January 30, 2008

what we really need: bigger speed bumps

Whenever I drive through Metamuville, its senior citizens invariably give me the "lower the roof" hand signal. "SLOW DOWN!" they scream, causing me to look at the needle bisecting the "25" on my speedometer. I usually respond by gunning the engine.

Metamuville Road, which is my only means of seeing someone under the age of 104, has become their battlefield. Literally. In my five years here, I've seen three dead bodies, each killed by a Metamuville geriatric. Unfortunately, the bodies were not their own.

The Gray Mafia was recently shocked to discover that an arterial road has run past their houses for the last 60 years, and they want it gone. The constant speeding is a menace to pedestrians, they say, without a whiff of irony, about the zero pedestrians injured on this road. The county declined their demands for installing gated checkpoints every block or so. It's a public thoroughfare, the county explained, not a private country club. The Gray Mafia organized and whined until the county relented a bit, and soon speed bumps appeared.

I hate them, of course, but I especially hate that they were imposed on me by people whining about a condition that existed when we all bought our houses. I am not alone. A petition is circulating to get rid of the speed bumps. People often display petitions at the Metamuville Grocery, and so was it here.

It came down after a day. The Gray Mafia mobilized and threatened the new owner with boycotts if he allowed the petition to be displayed. One geriatric wrote him a letter howling that the owner "wants to harm my grandchildren" and "has no sense of community." Because that's what constitutes a sense of community, you see: preventing the community from considering the side of an issue with which you disagree.

Meanwhile, life and death go on. The same day the letter arrived at the store, an 80-something woman with an overdeveloped sense of community tried to park her car inside Metamuville Realty.

posted by john at 06:56 AM  •  solamente

September 25, 2007

the ad that wasn’t

Last week I was considering taking a job in another town. I didn't, but it would be a shame not to run the post I drafted just in case.

For sale: 2 bedroom, 3 bath waterfront house. Totally awesome neighbors in a vibrant, youthful community full of excellent drivers. Substantial discount given to owner of multiple Harleys and pit bulls.

posted by john at 10:17 AM  •  solamente

August 12, 2007

geriatric road rage

Concluding the "Fuck off John" theme, with which I'm bored already

In the five years I've lived in Metamuville, I've been followed home three times. Each incident was identical: I had just legally passed a geriatric who was driving below the speed limit. In one case, the person was driving dangerously, weaving left of center and slamming on the brakes when going downhill. A few minutes after I passed him, he appeared in my driveway. He was my non-Percy neighbor, also a ROWF (Rich Old White Fuck) with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

"I'm your neighbor," he said, feigning cheerfulness. "I know I should have introduced myself before now," he said of three years of him ignoring me, "But I just wanted to tell you that that pass was very dangerous. You could have killed a kid."

"You mean the pass in a passing zone, on a clear day, when you were going 24 in a 35 and randomly slamming on the brakes?" I snarled. "Yeah, I'm the public menace." He started to argue legalities. I didn't let him. "Go look at the lines, asshat. And then go cut up your license. Time to hang it up."

While he argued, I walked away. That would be our last conversation.

The last incident was more entertaining. The ROWF in question sped up as I passed him, trying to make me ram head-on into an oncoming car. He then followed me aggressively. I turned away from my house and into a housing development, hoping to loop around and lose him. As I exited the development, his truck lurched to a stop in front of me, broadside, blocking my path.

Now where I'm from, this act means only one thing: someone is going to the hospital. Or, optionally, the morgue. In Seattle, this act apparently means something entirely different.

Unfortunately for the ROWF, I am not from Seattle. Even more unfortunately for him, because of my foliage-lined driveway, I keep a machete next to the driver's seat. I grabbed it and and erupted out of my car, toward him, brandishing the weapon low as I stormed straight at him. This 70-ish white guy's expression melted from sanctimonious rage into, well, the look of a 70-ish white guy who had just grossly miscalculated. He rolled up his window.

"Is your door broken or something?" I taunted. "Oh, my mistake. I thought you wanted to kick my ass." He stared at me, silent. "C'mon out. No? Nothing to say? Then kindly move your motherfuckin' car."

He did, bravely giving me the finger as I pulled away.

One of the great comforts of living in Metamuville is knowing that my enemies won't live for much longer.

posted by john at 10:12 AM  •  solamente

August 29, 2006

when reality and blog collide

Dorkass and Frank Frank visited this weekend, and on their way here and back they suffered the drivers who, sadly, I deal with every day. Slow drivers. Weaving. Oblivious. Slamming on the brakes for no reason. "Stupid Metamuville drivers," Dorkass recounted later.

Thing is, she didn't use my town's real name. She actually said "Metamuville." I'm not sure what this means, but it ain't good.

posted by john at 08:07 AM  •  solamente

May 05, 2006

fringe benefits

Eight years of living in the Seattle area had me wondering if at heart I wasn't an AM-radio listening, bible-thumping, card-carrying member of the GOP. Not that my dial ever switches to AM or that I even own a bible. I just so perpetually wanted to pimp-slap the smug left, I found myself waiting in line with Republicans. Chattering airheads lectured me about my diet, recycling habits, gas-powered car, aversion to protests, etc. from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. In reaction, I even started using that most Republican of epithets: "the elite." I despise their public masturbation, their sneering presumption, their group-think. I especially despise their self-inflating answers to questions no one asked.

Just when I was about to buy a red, white and blue SUV made of old growth timber by non-union labor and fueled by baby-seal head-pulp, I moved to Metamuville. Now I'm a left-wing nut. I'm one of the "librawls" I hear derided pretty much every day. Good lord, I hear he even votes both ways. Clearly, he don't support the troops. It's time for an intervention. John needs some learnin.' Conservative learnin.'

If I vote for a school levy, refuse to fertilize my lawn, or ask that racial slurs not be used around me? I'm a bleeding heart librawl. High gas prices? Librawls' fault. Requirements that you have a permit to construct a building? Damned librawls. Can't smoke in restaurants? You better believe it's the librawls. Ill-read, ill-educated cretins made these self-inflating pronouncements, parroting, I suppose, what they heard on the radio or O'Reilly.

A typical such moment: last week I was at a buffet with some Metamuvillians. The waitress took our drink order and forgot about it, and a fellow got up and got his own. "See, I ain't no librawl," he said pointedly. "A librawl would have just sat there and whined for someone else to bring them their drink, where me, I just took care of it myself."

I stared at him. So this is what passes as a friend in the post-baby-boomlet era. Shudder.

Maybe if I make fun of him.

"Yes, we're all very proud of you. But you did that server's job for her. She's going to get paid for not working. How do you reconcile that?"

"Good point. I hadn't thought of that. Damn."

Maybe Guam. I hear good things about Guam.

posted by john at 07:37 AM  •  solamente

December 08, 2005

the damp cardboard of metamuville

Not satisfied with holding forth and bossing about in person, the ROWFs (Rich Old White Farts) of Metamuville have taken to posting homemade signs by the side of the road. "PICK UP YOUR DOG DOO!" says a piece of cardboard nailed to a telephone pole. "NO WAL-MART!" says another, as if Wal-Mart is in the habit of building in communities of 300. "SLOW! BABY DEER!" hand-drawn letters on cardboard implore. "SLOW! TWO PETS KILLED!" says the latest cardboard directive.

Let's consider the last. Their pet is wandering the road and is struck by a car. And then apparently their other pet is wandering the road and is struck by a car. Is the speed of the cars really the salient issue, here?

posted by john at 12:19 AM  •  solamente

October 13, 2005

metamuville singles scene

What's the single life like for the thirtysomethings of old, white-farted Metamuville? I recently walked into the local grocery, and there was a stunning young woman standing in line, a ringless vision of beauty. I was incredulous.

"Are you lost?" I asked.

She was lost.

posted by john at 03:51 PM  •  solamente

September 08, 2005

showing off the new lens

Metamuville, September 7

posted by john at 02:55 AM  •  solamente

August 28, 2005

confrontation

I spend an inordinate percentage of my time driving below the speed limit.

Metamuville Road is about nine miles long and has few passing zones, and the resident ROWFs treat its posted speed limits as if that's the speed at which their engine will reach critical mass and explode. So yesterday, quite typically and very much against my will, I was driving 42 in a 55 and 21 in a 25. When I finally had a chance to legally pass the culprit, I did, and as I passed, he swerved into my lane to "scare" me. And then he followed me. I led him away from my house, of course, and into a housing development where I could circle around. Coming at me head on, he lunged left of center and made me slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

I don't know where this sexagenarian is from, but where I'm from, you don't do this unless you want your ass kicked. I grabbed the club I keep beside my driver's seat, and I charged out of my car and toward his, foaming with rage and spewing profanity. I'm not sure what sort of conflict he was hoping to provoke, but the look on his face suggested that events had taken a decidedly unexpected turn. "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?!" I demanded.

"What's yours?"

"Nice retort. You pulled this stunt just for that?" I railed inarticulately about the legality of my pass and the illegality of what he just did. And then he started to speak. "Well, the way I see it--"

All my barely pent-up hostility gushed forth. "OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP. I'MSICKANDTIREDOFYOUFEEBLEOLDFARTSANDYOUROVER-
DEVELOPEDSENSESOFENTITLEMENT,DRIVINGSTUPIDAND WEARINGOUTMYEARS.GETOUTOFTHECARANDFINISHWHATYOU STARTEDORSHUTUPANDSTOPWASTINGMYTIME.JESUSCHRIST." Or words to that effect. I also vaguely remember predicting there'd be Geritol splattered all over his windshield, a line I've had ready for years and am most pleased to have finally had a chance to use.

Ironic that this all transpired within an hour of the below post.

posted by john at 10:37 AM  •  solamente

August 27, 2005

IH8ROWFS

On my commute yesterday morning, I saw a ROWF (Rich Old White Fart) driving a brand new, gas-guzzling Lincoln Continental with temp tags still on it, and the following bumper sticker:

Scenes like this are why I don't own a gun. (Besides, don't you mean you love their Social Security?)

posted by john at 10:48 AM  •  solamente

January 01, 1800

percy, the euthanasia poster child

Originally published August 7, 2004

"You drive ninety minutes from work in order to be 20 feet from your neighbor?" someone once remarked. Sigh. Yes I do. Our house configurations are such that I seldom have to see or hear them, not unless they come over. Which unfortunately they do.

Percy and Thelm@ are septuagenarians, if that's the one that means "in their 70s." They're typical of the residents where I live: old, middle-class white folks who retired to country beach houses. It's not my favorite demographic. If you pass them in a passing zone when they're going 45 in a 55, which is sadly zippy around here, they'll follow you home to lecture you. When new ownership bought the local grocery and put the local coffee klatch's mugs atop a doily on a nice table, she was repeatedly chewed out for having moved the mugs three feet from where they'd been since the Creation. And so on. I've been advised not to turn this into a "geriatric old fucks with overdeveloped senses of entitlement" tirade, lest I lose the reader.

But they are.

 

The Common North-American White-Breasted Geriatric (Anus rictus)

 

Which brings us to Percy, whom I first met during my house inspection. He walked over and introduced himself, then proceeded to stand there, silently and awkwardly, forcing everyone to work around him. Why he felt it his place to inject himself in my house inspection, I can only guess, but soon I would long for those early days of awkward silences between us. A brief history:

• Day 2. While I unpack, I'm having a crew tear out the decorative outhouses (surely an oxymoron) from the front yard and hack at the 30-inch high grass the previous owner had left me. Percy ambles over and asks if I'm having them tear down my outbuilding, too. "No," I say. "I'm tearing that down someday, but until I buy my flop, I need it for storage." He huffs off.
• Day 3. The guys are still hacking at my acre of lawn with machetes and weed-wackers. Percy comes over. "So what's your philosophy on lawn care?" he says in an off-putting, accusing manner.  What the heck does that mean, anyway? "Grass grows. I cut it." He stares at me as though I'd talked in baby talk, then asks if he can borrow my tractor in perpetuity to mow his lawn. It doesn't work, I lied. He huffs off.
• Day 5. Percy comes over. He points out that my back yard is filled with dandelions and asks if I'm going to fertilize. I say that, given that Puget Sound's at the edge of our back yards, it doesn't take a whole lot of imagination to see that's just poisoning the water and everything in it. So until I can find a safe way of weeding, the weeds stay. He stared at me like I'd just talked in Klingon. "I'll do it for you, then," he snapped, as if my lack of know-how was the issue. No, no you won't. Under no circumstances. He huffs off. Soon my yard was mysteriously dandelion free.
• Day 20. Percy sees me installing planters on my balcony rail. "I hope those don't blow off!" he snidely snorted in a way that somehow indicated the exact opposite sentiment. Two years later, they're still there.
• Day 30. Percy sees me power-washing the deck. "Are you staining or painting?" Staining. "What color?" Grey. He goes inside, presumably to update Thelm@, who presumably he's got tied up in the basement. He returns. "A natural looking stain would look pretty good, too." Uh-huh. "I need to get me a power washer," he says leadingly. "Yep. I sure do. Like yours. Yep." That night, I made sure my power-washer was locked up.
• Day 31. I'm staining. Percy oozes over. "You going to paint the house, too?"
• Day 50. For the first of many times to come, Percy inexplicably mows his lawn about 10 feet across our property line, effectively enlarging his own tiny yard.
• Day 100. "You said you're getting rid of that outbuilding?" Yes. "So is that girl your wife or your girlfriend?" My girlfriend. How about Thelm@? He huffs off.
• Day 200. I've installed a new garden where previously a debris pile lay, and behind it, I'm installing a lovely lattice around my deck, hiding the ugly cement foundation. Percy walks over. "How come you bought such little plants?" Because the mature ones cost 10x as much, that's why. "Oh!" he says with enormous satisfaction, "So you're not one of those Microsoft people!"
• Day 300. Thelm@ somehow wriggles free long enough to tell me that she loves my china cabinet. Funnily enough, I've never had them over.
• Day 350. The inevitable happens. Percy comes over while I'm walking around naked and, frustrated by the curtain I'd put on the front door, goes to the kitchen window to peer in before knocking.
• Day 400. It happens again. One would think that seeing me naked once would be enough negative reinforcement. Alas.
• Day 450. Tired of the neighbor kids cutting through my yard to get to the beach, I erect a fence on my property line opposite Percy's. Percy walks across my backyard to reach me as I work. "Well," he lies transparently, "I was going to talk to my neighbor, but I guess now I have to walk around."  I guess so.
• Day 500. I begin my kitchen remodel. Seeing the old cabinets stack up on my deck, Thelm@ comes over. "Now what this house calls for is a country kitchen." Well, I'm going with cherry and granite. Sorry. "Oh. Well. I'm sure that can be nice, too."
• Day 550. I buy my flop and begin moving items out of the outbuilding. "Are you finally tearing it down? When?"
• Day 600. The kitchen remodel is done. Percy comes over with a piece of junk mail that had been left in his mailbox and knocks on the door. I answer, physically obstructing him from entering. He steps into my space and actually bumps chests, trying to come in. When it becomes obvious I'm not moving, he awkwardly asks for a phone number. I walk to my desk, and he glides on into my house, uninvited. He surveys the kitchen. "I'm going to have to memorize the details so that I can describe it to Thelm@," he hints subtly.
• Day 650. The outbuilding is being demolished. I wasn't here for it, but the boys said that Percy was throwing his own items on their burn pile and generally interfering the whole time, even trying to get them to remove plants he doesn't like ("You taking those ferns out? Ferns are just weeds, you know.") and my clothesline rack. Mind you, these are my things. The crew was taken aback. "Dude," one finally said incredulously, "You live in a freakin' double-wide." They said he huffed off.

To be continued.

Sigh.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

metamuville crime wave!

MetamuMart Grocery, Trading Post & Provisions was hit last week. Thieves punched out a window and stole some beer and, tellingly, some cough medicine. Dirt Glazowski, the store owner, who's a dead ringer for Howie Long and did, in fact, play professional football for a time, has been a litany of profanity ever since. In addition to the classics, his every sentence is also peppered with the words "derelict," "reprobate," and "beat into a twitching mass of pulp on the ground." His wife, Kiki, has skidded into depression. As their friend, I've taken both sides, simultaneously assuring Kiki that it'll never happen again while helping Dirt plan his installation of a Burmese tiger pit in aisle 4.

The area old farts have rallied, too. A letter to the editor in support of "the kids" Dirt and Kiki appeared, addressed "Dear Meth Heads." Okay, good start. The letter goes on to scold the thieves and their lowly place in this world. You're parasites. Addicts. Degenerates. "Apparently, all you see when you meet people like Dirt and Kiki is a source of drugs."

Unable to speak, I stabbed the sentence with my tear-soaked finger. Kiki was mortified. I showed it to the contingent of gossipy old farts always on hand. They didn't get it. Even funnier.

• • •

That the Glazowskis and I would become friends was inevitable, as we're the only people under 40—hell, under 60—in town. The first time I had them over, we watched the sun set and roasted brats in my backyard. As we pounded drinks, Dirt told stories of gridiron glory while I fawningly hung on every word and Kiki did a rather remarkable Terry Schiavo impression.

An Ohio State player blew your knee out and ended your career? Great, great!

"Was there anyone you really enjoyed hitting?" I asked.

"Mike Tomczak," he answered without hesitation. "I hated that prick."

"Same here," I replied. "Do you lie awake at night wishing you'd hit him harder, too?"

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

the most chilling 5-word phrase

Originally published April 11, 2005

I was getting breakfast at the MetamuMart this morning and a horrifying flyer caught my eye:

First Annual Metamuville Talent Show

"How many spoons acts can you stand?" I asked Kiki, the store owner.

"It gets worse," she groaned. "There are no fewer than three square dancing demos."

This got me thinking. What are the five scariest-assed words in the English language? "First Annual Metamuville Talent Show" is bad, but not the worst. I see four distinct genres.

You have the professional:

• Can you shut the door?
• Stop fishing the company pier!
• We are making some changes.
• Thank you for your contributions.
• Khristi is in your building.

The familial:

• Will you be my executor?
• I just arrived at SeaTac.
• Maria has a new theory.
• How much do you make/did this cost?
• I'll pay you right back.

The friendshippy:

• So, I have some news!
• That's not what Karen said.
• How goes the love life?
• So I have this friend.

The romantic:

• Know what your problem is?
• My parents are both living.
• How old is this condom?
• Did the condom just tear?
• I'm late. I'm never late.
• Oh. Yeah. I'm HIV positive.

and my winner, also romantic:

• We really need to talk.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

family is relative

Originally published June 13, 2005

julie

Everything you need to know about Percy & Thelm@ and my sister Julie are contained neatly in one anecdote. That is, this encounter is typical of my every encounter with these people. To fully appreciate the anecdote, know that I left out nothing. This was the unembellished sum total of their contact.

Having not seen Percy and Thelm@ for the first couple days of Julie's stay, we finally saw Thelm@ poking her head out her door as Julie and I were departing.

As I climbed into my car, I hear my sister happily (and typically) scream "I'M HIS SISTER!!!" across the yard.

Thelm@, having no window overlooking my house nor any reason whatsoever to care, was nonetheless unsurprisingly unsurprised. "Yeah, that's what we were figuring. You were here before, right?"

"MY AIRLINE TICKET WAS $315 USUALLY I WAIT UNTIL IT'S $140 BUT THIS TIME WHEN IT GOT TO $315 I KNEW IT WOULD BE THE BEST I COULD DO BECAUSE YOU CAN'T FLY ANYWHERE FROM COLUMBUS FOR $139 ANYMORE!" my sister shrieked.

"Please shut up," I asked.

"What?!" My sister whirled, surprised. "I didn't want them to think that you were having some girl over."

"Huh? Who gives a crap?"

"She asked."

"No she didn't."

"Well, she waved when she saw us. She was curious."

"Of that, I have little doubt."

 

d’andre

d'Andre's much-anticipated visit was surprisingly mellow, for two reasons: 1) he brought his bride, the refined and ladylike Pam (henceforth d'Pam), who lent sorely needed sophistication to the occasion, and 2) we're mellow old codgers now. It was a pleasure to see my friend again and to compare our wildly divergent paths from our common point of origin to our not-too-dissimilar stations in life. It was a meeting of friends unlike any to which I've previously been a party. It was a comprehensive catching up, a touchstone, a status report covering 14 dramatic years in which we'd both known everything from abject failure to giddy accomplishment. 14 years. That's, like, 56% of a Jen. And we covered all 14 in great detail—we literally began with my driving the U-Haul out of the apartment complex. There's something uniquely bonding about originating from the same time and place and circumstance, a feeling conspicuously absent from my life. And the more we talked, the more I came to appreciate my commonalities with my friend and foil. I think even d'Pam learned something about her husband and from where he came. If I know women at all, she went to bed prouder of him than she'd been the night before.

We watched the passing lights in the shipping lanes, our feet on the fire pit and margaritas in our hands, toasting one another and friends long gone. "Who'd have thought one of us'd be here?"  d'Andre mused, shaking his head.

"Who'd have thought one of us would marry a Ph.D in biochemistry?" I added.

A nearly sheepish d'Andre bussed the beautiful Dr. on the cheek. "Who'd have thought she'd marry one of us?"

I clinked his cactus glass. "Here's to marrying up."

•  •  • 

All right, thanks for indulging me. I know what you came for. There weren't many insults, but here ya go.

• The first and best point was scored by—no surprise here—D. He had not seen me since I was in the peak physical condition of my life. As they passed the security station at Seatac, he saw me, stopped, stared, cocked his head, and said, "Santa?"
• Not that he's not a tad bovine himself these days. "Rerun?" I replied, in my imagination six days later when I finally thought of a response.
• When we got into my Jeep, I had Careless Whisper on the stereo. He looked at d'Pam knowingly. "Who called it?" Yeah, but did he call the vintage George Michael/Andrew Ridgely poster on the back of the guest room door? No.
• Of my modern physique: "You're not 'Eggre' anymore. You're 'The Cracker Barrel.'" Then Pam hit him.
• Of my Jeep: "The cracker box." Then Pam hit him.

I'm pro-Pam.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

metamuville times

Originally published March 30, 2005

I certainly bash my town in this space, particularly the old farts who clogs its streets and s-l-o-w-l-y pull in front of speeding traffic. The dread Metamuville Road—straight, flat, fast—has claimed three more lives since December. And dammit, Percy is back from wintering in Arizona already, so walking around the house naked is indefinitely out. But days like yesterday are why I live here. On my way into work, I left my keys in the ignition as I stopped to give my lawyer the software he accepts in trade for his legal services. And then I again left my keys in the ignition as I picked up Ed's medication at the vet, where a bemused local store owner was picking up his golden retriever, who periodically wanders across town to hang out in the vet's waiting room. On my way home last night, I stopped at the tiny MetamuMart grocery to pick up a newspaper, and when I returned to my car, the store owner, Kiki, was wriggling into my passenger seat.

"Am I giving you a ride home?" I asked her.

"No, we're going drinkin'."

I nodded to the three bald eagles perched on the nearby pilings, and then we went drinkin.'

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

koffee klatch

on the upside, it's nice to be thought of as a young'un

Originally published October 5, 2004

The small town I live in is a sleepy little community composed of constipated retirees, the grocery store owners, and me. Let's call the town Metamuville. The Metamuville grocery store—along with June the realtor, Bob the postman, and Bud the mechanic—is the only business in town, and it was recently taken over by a pair of 30-somethings. To their credit, they added such innovations as vegetables and bread my dog would be able to gag down, but like me, they feel a little out of place amidst the grey. They get yelled at for changing their inventory or for moving garlic cloves to the second shelf. They get yelled at for painting the window trim. They get yelled at for daring to buy the place from the 70ish former owner. They walk on eggshells.

Every morning, the Metamuville Koffee Klatch meets, as it always has, in their back room. It is precisely what you think it is. Seniors from far and wide crowd the parking lot in order to congregate and bitch, presumably about the three young'uns in their midst. The Klatch is the local social fabric (along with something called the "Metamuville Huggers," which frightens me too much to inquire about). I've already made a pact with the store owners that, decades hence, should one of us someday spot another sitting down with the klatch, that person will have a clip or three emptied into his skull. "Don't worry about me," I tell them. "By that point, the John you knew is already dead."

Which brings us to the gruesome side of the Klatch. When a member dies, that person's picture is hung on a wall in the grocery store. As if that's not morbid enough, they attempt... comedy, I guess... by affixing a witty personal caption to each photo. Millie is "Knitting God's afghan." Ben is "Bowling strikes on the Lord's lane." Helen is "Redecorating heaven." And so forth. It's macabre. It's tasteless. It's pathetic. It's maudlin. The owners want it off their wall, but they know that doing so would ostracize them from the community. So sadly, it's also permanent.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

percy update

It is perhaps appropriate that I find readers' #1 request so annoying: we want more Percy.

"Would it kill you to go to arizona for material?" asks Dorkass.

The problem is that Percy and Thelm@ spend half a year in Arizona. They are a combined 202 years old, after all, and the law is the law. But fear not; Percy peeked in my window just last night, so updates cannot be far behind.

In the meantime, I give you a photo of the Metamuville Koffee [sic]  Klatch [sic] , of which Percy [sic]  is a member (though not pictured). Yep. This is my world now.

Save me.

Just out of frame on the back wall are photos of deceased Klatchers, each adorned with a little brass plaque with a saying that manages to be both cloying and repulsive: "Bob Magoo, Gone Fishin' In Heaven's Lake," "Betty Struedel, Knitting God's Afghan," and the like. It's utterly fuckin' mortifying.

Other activities in town:

• Newcomer Tea
• Yodeling/line dancing night
• Prayer Canaries
• Boot Scootin' Grannies
• ROMEOS (Retired Old Men Eating Out)
• Solitarians (widows)
• and my personal favorite, the Metamuville Huggers

I strongly suspect it's the same six people doing each activity.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

it took percy a whole day

A creeped-out Kiki called me last night. It seems that while she was stocking shelves, Percy took it upon himself to lecherously run his fingertip up her back.

Oddly enough, he's never seen fit to touch me affectionately. Or at all.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

stupid phone tricks

Originally published August 17, 2003

When removing the battery from my phone this afternoon, I for the first time noticed the sticker "To reduce risk of fire, use only Uniden-brand batteries."

Shortly before that moment, I'd gotten a phone call from the sticker's presumptive audience: a local 80 year old woman. Or rather, my machine did. Because my battery was dead, the machine picked up. I overheard someone try an impossibly long PIN, then the telltale quavering, befuddled voice.

BOOP!

BOOP-BOOP-BOOP!

BOOP-BEEP-BOOP-BOOP-BOOP-BEEP-BLEEP-BOOP!

BLEEP-BIP-DIDDLE-DIDDY-BOOP-BOOP-DITTY-BEEP!

[quite distinct] "No dear, I don't hear a thi—BOOP! BOOP!—doesn't work like Sally said it would. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

BOOP-BEEP!

[distant] "Maybe it doesn't like you, like [indecipherable]."

[At least four old women giggle. I put them on speaker phone so that I can speak.]

"Ma'am?"

BOOP!

"Hello, ma'am?"

BOOP!

[promising silence]

"I'm afraid you have the wrong numb—BOOP! BOOP!—I said you have the wro—BOOP! BEEP! BEEP!—wrong num—BOOP!—wrong number!!"

"Something about the wrong number."

[distant] "Maybe we dialed the wrong number?"

"That's what it said, the wrong number."

"Yes, ma'am, you have the wrong number!"

[long silence]

[into phone] "I have the wrong number?"

"Yes. This is the wrong number."

[long silence]

BOOP-BOOP!

"Did you skip a fuckin' dose, lady? You have the wrong number!"

[long silence]

[to others] "You would not even believe what this thing just said to me."

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

you’re so lucky

Originally published May 25, 2005

As Dirt Glazowski and I smoked cigars on his deck last night, watching the sun set over Puget Sound, we remarked that he is truly blessed. Sheepish, he then confessed something that increasingly bothers him: people urgently dismissing his new lifestyle as mere "luck." This is, after all, a man who a year ago left his career and family in Minnesota to move to a town 2000 miles away, where he knows no one but his wife and where he now makes sandwiches 12 hours a day for a living. But the move also allowed him a lovely waterfront house—affordable because it's in the middle of nowhere—and that moment on his deck last night. And he thinks the sacrifice well worth it. But the determination of some people to dismiss the fruits of his sacrifice as mere "luck" visibly hurts.

They don't have to be happy for him, but why must they go out of their way to diminish his hard-won happiness?

"You're so lucky."

I hear this sentence a lot, directed at me and friends both. Sometimes the sentence is rote politeness, like "Hi, how are you?" and nothing more. Sometimes it's an expression of like-mindedness, as in "Wow. How cool! I'm happy for you." I often use it that way myself. And then there are the sometimes about which I'm writing, the sometimes when the person repeats the sentence purposefully, defensively, even somewhat angrily. Often times they grab the listener's arm for added gravity. "You're. So. [beat]  Lucky." The intonation is not one of a compliment, but one of resentment, as in listen to me—it's exceedingly important that you understand that the only difference between you and me is that you're a fucking luck sack. Sometimes they even say as much. "Yeah, I thought about doing x, too," they'll explain, and then they'll say something derogatory about x.

In my own case, I never hear "you're so lucky" more than when showing whale photos. With this assessment I do not disagree, as most things in life are one-third luck, least of all finding wild whales. But I find the resentment thing off-putting, even insulting. I'm sorry, but blind-assed luck isn't all there is to it. Luck is, as they say, the residue of design. Consider the whales. For me to be floating out there two Fridays ago, I had to make the following decisions.

• First and foremost, I'm single and childless. I've repeatedly traded companionship, family, security, validation from other human beings, and having someone to change my colostomy bag when I'm old for the flexibility (career, time and money) I now enjoy.
• 13 years ago, I decided I did not like the pedestrian direction my life was headed, and I changed course dramatically, knowing that this would require that I move 2000 miles from anyone I knew and would likely torpedo my six-year relationship. But I wanted to get to the Pacific Northwest above all else. I bet on myself, and I won.
• 11 years ago, I moved to Seattle, again by myself, again to rebuild, again betting on myself and winning. Moreover, I made an uneasy alliance with a company that I truly despise because trading my services for its cash was the best route to where I wanted to go.
• 3 years ago, I bought my dream house in Whale Central, some 80 minutes from work, thereby committing myself to quitting soon. I bet on my ability to earn a living in the sticks.
• 1 year ago, I decided to make that switch to vending, if a bit earlier than planned. I left job security, health insurance, vacation time, sick time—trading it all for more flexibility with my time. Even in the face of job uncertainty, I stuck to the plan and dropped half a year's salary on a boat.
• In that year, I've gladly worked for two kind people whom I used to outrank, which certainly wouldn't have been possible if I'd conducted myself like many at MS. Or if my ego were invested in work status.
• In that year, I've also cracked the books hard, teaching myself how to boat in tidal waters, about the movements of whales, about using a hydrophone, about studying them safely. Every day, I track their movements in the area, trying to discern their patterns. I've gone out dozens of times and failed, usually on weekdays.
• Two weeks ago, I noted a high probability of whales in good boating conditions, and I headed out on a Friday, knowing that I would have to work on the weekend to make up for it. And then I put my tiny boat in the path of 60,000 pounds of mammal-eating predators, one of which came within three feet of landing on me.

"You're. So. [beat]  Lucky."

No doubt. But unless you too have eschewed the path of least resistance and bet on yourself, kindly shove your resentment up your ass.

•  •  •

A favorite and relevant Simpsons line:

Selma just got married, and her sister Patty is saying goodbye at the limo. Patty doesn't know quite what to say.

Selma: "Just tell me what I most want to hear."

Patty: "I am eaten alive with jealousy."

Selma (embracing her): "Thank you!"

•  •  •

The flip side of all this is that I, too, feel twinges of jealousy when I look at friends' lives and see paths not taken. Dorkass' new palace makes my house look like something that fell out of a cereal box; I bet her back yard has 3x as much square footage as my entire place. The Kerrs uprooted and got away from retarded Seattle people, and for that I'm eternally spiteful envious. The Coxes conspired to have a positively brilliant and beautiful little girl. Elizabeth is moving back to Cheney. And on and on. It's only natural, I think, to look at the fruits of their choices and feel some jealousy. Where a lack of health comes in is when jealousy ceases to be homage, when it and happiness for your friend are mutually exclusive. Their happiness is of a variety I did not choose, and yes, that makes me pause and reflect and even second-guess, but it does not threaten my own. I'm delighted for them. Is that not how it's supposed to work?

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente