overheardinmyhead

The Wrong Kind of "Cents"

I made a purchase this afternoon at a bodega. Paid with cash. The change due back was forty cents. The guy behind the register gave me four dimes. There was plenty of quarters and nickles in the cash-drawer.

"Just a question," I started "why did you give me four dimes instead of a quarter, a dime and a nickle?"

His face was blank. "'Cause your change is forty cents. That's four dimes."

"Okay. But so is a quarter, a dime and a nickle."

"What?"

"A quarter, a dime and a nickle-- they add up to forty cents."

"So does four dimes."

"True, but a quarter, a dime and a nickle is fewer pieces of change to carry around."

"If you don't want to carry around change-- use a credit card."

"Why would I use a credit card for a $2.60 purchase?"

"Don't know. Probably because you don't want to carry around change."

"Okay. Makes sense" I was just going to give in and leave. But then I saw the little sign at the register that read: $5.00 MINIMUM ON ALL CREDIT CARD TRANSACTIONS. "But according to this sign, I couldn't have used a credit card here on $2.60."

"You'd have to buy more stuff." At this point he was annoyed. I, however, having had an adult beverage earlier, was now just amused.

"Okay, okay, one last questions, then I promise to leave you alone. So if my change back was seventy-five cents-- what would you have given me back in change?"

"Seven dimes and a nickle."

I started laughing like a crazy man and walked out the door.

See You Next Tuesday at Rainbow

I just got in from shopping at Rainbow Grocery. As much as I love the products the store sells often I cannot stand my fellow customers. It was the last day to use the January 20% off coupon, and this year, Rainbow is only doing those coupons every other month. I should mention, complaining about Rainbow is a favorite past time.

Today the checkout lines stretched all the way back to the produce department / dairy & frozen foods. It was nuts. As the set-up has been for the past couple of months you have to line up in the aisles, waiting behind the taped limit lines. You keep the alley between the checkout stands and the aisles open to cross traffic.

In front of me in line, by three people, was a very old Asian woman. Her cart was filled with produced. She moved very slowly. I would guess she was around 90 years old. I'm notoriously bad at guessing ages. Maybe she had Progeria and was really sixteen. She made it to the checkout stand and struggled to put her bags on the conveyor belt. Produce kept falling out of the bags. Her movements were as slow as a two-toed sloth. They were as slow as if she was doing Tai Chi in slow-mo. I'm being insensitive. She was totally Japanese so she'd be doing what, Aikido or Taikiken in slow motion?

Everyone just stared at her struggling. She placed a bag of apples on the conveyor belt and they started tumbling down onto the floor. She braced herself, one hand on the cart and one hand on a display case and strained to pick up just one apple. It was obvious she was going to fall flat on her face trying to get the others. No one was doing anything. I put my basket down on the ground to keep my place in line. I made my way over to her and started picking up the apples. I unloaded the rest of her cart for her. She was very smiley and bowed several times to thank me.

I walked back over to the line and the lady who had been behind me had pushed my basket out into the aisle. She wouldn't make eye contact with me. I picked my basket up, said "excuse me" and tried to move into front of her. She had the audacity to tell me I lost my place! I had to use every bit of impulse control not to punch her in the taint!

I did an over-the-top exaggerated eye-roll and laughed at her. The guy I was behind turned around and gave her dagger eyes. He looked at me and said, "I think you were in front of me, no?"

"That's right, I was. Thanks." I said as I moved in front of him.

The lady pitched a fit. She was so pissed she started screeching about line cutting. Over walks one of the security guards. The lady said I was taking cuts. That's when one of the cashiers from another line pipes up by saying the lady was mistaken which just made the woman more irate. It was capital A Awesome! She just kept huffing and puffing and saying how it wasn't fair.

As the cashier was checking me out she looked over at the woman and said to me, "That lady's a real bitch. Coupon days bring all the cunts out."

Indeed!

Give Me Some Credit, It's a Brilliant Card

I have a problem. I don't use my credit cards. You might not think that's such a bad thing and really, it's not. But occasionally I do need to use one and I can never remember where I keep them. Are they in my sock drawer or the top drawer of my desk? Am I keeping them in the safe or are they frozen in a block of ice in the freezer? Honestly, I have no idea. The only credit cards I can find are expired ones. I know I'm supposed to destroy them when they are no longer of use but I keep wanting to use them in art projects I'll never create.

This weekend I needed purchase airfare to visit the Great White North. I could have used my check card because Alaska Airlines was running a ridiculously cheap promotion. But I wanted to use one of my rewards cards, specifically my Capital One No Hassle Something or Other Card. The one endorsed by stinky ill tempered barbarians which always reminds me of the men in my family. But I couldn't find it.

I logged onto the Capital One website to see if I could glean my credit card info there. I couldn't. I decided I would order a replacement card and saw that I could upload my own image to use as art work. I completely forgot for the time being that I was trying to buy plane tickets. I opened up my photo folder and started going through the 10,000+ images I've taken over the past few years, most of which are complete crap. But then I saw one of my favorites: The Dead Pigeon.

I shot it outside the showroom of the SF Mercedes dealership while an old starched white couple was looking at a new car. The old woman gave me shade saying what I was doing was morbid. I was like, "Give me a break lady, I'm taking it's picture not fucking it. Though..." I proceded to unzip my fly while I laughed maniacally.

It's also my favorite because as the saying goes: the best kind of pigeon is a dead pigeon. I don't know if that's a real saying but for the sake of this blog entry believe it's true.

I uploaded the image and got this snazzy mock up of the design.

What a magnificent looking credit card! I imagined sales clerks asking me the story behind the photo and all of us laughing as I said "Give me a break lady, I'm taking it's picture not fucking it. Though..." Good times would be had by all. Days would be brightened. World peace would occur! Cancer and HIV would no longer exist! All because of this dead pigeon credit card.

So imagine my dismay when I got this email this afternoon:

Dang!Well I guess I'm going to have to try a different image then. Something less deathy AKA mundane.

So this holiday season, when you think about why world peace hasn't happened or why there's still no cure for Cancer and HIV, remember it's because a kibosh was put on the dead pigeon credit card.

Sassy vs Mouthy

What's the difference between being sassy and being mouthy? It's all in the intonation. Take for example this afternoon. I was checking out at the taquería by my office. The place is narrow and can only hold about five customers at a time. Right by the register is a beverage refrigerator. I was partially blocking the fridge because I have broad shoulders. A woman, who was behind me, reached for the fridge but since my back was to her I didn't notice what she was doing.

She said in a voice best described as get-the-fuck-outta-my-way, "I don't wanna hit you in the arm."

Now on any other day someone saying something rude would cause me to take off my clip-ons in preparation to rumble. At the very least I'd cut the bitch with my tongue. But today, maybe it's because I'm surprisingly not hormonal, I played the gay sassy card, a card that is often missing from my deck.

In my best sing-song voice I replied, "Well that's why the phrase 'pardon me' evolved in our language." Then all of a sudden my body spasmed into doing a cha-cha dance move followed by a neck waggle.

What the hell just happened? I thought to myself. I'm as stiff as a board usually. The only rhythm I'm accustomed to is the rhythm method that keeps me from getting pregnant.

Whatever did just happen made the lady behind me laugh. Thankfully. She was a DPT officer and she had about 100 pounds on me and would have won any fight. She was a dead ringer for Grizelda from Desperate Living. And if you've seen the film then you know how she took down Mr. Gravel. I certainly do not want my life to end smothered by butt-cheeks.

Is It A Sign Of Luck?

Something utterly shocking, horrible and completely unbelievable happened to me yesterday while I was out walking. The whole ordeal happened so fast, 45 seconds tops. I felt something hit my shoulder. I thought a seagull had shat on me. There was that much heavy feeling gunk. But unlike bird crap, this gunk wasn't opaque and it smelt like bleach. Bewildered I looked up at the row of lofts I was passing by. In the window of a lower story was an older man, completely naked, ejaculating out the window.

I know, I know. Remember I said it was completely unbelievable. I was out walking? But this is true. And that jackass came on me!

I was livid. I remembered that spiting on a person is considered assault so naturally I figured this guy cumming on me meant rape. I yelled every expletive I know at the guy who seemed to just get aroused by fevered rant. What happened to the refractory period?  He probably considered what I was saying "dirty-talk" because he wasn't going limp and he was still shooting out buckets. Damn Viagra! I fumbled for my phone because I was going to call the cops-- but I want to get his joy juice off of me so I ran back to work (ok, walked really fast) which was right around the corner.

Before I went off the deep-end I sent off two emails to trusted gay friends to see what they thought I should do. Geof advised me I should call the police unless I didn't want to explain the situation to a cop, who "will no doubt look at you in horror, like I am at my screen right now." Jim, who also believes in my life motto of "find the comedic lining to every tragedy cloud" said I should count my blessing because I wasn't walking a few inches to the right while yawning.

Well I didn't call the police, which would have fleshed this anecdote out into a story. Instead I just laughed it off as another unbelievable account of what can happen in SF on any given day. Had a bird crapped on me, it might have been seen as a sign of luck, like many cultures believe it to be. A stranger cumming on me, well maybe that's lucky too. The last time someone came on me was in August of 2006. Maybe this is officially the end of the dry spell (though I'm sure that's actually considered a drought).

In other news: Have you heard that David Beckahm is getting his own brand of bottle water? I don't get why they need to re-brand Massengill, though putting his picture on the box does make sense.

Pray for us who have recourse to thee

Oh where, oh where has my messenger bag gone? Oh where, oh where can it be? With it's corduroy  lining and it's strap so long. Oh where, oh where can it be?

My six weeks of dog sitting ended last night. I reserved a ZipCar and picked Jim up at the airport around 8:30pm. I drove us back to the City. We had planned on getting dinner but Jim put the kibosh on that when he was stuck in Denver on a layover and asked me to pick up some bread and pasta for a simple meal at home.

Having reserved the ZipCar until 9:30pm I used the remaining 30 minutes to ferry stuff I had accumulated at Jim's to my house, which is literally around the corner, less than .10 of a mile. I basically moved into his place six weeks ago bringing anything that wasn't too cumbersome to schlep. Including my sewing machine.

Packing up the ZipCar was easy. I zipped to my place and unloaded everything in the car, or so I thought (foreshadowing!), dropped the ZipCar off at its designated parking space and went back to Jim's for dinner, wine and talk. His friend Lisa came over and we yucked it up for the next few hours. I didn't get home and to bed until after midnight, which isn't good as I'm still suffering from the worst head cold I've had in years.

Having not slept in my own bed for six weeks I had forgotten how damn comfortable it is with its memory foam awesomeness. Thank goodness my cellphone alarm went off otherwise I wouldn't have gotten up at all this morning (which might not have been a bad thing though I'm PTO deficient at work.)

My flat has undergone some extensive renovations and when I left to stay at Jim's the construction wasn't quite finished. So I've yet to enjoy the refreshed look of the place. One thing I luxuriated in this morning was the shower-- with its super water pressure and its seemingly inexhaustible hot water supply. My flat's hot water heater is larger than Jim's, which he has to share with his downstairs neighbor. I didn't want my shower to end.

I traded some words with my roommate after getting out of the bathroom. I think he's happy that I'm back and I'm happy I'm back too. As much as I love Cassie and Stewie I realize that I'm just not wanting to go back into pet ownership anytime soon. When you have to walk the dogs on a cold and wet morning when you're running a fever and feel like your going to die-- well, it sucks.

After dressing I went to grab my messenger bag but I didn't see it. I excavated the boxes and bags I brought back from Jim's and those that were up on my bed until I knocked them off last night (I had to put everything on the bed so the construction crew could put in three new windows and I never got around to taking anything off in the six weeks I was out of the flat.) Shit, I thought, did I leave my bag in the ZipCar? Fuck!

I jolted out of the house and into my truck. I raced over to where the ZipCar was parked-- but it wasn't there! I texted Jim to ask if he could take a look around his flat to see if by chance I left my bag there. I've yet to hear back from him.

My messenger bag to me is the equivalent of a child's blankie. It carries all my important things like: narcotics, a digital camera, sunglasses and my checkbook. I feel absolutely naked without the bag strapped to my body  Walking into work felt so weird. In the seven years I've been in SF I don't think I've ever once left the house without some sort of bag (except for when I would run.)

Fearing the worst I'll have to replace the digital camera ($400), the sunglasses ($140), and the narcotics ($10,000). But none of those things matter more than the bag itself. I really love the bag. I bought it at Urban Outfitters in Seattle in 2005. Despite having to stitch up the straps several times due to ripping, wear and tear, essentially making it look like Frankenstein's monster, the bag itself is the perfect size for city life, its got brown corduroy lining, which I think is so neat and its the most lovely shade of green on the outside. I'm tearing up right now. *sniffle* Okay, I'm not really weeping. I'm still holding out hope that the bag is either at Jim's (why isn't he texting me back?!) or the ZipCar was picked up by the ZipCar people to get washed and cleaned (it needed it) and my belongings will make it back to me unscathed.

I went on-line to see if I could find a twin of my bag but I don't see it anywhere. I looked up equivalents but they don't quite match up. The most similar in size and style is a Jack Spade bag which is a ridiculous $325. Buying that would cut into my narcotic budget. (Dear reader, you do realize I'm joking about narcotics, no?) For what it's worth (apparently $325 retail) it is a pretty bag.

On Amazon.com I found some plain paratrooper bags. I also found some embellished paratrooper bags. Now you may or may not know I've got a thing for the Virgin Mary. No it's not sexual-- wanting virgins is terribly lecherous-- as is wanting a woman-- ha ha, I kid, I kid. I think she's a pretty cool gal and I love her in statue form and in pictures. I'm not even remotely Catholic but I do wear, from time to time, a  Miraculous Medal my sister gave me after years and years of coveting it.

Well there are a couple paratrooper bags with V-Mary on them. And I realized something which is going to be complete sacrilege to any Catholics that read this blog (yeah I know, as if, but now they'll find this entry via Google, believe me). Anyway, the aura that surrounds Mary in her iconography looks a lot like the enveloping folds of a multicolored labia. Look for yourself:

And in this representation Mary looks like she's going to be engulfed by a vagina dentata:

CHOMP!

I'll never be able to look at Mary the same way again, and neither will you!

Wait, is that an Angel poking out the anus? Eww. An ass angel!

Maybe Mary could help me find my messenger bag. I'm going to dial her up right now.

Ugh, she's not taking calls. Her ass angel says she'll call me back. Yeah right.

A Million Little Bitch-slaps

Nan Talese, of Doubleday Books, published James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. The book would become infamous in January of 2006 after reporters started a feeding frenzy to find out if the events Frey chronicled were wholly accurate. This was only after Oprah Winfrey had chosen to feature the memoir as part of her book club-- the first memoir of the book club which had enjoyed several years of popularity featuring fiction novels. If you remember there was a delayed outrage, I'd even say fake outrage, when readers of Oprah's Book Club found out parts of the story were fabricated. People felt they'd been gypped-- most likely because someone else-- a reporter, or, later Oprah-- told them to think they were bamboozled.

As a writer-- one who focuses most of my craft on Fourth Genre, Creative-Nonfiction and memoir pieces-- I was peeved over the situation. When James Frey made an appearance on "Larry King Live" he endured relentless questions about the authenticity of his work. Oprah called in to give her support to the author telling the American public the reports on whether the memoir was totally truthful was "much ado about nothing."

Hear-hear Oprah! I thought to myself. However, soon Oprah rescinded her support and publicly flogged James Frey on her talk show.

I should mention I never read A Million Little Pieces. Honestly-- and maybe this is because my not so distant Hipster past-- once a book attains an Oprah Book Club stamp of approval it falls of my to-read list. But that doesn't matter as far as this post is concerned. Having read hundreds of memoirs over the years, and I'm mean hundreds, I've found myself sometimes wondering if events truly happened as they were presented. But at the end of the book it never mattered. Why? Simply, because it was written by a person whose memory is fallible. Also, my knowledge of writing as a craft takes into account the necessity for composite characters, blending of events and the flow of the written word. The tweaking of the story to make it tell-able and memorable.

So why am I bring this up well over a year and a half later?

Trickybrit sent me a youtube link of Nan Telese speaking at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Writers Conference in Grapevine, Texas, where she makes a remark about Oprah and A Million Little Pieces. Her anecdote reminded Tricky of the letter I wrote to Oprah (I had a lot of time on my hands) about her 180 degree turn on author James Frey.

Here is my letter:

Oprah,

For the last few weeks I have followed the controversy over author Jonathan Frey and his memoir A Million Little Pieces. When you called in to "Larry King Live" I was glad to hear that you thought all the debates regarding the validity of Mr. Frey's memoir to be "much ado about nothing." After all, most memoirists employ a writing technique known as "creative nonfiction" which allows them to be reporters, novelists, poets and essayists all in one story. Truths are stretched, people are made into composites, and the concept of time is altered -- not in an attempt to cheat the reader, but in order to make the story flow and heighten the message the author is trying convey. All that matters in the end  -- or at least, all that should matter --  is whether or not the story has affected you.

Imagine my surprise and disappointment, then, when I later tuned in to a follow up show you did with the author only to see you turn on him -- apologizing to the public for your previous stance and desperately trying to back pedal out of the comments you made on "Larry King Live" by acting like you were now some kind of inspired seeker of "truth".   The Oprah that I -- and millions -- had admired for her steadfast dedication to generosity, strength and genuine concern of others, was now replaced by yet another American public figure retracting her opinion in order to save face and cater to an audience that has shown itself to hold tremendous spending power.

If anyone should feel "duped" about anything it should be we the public; after all, which is more offensive: an author who stretches "truth" for the sake of art, or, an iconic brand of mainstream media that exploits people's emotions and checking accounts under the guise of self-help?

And here is the enlightening video of Ms. Telese at the conference:

Chitter & Chatter

Back in April I read about urban birds choosing to sing at night because the daily sounds of the city often drown out their songs. The study showed the birds were changing their behavior to cope with modern life. There are two birds that keep me up every night. I've named them Chitter and Chatter. I'm not sure what kind of birds they are-- other than noisy.

Since moving into my current flat over two years ago, birds always sing during the spring and summer at night. Granted at first it was nicer to hear birds than automated voice of the MUNI 48 bus line. But these birds have started to drive me crazy.

A few days ago I found out they're raising a brood in the wall of my room. I have a defunct fireplace in my bedroom and the birds have made a nest in the fireplace's old vent. I can actually hear baby birds chirping if I stick my head past the hearth.

Today I saw one of them in my bedroom bugging Marla Mannequin. Of course I had left the window open without the screen in due to the warm weather. Perhaps Marla has made friends with them. If she's coming to life when I'm not here I'm going to be very peeved.

I made a little video of them with my camera sitting outside my window on the power lines. Granted the audio might not be overwhelming but at least you'll get a little taste of what I hear night, after night, after night. It's probably wrong to wish that the power lines would shock them enough that they'd lose the ability to sing, isn't it?

I'm NC-17 Mother @#$%^*!

Mingle² has a device to rate webpages and blogs using a MPAA type system: G, PG, PG-13, R & NC-17. It's based on key wording of the main page. The more expletives or terrible words like "gay" it finds the more sever the rating. (Dang, that last gay and this gay and so on and so forth is just going to add to my count!)

Here's my blog's rating:

Trickybrit's:

It's silly, but if Courtney had gotten a lesser rating than me I was going to be peeved, even if she's the most saintly person I know.

Scott's:

I love how "dangerous" adds to his Restricted status. I thought his would be higher. However he post a lot of imaged based chat conversation which  Mingle² can't key word.

Note to self-- to lower rating only curse and use the following words in images:

Of course Forksplit blows us all out of the water, so I congratulate her:

Going to Hell Is for Pussies

The threat of going to Hell, because of something I said, doesn't scare me. Unless I can actually see the Devil standing next to a pyre, with a person pierced by his pitchfork and being roasted like a weenie, I'll continue to make jokes about all sorts of sensitive subjects: AIDS, Disabilities, Third-worldies*, Rape, the WTC, and your mom-- just to name a few (and believe me, this is a tiny sample of what's in my politically incorrect repertoire.)

My friends and I joke about such things as a means let off steam. SF, more so than other places, is particularly politically correct, so much so one can barely have any sort of opinion that seems to go against a very liberal culture. So my friends and I rebel. While many of my friends laugh at off color jokes a few do so and still feel uneasy. Anytime I crack a joke about cancer my friend Brent will laugh. But afterwards he has to go find a piece of wood to knock on while muttering the mantra "God forbid." In this single symbolic act he thinks cancer will stay at bay. Little does he realize I've cracked so many jokes in his house that there's no more luck left in his wood.

 

Like Brent, many others think they'll be stricken with whatever it is they joke about. If I crack a joke about HIV it's only a matter of time before I become the butt end of my joke-- which is probably where I'd get infected in the first place (rim shot please!) If there's any truth to this rationalization I'm going to be so riddled with illness and physical deformities only DNA tests will be able to identify me. And I bet I'll still crack jokes when I'm nothing more than a puddle of puerile petulant purulence.

Courtney is on point with me when it comes to irreverence. Often we go head-to-head. Our one-upmanship usually ends in a stalemate. Neither of us acquiesces easily-- and we can clear a room quickly, people say "you both are going to Hell!"  Personally I think Courtney is more clever than I. But sometimes I can drop such a shock bomb that it is still talk about months later.

Like the time we were watching TV and a PSA against drunk driving came on. In between videos of cherubic children playing, the screen would fade to black and white text would give us information about the kids. Eventually the images of the kids were replaced by a mangled car along with the words, "Billy, Mindy and Suzie were in this car when a drunk driver hit and killed them."

I said out loud, "And pieces of them are still in the car".

Courtney could not believe it. It was so utterly loathsome to her she went into a silent shock.

Game-Set-Match!

It may seem creepy-- but I (and many others) deal with bad news, grief and awkwardness by making it funny. Not always, but often. It has its draw backs. Some people don't know how to take an off color joke, or don't approve of irreverence. I've been earning an interesting reputation. The other week as I was leaving an event and an acquaintance of mine introduced me to his friend:

Acquaintance: This is Eric.
Me: Nice to meet you.
Acquaintance: (deadpan) He thinks rape is funny
Acquaintances Friend: (exasperated) What?!
Me: When you say it like that it makes me sound like an asshole.

While I may very well be an asshole-- Courtney sent me this picture which sort of validates my reasons as to why I make Rape jokes

That pussy is spot-on. Plus the jokes I make are completely contextual. Outside of the joke, topics like Rape, AIDS, the WTC and the Third Worldies aren't very funny. They certainly aren't humorous when it directly effects you or someone you know and care about. These topics are often downright horrific (except disabilities-- which are always funny.)

Someone uttering the words "You're going to Hell" because someone has said or written something offensive shouldn't scare anyone. Is that the worse thing that can happen? Hell is for pussies, and according to Pat Benatar, children.

 

If you think you'll come down with whatever you're making fun of, like Brentie fears, well I don't think that's very logical. I don't know that any reports or statistics exist regarding a person making jokes about a disease or condition and then subsequently being afflicted. Something tells me it would be hard to track.

Just so you all know-- I've never made a joke about Evans' Syndrome. In fact, until I was diagnosed with it a few weeks ago I'd never heard of it. It's affliction that encompasses two autoimmune disorders: autoimmune hemolytic anemia and idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. It's a rare condition that's sometimes seen in children. It's very rarely seen in adults. But I've won the prize. Besides, we all knew I was a rare breed. Yippee!

So has God smote me with Evans' Syndrome because my sense of humor runs dark? Is the pop culture definition of karma biting me in the ass? I doubt it. And when I think of some funny jokes-- you better believe I'll make fun of ES, like Cousin Geri did regarding her Cerebral Palsy on "The Facts of Life".

I heart Cousin Geri.

*A term brilliantly coined by Courtney for Third World inhabitants.