Actually, I changed my mind," but I really wanted to get this purchase behind me. Eventually, some fresh-faced young lad came to tell another fresh-faced young lad to help me. I showed him what I wanted. "This is gonna be it?" "That's it." "You gonna need a monitor or any peripheral..." "Nope! Just the box o' chips, my good man. The rest is sitting at home." "So this is an upgrade then?" "In the sense that a limousine would be an upgrade from a burro, yes." "Has anyone told you about our extended service plan?" And that was pretty much where it all went to hell. Because, see, the kids don't make any commission by selling the stuff; they make the commission from selling the service plan. In the words of an old roommate, that's where they getcha. So this kid was going to do everything within his power to sell me on something I would never, ever buy. He launches into this spiel and... after years of buying and selling stuff in both casual and professional capacities, I get to the point sometimes where I almost want to take people aside and explain to them how they should be selling me. "No, no. You're doing it all wrong!" This was one of those times. The kid's strategy for selling me the warranty was basically to explain to me that the computer was going to burst into explosive flames the minute I put it in my car. In effect, he was trying to get me to buy the machine protection by talking me out of buying the friggin' machine in the first place. Now, I've never dropped this kind of cash in one place before in my life. I did not need to hear what a mistake it was. I was so nervous about the purchase to begin with, if he'd greeted me originally by jumping around the corner and saying, "boo!" I'd have run away and not looked in my rearview until Indiana. I even tried giving him hints about his technique as he talked to me. "I mean, sir, on a high end machine like this one here? If it were to break without the service plan, you'd practically have the cost of a whole new system." "Well then, it's a good thing you're not selling me a total piece of crap. Otherwise, you know, I'd probably fail to spend any money here at all." (winking vigorously, making "ixnay on the eakingbray" gestures) But the kid just did not care. If he didn't sell the warranty, he was perfectly content to sell nothing. I doubt this is what the store hoped for when they came up with the policy. "I mean, sir, I could understand on some of these smaller systems. This, though, you could buy a good-sized used car for this!" "Yeah, probably. But see, I'd rather have this computer. As soon as possible." "Better yet, you could go home and build yourself a much better system than this for less money." What? Did this pimple monkey just tell me to go home and build my own computer rather than patronizing the store that pays him? Do they sell shotguns here? Urge to remain jovial... fading.... "I'm sure I could build my own machine for less. I could build a new apartment out of straw bales. But, to tell you the truth, I priced it all out for a week, and this machine is the one I want. Right here. I would like to buy it. From your store. With my money." "Over time, the cost of the service plan..." "To tell you the truth," I lied impatiently, "I am so poor that I cannot afford the service plan. If I bought the service plan, I could not afford the computer. That $200 pushes me right over the edge. So, by absolute physical necessity, I am required to buy only the computer." I did not speak again or look away from his eyes until he got the box down for me. I got to the checkout counter, and the cashier noticed that I had not gotten a service plan. Eventually, I had to bludgeon her. Not really. But I'm still thinking about going back and trying. She talked to me like I was asking her for a gasoline Slurpee and a flint straw. When I said no, she replied "Okay," with a tone that concluded, "go ahead and buy a time bomb, jackoff. I can't be held responsible for what a moron you are." I can't help but thinking she was taught this tone by her sales manager. But I have a new PC! One that must receive several hundred files in transfers from the old one. This could take some time. Thank you for your patience.
|
|
|
Well, another big week has come to a close. I haven't really had a chance to actually do anything with my computer, but I am now comfortably able to pay for it when the bill comes. Despite all the usual cynicism beforehand, the contracts have been signed and so have the checks. Part of the whole signing process meant we actually got to meet the people who were buying into us, which I guess is a nice perk of working for them. They seem like swell fellows, very laid back and well-trained in the language of the office (THEM, MID-SPEECH: blah blah random Simpsons reference blah blah... oh, I'm sorry. That was a Simpsons reference. I hope that wasn't too "inside." US: Welcome to the tribe! Steve, fetch the ceremonial beads.) as well as beginning with the delightful intraoffice mockery that has endeared so many of us to one another during our careers. They were especially amused by the little blue house, and promised that "the first step in our long and happy partnership will be to rescue you from this luxury, so that the house can go back to its original use as the set for Silence of the Lambs." The only other real excitement was calling the ambulance to save Lynn from her heart attack when her check arrived. Lynn had understood "25% of your salary" to mean 25% of her monthly salary, not of her annual income. This explains why she never seemed to get particularly excited. Lynn had a pretty good Friday. *** So I've been cat-sitting again. There's something about me that says, "Come with you? No, I'd rather clean up sandy poo." I am forever watching dogs or cats or turtles during other people's vacations. Given further reflection about my love of travel, I think I actually would rather clean up sandy poo. So everybody's happy. Bonus for me. Neva the cat and I have been bonding all weekend as a favor to Neva's owner, with whom I would also like to bond. Unfortunately, there have been some entanglements of affection in the last few days. Specifically, Neva and I have decided to run away together. Sure, I've had relationships with other cats, and I've been hurt before. More precisely, I've been clawed, gouged and bitten. There are cats in the world whose charming displays of affection consist of seeing you sitting on the couch and trying to hunt your fingertips. You're sitting there, your arm dangling off the armrest, and suddenly Hey! Teeth!
"Oh, she's just playin'. That just means she wants to play!" the owner tells you. Is it because I'm her only human contact right now? Yes. Almost certainly. When Mommy comes home, she'll walk right over my face without bothering to retract her claws. But in the meantime, the attention certainly won't get turned down. I don't think I can technically blame Neva, but I have been missing my brain ever since I started keeping an eye on her. Tonight, picking someone up at the airport, knowing full well what I needed to do, I found the parking spot that was geometrically exactly as far away from the gate as is feasible while still being parked at the right airport. In a pioneering excursion, I speed-walked the entire length of the airport just to retain my crown as King of the Idiots. Worse than that, Saturday I went to pick up my friend Chris (for the St. Raph's trivia night, of course) only to find out that he was at my apartment picking me up. Once we got there, I realized I'd forgotten to bring the entry fee. As you can imagine, this was not the best emotional set-up for a battle of wits. In fact, our whole rhythm was off at St. Raph's. See... it wasn't our fault... they had ten categories like last week, but they asked one question from each category in each round. Like, instead of having a cooking round, they had one cooking question in every round. The team was shaken to its very core. We were quieter. A lot less misdirection this week. (Last time, drunk on our own smugness, we started intentionally giving the wrong answers aloud and shushing one another as if they were right. "What's the capital of Japan?" "Ooh! Japan City!" "SHHH!") While we eventually outscored our previous point total, we came in fourth. To Baby Boomers. Again. Not that I'm at all bitter about this outcome. No, not I. But let me just say this about fairness: if reading the question causes the announcer to say, "Now, listen to this next one very carefully," you're doing it wrong. As Chris asked during our post-game cry huddle, shouldn't you be listening to all the questions? Oh well. There's another one coming up soon. We will come home with that $20 prize, even if we each have to spend $100 to do it.
|
|
|
So, I got another raise yesterday. New title, new position, new things to do and new money to do it for. Yawn. Excuse me. It's not yawnworthy at all, don't get me wrong; even though I had reason to see it coming, it's a pretty big flingin'-flangin' step in the right direction at just the right time. It's just that, with the bonus we just got, it's the second raise I've gotten in as many weeks. It's starting to get like having ice cream for every meal. A fella gets desensitized. To wit: we got paid today. Gwen came in to distribute the checks to everybody, and upon being handed her check, Dawn looked at it and said, "Oh, God. Again?" as if to say, "Dammit, now I have to go all the way back to the bank, and there's gonna be a line, and...." If I have to have a problem, I want this to be my problem. Beats the stuffing out some of the old problems. (I'm suddenly reminded of the time somebody critiquing these pages said or wrote to me-- I can no longer remember which-- "You know when was a great period? That period where you had no job for months, and everyone hated you, and you were flat broke and living with your parents and staying in bed until three in the afternoon and begging for the sweet, sweet release of death. That was the greatest." forcing me to reply, "Yeah, thanks! That was the greatest, except in the sense that it was... ya know... my actual hellish, relentlessly punishing life. Glad ya liked the little stories, though.") *** Being single sucks. Supposedly. I have no evidence to verify this, mind you. I've been operating lately under the mistaken impression that being single is a great big conga line of fun. But it's supposedly a fate worse than death, if any indication is to be taken from how often people try to set me up or encourage me to ask various people out. Now, when I was dying of loneliness and begging to be introduced to people, nobody could be bothered. As soon as I make peace with being alone, BAM, you'd think I was the king or something. Everybody's suddenly trying to get me to sire an heir. I do occasionally catch myself pondering how burst-into-songworthy it might be to fall for someone. (A couple of someones in particular.) Mostly, though, I think about it because I feel like I'm supposed to. Like my parents are actually starting to worry about grandkids, and I'm upsetting them. Like the world is passing me by. Like, if I don't keep up, everyone else I know will pair off and begin worrying about mortgages and I won't have anyone to relate to anymore. I'll be forced to hang out outside college dorms, combing over and asking, "Hey kids! Any good parties coming up this weekend?" Luckily, I work in an office with married people, which always cheers me right up. Come to think of it, it's the marrieds who are always talking about fixing me up with people. Every time I go out to lunch, they're pairing me up with every woman (and sometimes man) who walks into the restaurant. I assume it's because married life ain't what they thought it would be, and their mission is now "If I can't be happy, nobody can! Mu-hahahahaha!" I sit across from this woman, for example, who never fails to brighten up my day. She calls her husband about three times a day for no reason I have ever been able to discern, and today her husband got into big, big trouble. She called his cell phone, you see, and he did not answer it. She then called his pager, but he did not answer the page. She repeated her calls, this time with the added nugget of conversing with the ringing line. "Grrrrrr... turn on your phone! That's why you have it!" After the third time, she called the receptionist at his place of business and instructed her to have the husband call IMMEDIATELY. This was followed by one more cell phone call. When he eventually called back, she made the poor man into a pelt. "It's about time! What's the point of the cell phone if you're gonna turn off the pager? How am I supposed to able to get a hold of you if you're going to walk around without anything on?! Natter natter natter!" I should reiterate here that, at the time this call took place, this woman wanted absolutely nothing. Not one thing. She just called to see "what was up." What was up?: her husband was at his job, trying feebly to do it uninterrupted. As she was accepting his apology for not being reachable, I sat in my chair doing a little chair-dance reminiscent of Snoopy and singing to myself, singing an almost tuneless ditty similar to Barry Manilow's "Copa Cabana."
Yes, I am sin-gle! At that point, I have to cut myself off before I actually get out of my chair and start to prance around the room. This particular married woman studies me like an alien culture sometimes. A while back, while her husband was on a business trip and she was trying to get him to return her page, she was talking about how terrible it was to be alone in the house and we got into a quasi-debate. "How can you stand it?" she said to me like I had explosive leprosy. "Every night you go back to your place, and there's nobody there! You're all alone!" "Of course there's nobody there. That's why I go there. Nobody else can get in. Where do you go when you want to be alone?" "I never want to be alone! My sweetie and I are always together. In the morning, at night, when he's at work, when he's trying to read... what is that song you keep humming? Is that Manilow?" I really need to find that special someone who will remind me what's good about relationships. All I've got is the eyewitness horror of my married coworkers and my memory, and when I look back all I can remember are the fights. Oh, and the cheating! ***
STATISTICS ON A RECENT VISITOR TO MY SITE
|
|
|
This weekend, just to bring my descent into old age and decrepitude one step closer to completion, I attended a full-out honest-to-Jesus dinner party at the home of my friend Chris. It was like a luxury car commercial. I had to wear khakis and everything. Luckily, the whole thing was centered around food. And what food! It was perhaps one of the finest meals I have ever eaten, and easily the nicest one ever prepared for me outside of a restaurant. In cooking, Chris has found his calling as well as his passion. This is a guy who will come over and hang out every so often and, lacking cable at home, will inevitably become transfixed on my Food TV for hours on end. Every time. And I do mean hours. It's like giving a cat a shiny thing. I change the channels during commercials, and he monitors the time we're away from the Food TV. ME: Hey! Scooby Doo is on! I haven't seen this in years! Wow. This really does not stand up well to adult scrutiny, does it? CHRIS: Yeah, Scooby's great, what with the Scooby Snacks and all. You know where else there are snacks? On the F***ING FOOD CHANNEL! (dives for remote) What is it with me and the Food TV people? My last girlfriend was the same way. Every time I was over there, she was watching the friggin' Food TV. She'd visit her parents and tape it so she'd have something to watch when she got back home. I couldn't really deal with it there, though, because no matter how long we watched Emeril make that @%#$ sauce, I was living with the knowledge that we were still having reheated ramen for dinner that whole week. When I think of her apartment, to this day I can taste Papa John's breadsticks snaking their way down my esophagus. When Chris watches, see, he takes notes. I'll indulge that, because I know it's just a matter of time before I'm chest-deep in lobsters or something. "Yes, by all means, watch Food TV. And pay attention! He's talking about the garnish! You're going to miss the tasty part!" Of course, being the food lover that he is, he also refers to Food TV as "gastroporn." And what's not to like about that? So going to this dinner party meant a full dinner, with courses and napkins and mussels and lamb and radicchio and celeriac and caviar and oyster forks and everything. Oh, and lots of booze, of course. I'm not sure what kind, but judging from the other guests it was a rare imported vintage called Obnoxiohol. Take your concept of obnoxious, add to it how obnoxious I usually am in this journal, multiply that by three, and that's what it was like by the time the night was over. I was reminded that while it is not necessary to drink to enjoy oneself, it is ABSOLUTELY necessary to drink to enjoy oneself around drinking people, especially once they've poured boiling hot coffee down your back. The waiter was mortified. Yes, the waiter. He hired one of the neighborhood kids. Don't say the man doesn't know how to throw a party. I was faced with one sticky conundrum: the dessert was among the richest and most exquisite I had ever seen, and I had given up such sweetness as a Lenten sacrifice. I thought it would be offensive to turn down part of the meal, considering that Chris had taken a sabbatical to fly to South America and harvest the chocolate himself from the rare tropical Yumyum tree. But I'm typically pretty hard-nosed about the whole Lent thing. I mean, the Church teaches that you get a day off for good behavior on Sundays, and I think that's the biggest bunch of pansy-@$$ B.S. I've ever heard. "Just as Christ sacrificed for us, we too sacrifice and so honor His sacrifice during this significant time of year, except on Sundays when we celebrate Him for His sacrifice and honor it by NOT sacrificing, which only seems like a direct contradiction unless you've read the catechism. Remind me to e-mail you the passage sometime, it's in there. Oh, and if St. Patty's falls on a Friday, the bishop can wave a magic wand and make the sin fall off the corned beef, because the Church knows which side our bread is buttered on, heh heh heh!" Sheesh. Please. "I made through all of Lent without any ____!" "No, you made it through six days. Here, have a medal." To make things really interesting this year, I gave up both sweets and profanity. All zany @%#$@%#@marks on this site aside, I have really developed something of a problem with what I call "frankness" and my mom calls "GASP! Shame on you!" It compounds my challenge, because I've noticed that when I forget it's Lent and have a donut, the first thing I do upon realizing I've screwed up is loudly shout, "Oh, F@%#!" Anyway, I was feeling bad about breaking Lent and chowing down, but then Mary Catherine announced that since it was Saturday night, and Saturday night was the vigil for Sunday, and Sundays were okay for breaking Lent, she needed to get some cigarettes immediately. I felt a lot better after that. *** I completely destroyed my copy of this site last week. The first time I wrote an entry on this PC and clicked "save," for some reason that I will never discover and am not really interested in, it removed every single space from the entire page. And as a function of how stupid I am, I shouted and put my head down on my desk and began to manually re-insert every space. I was doing it for about ten minutes before I said, "God, I can't believe I have to sit here and do this! Why me?! Oh, if only I had some kind of backup! Some kind of copy of the site... like... like the one... that's online and has been this entire time. Son of a-- !! Mother-- !! Grrr. Dang Lent. Dang, dang Lent."
|
|
|
In what is threatening to develop into a pleasant habit, my father and I went out to dinner again not too long ago. This time, I just saved myself the indignance and came ready to pay cash for the dinner I had been invited out to. Don't try to understand, Jim; just notice patterns and be prepared to adapt. Like childhood, but with money. We had been sitting down for a few minutes when something unexpected happened. Somewhere in another corner of the restaurant, I heard a laugh I hadn't heard in months, but it was one of those laughs that is so distinctive that it'd be one of the last things you'd remember sixty years from now. It was the laugh of a college neighbor of mine, a girl who had been constant companions of my roommate and I when we'd lived near her. We always assumed that we were all very close friends, but when I and later my roommate graduated, it became clear that she was a friend to us because she saw us in the hall on the way to her room. She was one of those huggy, care beary types, full of professed love and promises... and although I took all of her hugs and sunshine at face value, it turns out she was pretty much huggin' and shinin' on whoever walked by. It was something Greg always called "goldfish syndrome," since fish supposedly have a memory that spans about fifteen seconds. Whenever her name comes up now, one of us will inevitably chime in with, "Hey, look! A little plastic diver! I wonder what's over here behind the... hey! A diver! Over there by the bubbles... ooh, bubbles... hey! A plastic diver!..." In other words, both of us felt a little abandoned by this girl and have come to consider her persona non grata to a certain extent. Greg's extent is a little more certain than mine; I'm nice if I run into her (which I did last on New Year's Eve 1998), but I would really rather not run into her. Which is why I got so tense when I heard the laugh. The whole combination of the possible false civility and the prospect of having to explain who she was to my dad and that whole friends/family, when-worlds-collide, Jetsons-meet-the-Flintstones thing was just not something I was up to. "Dad," I said, "don't be alarmed if I make some kind of getaway. There may or may not be a distinctively laughing woman in this restaurant who thinks she is my friend, and possibly that I am a plastic diver. No time to explain. Just be ready to run on my signal." It's nice to be with my dad and be the one doing the confusing. But that didn't last long. During the meal, I had planned to ask Dad how retirement plans were coming along, but he beat me to it. "So," he said to me with purpose, "do you think, or do you foresee any reason, or anything that you might need money for at some point in the near future?" "I'm not following your question. Or your grammar." "Before I retire, can you foresee anything you might need money for? Like going back to school or a house down payment or something like that?" "Uhm... well, it will take an act of God to put me back in school after SLU. And as far as I'm concerned, with rent-like mortgage payments and everything, houses are just apartments with lawns and shingles I have to fix myself. Oh yes, and equity! I remember! The houses have the equity," I added, anticipating "Rent is throwing money away," Speech #16. "So, you won't need any money." "No...? No, I guess I won't need any money. Why, why are you asking me this?" "I just wanted to make sure. Before I retire." "Well, that's certainly very... what?? Why? If I said 'Yes, I have outrageous gambling debts' or something, if I had said I did need money, what then? Would you not retire? Would you keep working so you could lend me the money?" "Just making sure." "How does that work? And see, all this time I thought I'd have to work more if I wanted a lot of money." These are my people. He offers to forego retirement in case I need a small business loan, and then the check comes and he makes me pay for my own dinner. On the plus side, I did sell him my old computer, which is a plus primarily because (as my graduation gift) he was the one who bought it for me in the first place. My mom has been calling me to strongly suggest that I give it to him for free; meanwhile, my dad is persistently offering to pay more than I asked for it in some kind of mirror-universe haggle. The less I ask, the more he offers. The more he offers, the madder my mom gets at me for ripping him off. They are trying to goad me into killing one or both of them. I'm suddenly reminded of Christmas Eve. My sister and I are sitting around waiting for mass, and my mom comes in with a notepad and a pen and says, quote, "All right now. I want you kids to come around the house with me and tell me what you want for your inheritance." And we said, quote, "What the f@%#?" "This is the only time of year I ever have the both of you together and at home at the same time, and this needs to get done." "Are you dying?!" "I'm not dying! But I will someday, and no matter how close you two think you are, you'll end up fighting like cats and dogs over this stuff. So this way, we get it all down in the will now and everything can go all smooth." "Mom? Mom. Look at me. Seriously. What the @%#$ is wrong with you?" "Come on now. Do you want the crystal grapes or the crystal owl?" "I... don't want your crystal!" I eventually just told her to give everything to my sister. More specifically, I took the notepad and wrote, "Being of sound mind and body, I hereby declare that I do not want anything. Please give everything to my sister and never bring this up again. JM, 12/24/99." Maybe it's optimistic of me to think she'll need it more than I will, but the bottom line is I don't expect a big financial windfall from my parents in life or in death. More importantly, I don't want to have to try and unload those crystal grapes.
|
|
|
RING RING RING PHONE DRONE: Missouri Higher Education Lending Authority. Thank you for calling MOHELA, your call may be monitored, my name is Philip, how can I help you assuming you've stayed on the line through all of this blather? ME: Hi, Philip. I have a question for you-- PD: How can I help you today? ME: ...Well, you can... answer my question, I guess. PD: Ha ha ha! ME: ... Yeah. So, I wanted to ask you about several rather threatening calls I've received from your office this week about the status of my student loans. PD: The overdue status of your student loans? ME: That status, yes. PD: Well, why don't you let me have your social security number and we'll see just what the status is on those loans. ME: Actually, actually that's the interesting thing to me. See, the thing that interests me about these several, several calls I've received is that I don't have any student loans. At all. Never have. At any point in my academic career. I never even borrowed laundry quarters from my roommate. PD: Hmm. Okay, well then why don't you let me have your social security number and we'll see about your status. ME: Well, I sure would do that, but you don't have me on file. Because, you see, I've never had a student loan. I just wanted to see about getting the phone calls to stop. PD: All right then. Can I have your social security number? ME: I just told... sigh. 4...9.... (minutes of typing) PD: Okay, sir? I do not seem to be able to locate your file in our database. ME: Is this a joke? PD: And you say you are currently paid up on your loan? ME: Are... are you the same person I was just on the phone with? PD: This is Philip. ME: Philip? Stop calling me. I don't owe you any money. Let me give you my phone number, and you can take it out of your database, mmmmkay? I do not have a loan. PD: I don't think I can search the database by phone number. I should advise you, sir, that defaulting on a student loan can adversely affect your credit rating later in life, in addition to... ME: You win! You win. I have a student loan, I used it to buy Pokemon cards, and I lost them all in a game down at the parish picnic! I don't have the money, and I'm NEVER going to pay you back! EVER! SIT ON THAT, SPANKY! MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! CLICK
|
|
|
"Best Picture next year, even if it turns out to be three hours of Tom Cruise combing his hair: Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut"
Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000 01:48:04 -0600
From: "an avid reader" (avid@nowhere.com)
Subject: Flour Baby Killer Revealed
Dear Jim,
Congratulations on your new job and computer and raise and trivia night hobby.
I think the first time I wrote you, sometime last month, I mentioned that the flour baby
story was one of my favorites. Shortly after that I was at Rizzo's with a group of friends,
and one of them brought her new boyfriend along. I was chatting with him for a while, and
this being Saint Louis and all, the topic of high schools came up. We played the name game
for awhile, which didn't last too long, because I don't like most of the [guys from your high
school] I know, (no offense). Anyway, as we were exhausting that topic I brought your name
up. To my surprise he told me that he did indeed know you. And not only did he know you,
but he used to carpool with you. So of course I asked him if he remembered some guy who
brought a flour baby into the car. And he responded "yeah, that was me." After I finished
contemplating what a small world it was, I told him that I actually didn't know you, and
explained that following some a link from [a friend's] web page years ago, I stumbled on
your page, and have been reading it ever since. After we got that out of the way, I relayed
the story of the flour baby as well as I could remember it, and he pretty much agreed with
the events as I recalled from reading them. Long story short, I forgot what a negative
depiction of [him] there was, so all his friends and acquaintances ended up reading a
printed version of that entry at a pre-dance party that someone printed out after hearing
the discussion of it at the bar. I never gave your characterizations of people a second
thought, believing that if you savaged someone, they probably had it coming. But after
meeting [the victim] a couple of times, I'm beginning to rethink my assumptions. He is
a nice guy, not at all excitable, and doesn't smell like cooking oil in the least. But it was
pretty obvious that he was embarrassed about everyone reading that entry.
To: avid reader
From: Jim
Subject: RE: Flour Baby Killer Revealed
EEEEG.
I hear that story, and I'm laughing and clutching my chest in sympathetic
embarrassment simultaneously.
How awful that is. The question is, is it better for me to seek him out
and apologize or just let it die? Because... I mean... he wasn't a terrible
kid. As a freshman in high school, I wanted his head on a stick, but what
freshman doesn't irritate the older kids? He was cool when I met up with
him again years later in college. I hate to think I made him feel bad.
Let this be a lesson. I tried to keep that whole sordid tale anonymous,
not mentioning any last names or school names or anything, and it STILL
ended up getting back to the poor guy. Next time I put up a web page,
I'm going totally anonymous. And my journal will be fictional. I'll write
about the life of a professional hitchhiker named Enrique.
> I never gave your characterizations of people a
>second thought, believing that if you savaged someone,
>they probably had it coming.
Oh, well let that be another lesson. I'm at my most verbose when
somebody's p*ssed me off.
Actually, I'd feel a lot worse if I hadn't written like 35 entries about
myself killing my pets and not knowing how to put on my pants and biting
people and being mocked by children and assaulted by chocolate shakes
and just generally winning the "Loser of the Year" award three years
running. In fact, get somebody to print out that "Gay Dude" entry and
pass it around to all his friends. Consider it a personal apology.
|
|