Occasionally while employing ancient Himalayan meditation techniques to probe the deepest recesses of my psyche to recall some funniness I can write up so you'll have something to use to waste time at work, I am struck by two blinding revelations.
One, I can write a mean run-on sentence.
And two, I was a terrible, shitty person during my adolescence.
I can take solace in the fact that most adolescents are terrible people, and for the most part, I didn't really hurt anyone.
Also, I am now a responsible adult, a pillar of the community, and generally follow society's rules, even the stupider ones, and I feel my many years of law-abiding have overshadowed my crappy past.
But sometimes, like Nicolas Cage driving out of his way to gaze at convenience stores in Raising Arizona, I can sense the devil whispering on my shoulder, reminding me just how much fun it felt to commit stupid, pointless acts of badness.
Sure, there's the everyday daydream that you know you'd never actually do in a million years, like when you think about just how easy it would be to slip that bored security guard's gun out of his holster and drive away with the bank truck parked in front of the grocery store and start a new life somewhere.
No, the recurring bad daydreams I have are more mundane but more easily realized if I don't rigorously guard my behavior. Most of these occur while driving, mostly because
like Gary Numan, I feel safe in my car, and I know I can make a quick
getaway after my funny.
Like if I'm driving somewhere, sort of bored and not really paying attention to the music or podcasts I'm playing, I think how hilarious it would be just to start flipping people off.
"Hey, check out that dude in the Affliction shirt and ugly tattoos waiting for a bus. I'll bet he'd lose his shit if I just gave him a big ol' grin and a bird."
"I wonder what would happen if I just stared at the person in the car next to me til they were forced to look over and I just busted out with a musical Little Richard-esque "Whooooooo" and upraised middle finger."
Or I'll look at a bag of trash in the seat next to me and ponder how funny it would be if I just opened the window and threw it all out behind me on the highway instead of taking it home to my trash can like a responsible citizen. Sure, I'd make a noble Native American shed a tear, but for some reason, just the thought of a bunch of trash bouncing down the highway starts cracking me up.
And yes, I realize that now I'm a square middle-aged man, all my crazy, rebellious fantasies deal with junior-league stuff like littering and flipping people off, but what do you expect? I'm reformed.
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Friday, October 17, 2014
Monday, July 30, 2012
Seller's Market
As I've mentioned before, I used to be a huge record collector. Years of accumulating and living in a small apartment with a wife whose fabric and bead collection seemed to multiply weekly made me think more and more about selling stuff off. Actually, as much as I liked finding and buying, I also liked letting stuff go,
culling my collection of stuff I hadn't listened to in a while, releasing my treats into the world in hopes that my efforts would result in
treats coming back to me.
Ebay was helpful with this - I sold records for awhile when I was getting rid of my vinyl and would make at least $100 each time I posted stuff. Through the luck of good timing, I was occasionally able to 'buy low and sell high,' unloading Sub Pop singles I bought for 3 or 4 bucks in college for $30 or so. Just like the housing bubble, those days are long gone. Also like the housing bubble, I have a nagging suspicion that I had something to do with causing it.
I felt I earned whatever money I got, after dealing with nit-picky questions, annoying cheapskates, and buyers who would flake out after winning, as well as standing in line at the post office and buying mailers and whatnot. And inevitably, even though it was posted over and over that I only shipped to North America, at least once each auction I'd get an email from the high bidder saying "How much to be shipping to Turkey."
Sure, I could stick to my guns, but money was money, and if selling to Balki could clear some stuff out of my house and make me some cabbage, then I was shipping to Turkey. Plus, I felt justified gouging him a bit for shipping to compensate for my pain and suffering.
As annoying as ebay buyers could be, however, they were nowhere near as aggravating, confusing and downright crazy as yard sale people, if only for the fact that yard sale people were actually yammering ridiculous questions at you in 3 dimensions, and you couldn't turn the computer off to make them disappear.
My ex-wife and I had a couple yard sales when we lived in Riverside. I think our apartment was near the center of prime yard sale happy hunting grounds or something, because we never did half as well once we moved to Murray Hill, where you'd think there would be more poor people looking to sift through our refuse.
We never put an ad in the paper, we'd just put up signs, which is where potential customers would first start harassing me. As I'd try to tape a sign to a cement post with a roll of wrapping tape, looking like Pee Wee taping up the reward flyer for his bike, people would yell questions at me from their cars. "Where is that?" What time do you open?" "What are you gonna have there?" I could understand their excitement, though. I mean, just look at me struggling with this sign. Why, anyone could see from my clothing and demeanor I was a man of wealth and taste. What valuables would I have waiting the next day? Used gold bars? Cursed antiques? Rare spices from the Orient?
Once crazy yard sale people see a sign and a starting time, they memorize that stuff, driving by an hour early, hoping we were setting up the gold dubloons extra early just for them. Actually, at that point, we were trying to figure out how to set up the card table and still putting price tags on everything. They'd still circle around in their old Cadillacs jammed full of treasures, just watching us. It was like being in a shark tank at feeding time.
If you want to see the strangest people in your community without visiting your local nut house or the public library, just set up a table and start selling your used stuff. Here's a conversation I had with a guy:
"You got any bookshelves for sale?"
"Nope. Had some earlier, though."
"Oh yeah? How tall were they?"
"I dunno...about 6 feet, I guess."
"How many shelves?"
"Like, five, I think."
"Were they wood or metal?"
"They were wood. But they're gone. Somebody bought them hours ago. Sorry."
"Hmmm...was it a dark wood or a light wood?"
Later that afternoon I had a guy haggle with me over a 26" TV/VCR I was selling for fifteen bucks. He wouldn't take my word that it worked, so I had to lug it upstairs and plug it in to demonstrate.
The whole time I'm thinking, "It's a TV for fifteen bucks. If it doesn't work, just turn it into a fishtank or drop it off a building or pretend you're Elvis and shoot the screen out. Hell, that's worth fifteen bucks in entertainment right there."
But I didn't say anything and let him take it away for ten bucks, since it kept me from lugging it back upstairs.
I don't have as much stuff to sell anymore, although if someone from like Africa or Haiti were to look at my treasures I'm sure they'd have a different opinion. Every once in a while I think about getting rid of some of it, either online or in person, but then my laziness and hermit-ish-ness kicks in, and I kick that thought out of my mind and drive it down to the Goodwill. Actually, I found that the Vietnam Vets will take the stuff right off your porch, and you don't have to even have to talk to another human being! What a wonderful time to be a lazy hermit with too much stuff!
Ebay was helpful with this - I sold records for awhile when I was getting rid of my vinyl and would make at least $100 each time I posted stuff. Through the luck of good timing, I was occasionally able to 'buy low and sell high,' unloading Sub Pop singles I bought for 3 or 4 bucks in college for $30 or so. Just like the housing bubble, those days are long gone. Also like the housing bubble, I have a nagging suspicion that I had something to do with causing it.
I felt I earned whatever money I got, after dealing with nit-picky questions, annoying cheapskates, and buyers who would flake out after winning, as well as standing in line at the post office and buying mailers and whatnot. And inevitably, even though it was posted over and over that I only shipped to North America, at least once each auction I'd get an email from the high bidder saying "How much to be shipping to Turkey."
Sure, I could stick to my guns, but money was money, and if selling to Balki could clear some stuff out of my house and make me some cabbage, then I was shipping to Turkey. Plus, I felt justified gouging him a bit for shipping to compensate for my pain and suffering.
As annoying as ebay buyers could be, however, they were nowhere near as aggravating, confusing and downright crazy as yard sale people, if only for the fact that yard sale people were actually yammering ridiculous questions at you in 3 dimensions, and you couldn't turn the computer off to make them disappear.
My ex-wife and I had a couple yard sales when we lived in Riverside. I think our apartment was near the center of prime yard sale happy hunting grounds or something, because we never did half as well once we moved to Murray Hill, where you'd think there would be more poor people looking to sift through our refuse.
We never put an ad in the paper, we'd just put up signs, which is where potential customers would first start harassing me. As I'd try to tape a sign to a cement post with a roll of wrapping tape, looking like Pee Wee taping up the reward flyer for his bike, people would yell questions at me from their cars. "Where is that?" What time do you open?" "What are you gonna have there?" I could understand their excitement, though. I mean, just look at me struggling with this sign. Why, anyone could see from my clothing and demeanor I was a man of wealth and taste. What valuables would I have waiting the next day? Used gold bars? Cursed antiques? Rare spices from the Orient?
Once crazy yard sale people see a sign and a starting time, they memorize that stuff, driving by an hour early, hoping we were setting up the gold dubloons extra early just for them. Actually, at that point, we were trying to figure out how to set up the card table and still putting price tags on everything. They'd still circle around in their old Cadillacs jammed full of treasures, just watching us. It was like being in a shark tank at feeding time.
If you want to see the strangest people in your community without visiting your local nut house or the public library, just set up a table and start selling your used stuff. Here's a conversation I had with a guy:
"You got any bookshelves for sale?"
"Nope. Had some earlier, though."
"Oh yeah? How tall were they?"
"I dunno...about 6 feet, I guess."
"How many shelves?"
"Like, five, I think."
"Were they wood or metal?"
"They were wood. But they're gone. Somebody bought them hours ago. Sorry."
"Hmmm...was it a dark wood or a light wood?"
Later that afternoon I had a guy haggle with me over a 26" TV/VCR I was selling for fifteen bucks. He wouldn't take my word that it worked, so I had to lug it upstairs and plug it in to demonstrate.
The whole time I'm thinking, "It's a TV for fifteen bucks. If it doesn't work, just turn it into a fishtank or drop it off a building or pretend you're Elvis and shoot the screen out. Hell, that's worth fifteen bucks in entertainment right there."
But I didn't say anything and let him take it away for ten bucks, since it kept me from lugging it back upstairs.
I don't have as much stuff to sell anymore, although if someone from like Africa or Haiti were to look at my treasures I'm sure they'd have a different opinion. Every once in a while I think about getting rid of some of it, either online or in person, but then my laziness and hermit-ish-ness kicks in, and I kick that thought out of my mind and drive it down to the Goodwill. Actually, I found that the Vietnam Vets will take the stuff right off your porch, and you don't have to even have to talk to another human being! What a wonderful time to be a lazy hermit with too much stuff!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Shoot the Piano Player
I have very few beliefs or ideals, but I do posses a great love of democracy. I am a true lover of the people. The elites can suck it.
This goes double for the arts. I think poor and middle-class people should have art and music supplies airlifted in regularly. Give it to them as a tax break. Besides, it will keep them occupied so they won't have the time or inclination to break into my pleasure compound.
Some of my favorite art and music has come from the untrained, the unschooled, people who just have a burning desire to express themselves and create something out of nothing.
Lately, however, this love for the common people and their artwork has taken a turn.
As part of some sort of city-wide program, two pianos have been moved into the library lobby. The idea is for people walking by to play them and express the beauty which lurks within their weather-beaten and cigarette-reeking fingers.
For the most part, people are actually playing or attempting to play songs, which is a nice surprise. I was envisioning lots of angry Hulk-inspired bashing, if not teams of our regulars pushing the wheeled pianos out the front door in a mad rush to the closest pawn shop.
So while the idea has been somewhat successful, it is telling that the people who birthed this idea are safely walled away far, far away from the actual pianos. Me, I work on the two floors where I'm constantly hearing pianos echo throughout the day.
Last weekend, someone plinked out the piano part to Elton John's Benny and the Jets for about an hour. I'm not a big Elton John fan in the best of times, other than that Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting song, when he actually put some rock music in that rock music of his, but hearing the same six notes over and over again in the course of an hour would make the most hard-core Elton John fan run for the exits. Since that day, I have had just about every Elton John song I know running on a constant loop in my head, taking up precious space that could be used for making coherent blog posts.
Not only am I starting to feel like I work in the perfume counter at a particularly low-rent mall, I'm starting to hate the piano in general. If Beethoven himself got on one of the pianos, backed up by Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Schroeder from Peanuts, I'd still want to set the thing on fire and dump it in the river.
Nobody seems to know when the pianos will be removed, but my love for music and artwork coming from regular people? That was removed several weeks ago.
This goes double for the arts. I think poor and middle-class people should have art and music supplies airlifted in regularly. Give it to them as a tax break. Besides, it will keep them occupied so they won't have the time or inclination to break into my pleasure compound.
Some of my favorite art and music has come from the untrained, the unschooled, people who just have a burning desire to express themselves and create something out of nothing.
Lately, however, this love for the common people and their artwork has taken a turn.
As part of some sort of city-wide program, two pianos have been moved into the library lobby. The idea is for people walking by to play them and express the beauty which lurks within their weather-beaten and cigarette-reeking fingers.
For the most part, people are actually playing or attempting to play songs, which is a nice surprise. I was envisioning lots of angry Hulk-inspired bashing, if not teams of our regulars pushing the wheeled pianos out the front door in a mad rush to the closest pawn shop.
So while the idea has been somewhat successful, it is telling that the people who birthed this idea are safely walled away far, far away from the actual pianos. Me, I work on the two floors where I'm constantly hearing pianos echo throughout the day.
Last weekend, someone plinked out the piano part to Elton John's Benny and the Jets for about an hour. I'm not a big Elton John fan in the best of times, other than that Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting song, when he actually put some rock music in that rock music of his, but hearing the same six notes over and over again in the course of an hour would make the most hard-core Elton John fan run for the exits. Since that day, I have had just about every Elton John song I know running on a constant loop in my head, taking up precious space that could be used for making coherent blog posts.
Not only am I starting to feel like I work in the perfume counter at a particularly low-rent mall, I'm starting to hate the piano in general. If Beethoven himself got on one of the pianos, backed up by Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Schroeder from Peanuts, I'd still want to set the thing on fire and dump it in the river.
Nobody seems to know when the pianos will be removed, but my love for music and artwork coming from regular people? That was removed several weeks ago.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Just Another Day at Work
First customer of the morning, to another librarian:
"I represent the black people, OK? My people? And the white people are always following me. I work for Farah and Farah, OK? I AM an attorney. You better contact your attorney and let them know they are going to be sued. Seriously. I work with the police in the park. I represent the homeless. Seriously. I graduated college at age 4."
"Oh yeah," asked the librarian. "What college?"
"It doesn't matter." Seriously, I come in to change clothes. I am an attorney. And you have people taking pictures. Smile, say cheese, click. You're sued! My daddy lives in Atlanta, Georgia. That's right, Atlanta. Seriously. And he's homeless by choice. I work for Farah and Farah and you will be sued. Call 1-800 fuck you."
I gotta win the lottery soon.
"I represent the black people, OK? My people? And the white people are always following me. I work for Farah and Farah, OK? I AM an attorney. You better contact your attorney and let them know they are going to be sued. Seriously. I work with the police in the park. I represent the homeless. Seriously. I graduated college at age 4."
"Oh yeah," asked the librarian. "What college?"
"It doesn't matter." Seriously, I come in to change clothes. I am an attorney. And you have people taking pictures. Smile, say cheese, click. You're sued! My daddy lives in Atlanta, Georgia. That's right, Atlanta. Seriously. And he's homeless by choice. I work for Farah and Farah and you will be sued. Call 1-800 fuck you."
I gotta win the lottery soon.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
An Actual Question I Got Today at the Reference Desk
So, uh...there was this movie...it had a girl in it...she had, like, a nose. I think it was a comedy...or a drama. Do you have that?
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Have You Heard About This New Trend, "Periodicals?" I Do Not Care For It
So I'm in line waiting to check out at the grocery store today. This guy behind me is whistling. Like, totally going to town on the whistling, like the Coltrane of the whistle or something. That's already somewhat annoying, but I let it slide, because of the holidays and all.
As I'm waiting I'm sort of absent-mindedly gazing over at the magazines by the counter. These aren't the Star and Weekly World News or anything, just normal people magazines, like Time and Martha Stewart and what have you. Whistlin' Slim behind me notices me looking at the magazines and says, "I don't know what's crazier, that people actually put this stuff out or that other people buy it."
As I'm waiting I'm sort of absent-mindedly gazing over at the magazines by the counter. These aren't the Star and Weekly World News or anything, just normal people magazines, like Time and Martha Stewart and what have you. Whistlin' Slim behind me notices me looking at the magazines and says, "I don't know what's crazier, that people actually put this stuff out or that other people buy it."
Thursday, April 2, 2009
You Old Fish-Eyed Fool
Last week at the library I notice this skinny youngish black guy with prominent five o'clock shadow wearing a floral print dress, cardigan, a short black wig from 1963 or so and house slippers. The outfit was clean and I really gotta give the guy props for the thought that went into it.
But one thing was bugging me. Who did this guy look like? I chewed this over all day until it finally hit me. Aunt Esther!
This guy was such a fan of Fred Sanford's nemesis on "Sanford and Son" that he assembled a whole outfit in homage to carry out his craziness for the day. Crazy Aunt Esther guy, we need more crazy people like you. Anyone can be a crazy guy in sweatpants and a T-shirt, but to really kick it up a notch, you gotta coordinate and think ahead.
And you know you've seen a bunch of craziness at work when you see a guy dressed up like Aunt Esther and the first thing you think isn't "Holy crap! That dude's dressed like a 1972 grandma," but "Huh. I wonder who that guy reminds me of."
But one thing was bugging me. Who did this guy look like? I chewed this over all day until it finally hit me. Aunt Esther!
This guy was such a fan of Fred Sanford's nemesis on "Sanford and Son" that he assembled a whole outfit in homage to carry out his craziness for the day. Crazy Aunt Esther guy, we need more crazy people like you. Anyone can be a crazy guy in sweatpants and a T-shirt, but to really kick it up a notch, you gotta coordinate and think ahead.
And you know you've seen a bunch of craziness at work when you see a guy dressed up like Aunt Esther and the first thing you think isn't "Holy crap! That dude's dressed like a 1972 grandma," but "Huh. I wonder who that guy reminds me of."
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Overheard Coming Home
Dude rummaging through garbage can: "Because I do not eat off the ground like an animal. LIKE A DOG, MISTER BIKE DRIVING WORK MAN!"
I didn't even realize I was in the conversation.
I didn't even realize I was in the conversation.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Overheard Walking to Lunch
Crazy guy to bored looking mailman:
"You ain't the only goddamn fish in the sea!"
This was only a few hours after I saw a guy dressed as a banana walking out of city hall:
"You ain't the only goddamn fish in the sea!"
This was only a few hours after I saw a guy dressed as a banana walking out of city hall:
Friday, May 2, 2008
Just Another Day at Work
I'm sitting at the desk in the abandoned fiction department. This guy (early 20s Black guy with glasses, clean and well dressed but a little off-looking) starts walking around in circles pressing a button on his cell phone over and over to make it beep.
Beep Beep finally makes it over to the desk.
Me: "You need some help?"
Beep: "You're asking that because I'm Black, right? So because I'm Black I need help?"
Beep Beep goes on like this for a couple seconds getting more agitated.
Me: "No, I asked if you needed help because you're standing under a sign that says 'ask here.'
That short-circuted him and he went to the back to read comic books.
Beep Beep finally makes it over to the desk.
Me: "You need some help?"
Beep: "You're asking that because I'm Black, right? So because I'm Black I need help?"
Beep Beep goes on like this for a couple seconds getting more agitated.
Me: "No, I asked if you needed help because you're standing under a sign that says 'ask here.'
That short-circuted him and he went to the back to read comic books.
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