Nothing too steamy here, I'm afraid.
But I indulge myself in this desire all the time. Really.
I like returning library books to the wrong library. Now, I'm not so cruel to skip-over to another library system, but we have at least half a dozen libraries in our own system. Take from library A, return to library B. Love it. Love to mix it up. It's a guilty, yet secret, desire.
Which person from your past, who you've lost touch with, do you wonder about the most?
Submitted by ancora impara.
His name rhymes with "Luck," and that's all I'll say.
I have a friend that has a "thing" for charge cards. No, he doesn't like to shop a lot... ever since he was young, and his mom let him borrow the department store charge card (Higbee's, was it?) he has loved those machines that you stick the card, the slip with carbon copies, and "cha-swish" with... I am not sure what the technical name is for this. But step back 15 years, and this was how credit cards were "impressed" at stores... the raised numbers on the card would show-through in the carbon copy, and that is how they got your number before magnetic strips.
I think he likes these things too much. It's almost like a fetish.
So, damned be him, that they now just swipe your card's magnetic strip. No large "cha-shwish" sound, no physical imprint.
So, he tells me that recently he drove out to the Apple store in Fresno to get his fresh copy of LEOPARD. The credit lines were down. He thought he drove for nothing.
"But Admiral!" he told me. "They brought out... those old-fashioned charge imprint machines! Oh buddy!"
I could just see him... as the Apple store, his favorite store, was inserting his Visa card in momentary bondage, and as it got pressed-against a sheet of paper, all close and squeezed like. "Cha-swish," cha-ching. He lost the grip on his pen... it slipped out... he was wet all over...
I am sure this copy of Leopard will be forever coveted... just for the old-school way he was able to buy it.
I have a weakness for stationery stores--everything from so-called "fancy" pens and papers, to your Staples or Office Max. Just looking at all the pencils and pens gives me a high.
N.B. While what I am about to share with you is true, and told in the first person, I am not the protagonist of this tale. I simply feel my own colleague’s experience is better told in the first person.
Compared to most, I guess, I travel more by plane than the average American. This past year, I’ve left the country twice, both on pleasure trips, and I’ve had the fortune of traveling for my job, to various cities for conferences. While I used to relish in all travel, of late, I have developed a more home-body attitude. In part, of course, for experiences like this one.
I was in Boston, on the east coast, for a conference, and wasn’t looking forward at all to the trip back west to California. If I were blessed, the plane would take off on time, make great time going west, and be half-full. I was instead damned, with a late plane, fully stuffed with passengers, among them a high school-age soccer team. I always choose the window, and was seated first in my row, upon our late embarkation. Yet, I got two Asian teens in my row, complete with the requisite team jerseys. I knew they were a part of this troupe headed back home. Many of these kids were loud, and were shouting to one another as the sky-waitress took forever to seal the plane shut. If it wasn’t an airport catastrophe that made us late, then it was getting all these loud, spirited kids quiet and seated in the right places. I thought then I was fortunate, at least, as the two sitting next to me only conversed with one another, and in reasonable tones.
I ached to put in my headphones, and dial up my iPod to some spirited performances of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. Instead, I babysat myself with the airline’s own magazine, that had already served as a coffee coaster for another passenger, and for another, as entertainment. An article had been removed, and the soduku puzzles were complete. As one skywaitress passed, I asked for a pillow, which I shamelessly buried my head into, thereafter, pressed against the window. I was quickly falling into a state of pure agony.
To be blunt, something stunk. It was a human stink, for sure, someone on this plane smelled, it was getting stronger, and we hadn’t yet even taken off. Thinking I might smell the air around me in an informal self-test to ascertain whether it was getting better or worse, I turned and looked down at the guy next to me. He pulled out a small white box, covered in some sort of psuedo-leather material, from his bag, stowed underneath the seat in front of him. It was decorated with gold leaf decorations, with a dragon. I relished in this object, I wondered what was inside, and no doubt it was at this time when I must have first thought of telling my friend about the box this boy had.
He opened it up, the other boy next to him unaware, with his head cocked back in a napping position. Inside was a plastic liner, and filled nearly to the brim of this box, was a white, powdery substance. “White powder?” I mouthed to myself, as I secretly watched him manage this box in his hand, exploring its interior. To my surprise, he plunged his fingers in the powder, and placed several pinches-worth on his tongue. As he replaced the top of the box, I realized at once two profound things. First, this powder had a strong, acrid smell. Was it sulfur based? And two, this boy stunk. He didn’t smell like his powder, mind you, but like stinky boy.
Perhaps a stinky boy who had shat his pants.
I turned back quickly, ready to wretch, and once again buried my face, nose first, into the airline-provided pillow. The sky-waitress had returned, telling me to put my seat up all the way, as we’d be taking off. As the plane did finally reach the runway and accelerate upwards, I never looked once. I just knew that sweaty stinky teenagers were around me, making me sick, and one had just ingested some odd white powder.
I couldn’t hold back. I forcefully ripped my head away from its sanctuary and filter, and looked at the guy next to me. He wasn’t sweaty. But he did stink. Didn’t his friend notice? Both were unaware of my stares, heads cocked back, and away from me, with eyes closed. I took my opportunity to move the air vents in their direction. Why? I was trying to push the vile smell away from me.
An hour into the flight, the guy on the aisle was getting cold. He woke up, shivered, and cut-off the vent. Damn him and his stinky friend. When he found himself re-positioned, I once again turned on the vent, and pointed it in his direction. These nozzles were pushing air full force at him and his friend, away from me. Just as I was about satisfied with the airflow situation, the sky-waitress came by with drinks.
Aisle guy complained to her. “This plane is cold! I can’t turn this vent off.” She smiled at him, and twisted it off. “Just twist!” she said, and moved on to another row. Bitch. Both were now awake, talking, vents off, and stinking up the plane like 3-week old garbage.
I’m sorry, yes, he’s a human being. But a stinky one. I was getting sick. Once they finished their Cokes, I pushed my way out without excuse, and headed towards the lavatories. Ah! “Clean air!” I said aloud, as I let myself into one toilet, and shortly thereafter, splashed my face with water.
When I came back, I made a deal to sit in the aisle. Stinky was now 2 seats away. But he also buried his stinky hair and face into my pillow. I guess I didn’t need it back. Then he reached again for his bag, and after moving it, took out the mysterious white powder in a box, again. He hate more powder, and washed it down with melted ice from his drink.
“What is that?!” I heard screaming in my head. I never found out.
I could still smell the stench. It was bad. It was nastier than you might imagine, waves of hit hitting you, hot, and each time, slightly spicier and nastier. Soon the two were nodding off, and I returned to my fine-tuning of the vents. It helped, I wagered, but not by much. I accidently hit the sky-waitress switch in moving the vents. She came over, and I turned it off.
“Sir, did you need a blanket?” “No,” I said, but then quickly thought aloud: “What I need… is a new seat.” “A new seat? What’s wrong with the one you have, sir?” “Well,” I stammered, “Could I speak to you privately?” I said as I looked back upon the two guys.
I got out of my seat, and walked down a couple rows with the sky-waitress evil-eyeing me. “What sir?” she asked, impatient. She didn’t fly no friendly skies.
“The guy sitting in this row… he stinks!”
“Stinks?” she said, eyeing me with even more suspicion.
“I’m getting sick, listen… Barbara. That’s your name? The guy sitting next to me… or the one that’s now against the window… has shat something super nasty in here, and I am about to wretch-up alla dramatico into one of your so-called air sick bags!” Before I could continue, she said:
“Well, no one would want to sit next to someone who… stinks. Please, this is your assigned seat, make do.” She pushed past me (agh!) and looked back to survey my reaction. She shrugged her shoulders at me, as if to say “Sit down, tough luck, you suck.” I never got moved, I held my nose a lot, finally doing it obnoxiously when turning next to the guy who now occupied the stinky seat. He gave no sign that he too recognized the great stink of 2007.
As I deplaned in San Francisco, I had convinced myself that was the worst airplane stink incident known to man. My wife swore she could smell stink too, as I retold her about my experience, on the way home. The question remains: was it that powder that made him stink so? And how did his friend stand it?
I recently read an interesting thread at Chowhound. It's premise is this:
If you're undercharged on a restaurant bill, do you alert the staff regarding the mistake?
Most everyone who has posted there of late has agreed to alert the waiter/waitress about the mistake. Yet, I disagree.
I think when you walk into a merchant's business, it's you against them. They have set the prices and policies of how business will work. In a market-driven economy, my goal is to get the most service/product for the lowest buck. Trust me, they are playing this game long before the storefront goes up, or the food gets served.
One example was the Gap. Free socks? No, but I look at the sale rack first, before the new stuff offered at full price. Most Gap shoppers know... wait 2 months, and the high-priced stuff will be on the sale rack.
As agenets of the business, waiters and waitresses have several important duties. One, make the customer happy, but also to be accurate in their service. This includes putting the right plates in front of the right diner, and presenting an accurate bill. I know, I know, you'll say, the job is tough. The pay low. I'm not talking here about tips. I'm talking about the accuracy of the bill.
If you don't do the bill right, I don't think the onus is on the customer to correct the mistake.
I do not disagree, either, with leaving a larger tip if a mistake is made. But I'm sorry; they have one chance to get it right. And if it benefits me, great. If not, if there's a mistake that needs correction in my direction, I have one chance to make it right by complaining. I am the customer, remember. I'm a VIP in every business I visit.
And if I don't feel like a VIP, then, I'll go somewhere else where I am made to feel like one.
In the one example cited, they mention getting free dessert. This is what should happen, I feel, if you're honest. But too many of the examples cited do not mention getting some "reward" for honesty.
So to summarize. I do not feel it is necessary to point out mistakes in favor of the customer. That is the sole responsibility of the business to establish the rules of the way they charge/do business, and as agents of their business, that sole responsibility of presenting an accurate bill lies with the server.
If you're astute enough to recognize you got a deal, then great. If it bothers you, give a nice tip. And if you're too dumb to notice they short-changed you, then, too bad for you. But in a market economy, I think when an advantage presents itself, it's your right to take advantage of it. It's business.
If I instead had a personal relationship with the business owner, or server, I might play the cards differently. But let's face it, in most restaurants, I'm just a customer.
My mother had computer issues last night-today. She calls me early this morning, asking about their "slow computer." We determined she had disc errors... so I told her to try to fix it from the UNIX command line; when that didn't work, she ran the hardware CD.
She later admits she doesn't have a good surge protector, and the power goes out often with summer storms. Great.
So, I leave her be... and call her later when I'm at the grocery. "Mom, what all goes into gazpacho? I'm making it."
She was not in a good mood.
"I dont know. Tomatoes, I think."
"Yeah, professor, I have those... onion, garlic... a chile pepper... what else? I can't put in sherry..."
"I don't know John. Listen, I ran the hardware test and it said it was the software."
"No it didn't," I returned.
"Yes, it did."
"No, it didn't. It never says "it was the software," so what did it really say?"
There was a pause as I was getting my prosciutto.
"It said the hardware was fine," she added.
"Aha, so it wasn't the "software" it just said the hardware was okay..."
"Yes."
"Ok... well, re-install OS X again, and wipe the drive clean; it may help if the drive wasn't physically damaged."
"I have to wait. We have another storm now."
"Did you unplug the computer?"
"No."
I now rolled my eyes.
These things would be so much easier to fix if she lived near-by.
The other exchange we had was over "AppleCare," their extended warranty program. I never got it on a desktop, but I did this last time around, as my G5 tower has a liquid cooled processor core.
I suggested my parents get it. You have a year after you buy the machine to buy the extra coverage.
"Did you buy the AppleCare?"
"No."
"Why not? I told you to."
"We didn't buy it, OKAY."
Then I rubbed it in. "Well, if you have to get the drive replaced, you're going to have to drive down to the mall and carry it in."
"WE can't do that. I don't want your dad to strain himself."
"So, if you had the AppleCare, they overnight you a box; you put the computer in, and it goes to them... and in 2 days, you get a working computer."
"How much does that cost?"
"Nothing; it's part of the AppleCare service."
"Why don't we have that?"
"You're cheap. I gotta go, Mom..."
I just read something online that piqued my interest. It was the "about" page, or more formally, a "mystory" page about a 27-year old blogger.
He talked about going to therapy, goals for life, etc.
And before this I listened/watched a YouTube! video of Bach played by Glenn Gould.
Now I'm listening to Glenn on my hi-fi, thinking about the reading. The music talks to you.
Some years ago I wrote a long letter to my mother, and in that letter, I mentioned that the music spoke to me. Not like "Kill the guy down the hall, now!" so to say, not in a demonic, eerie type of way. But music (specifically here, the music of Bach) spoke of truths. I have abandoned that thought, until again, tonight.
I guess the music is so good that we might let ourselves believe whatever drifts into our minds.
But imagine if you will, if this piece of music (one of the WTC played by Gould) were a sage, a visitor, or a therapist. Yes, it's not speaking English. But through Gould's interpretation, it is in fact conveying a type of human communication - a message - and while abstract, it is rich in what it says.
I think I like to contemplate my lot in life with music like this. The music, perhaps tells me how well or not I am doing.
What makes me so sad about this reflection is how solitary this exercise is. For all the things I wish for in life, from the material, to the gustatory, to whatever else, I wish I could share this experience of attempting understanding of this divine music with someone else. I sometimes dream about what it would be like to sit, side by side, and talk about what is being said--or suggested--within the music.
Or maybe Glenn's sing-along is just giving me some bad vibes.
How odd it was to get a call from my father the other day. At 9:50 PM at night, no less.
"Has mom died?"
"What?!"
"You're calling me. Has mom died? Is she sick?"
"No."
"Oh."
Awkward silence.
"Hey, listen, turn on channel 6... there's a good jazz program about to start I think you'll like."
Hmm. Certainly my dad isn't referring to the "Golf" channel.
"Dad, that won't work. Channel numbers are different here."
"What? No, just turn to Channel 6."
"I won't. What channel are you watching?"
"6!"
"That's not helping me. That's the GOLF CHANNEL here. What channel are you watching?"
"God damnit, I don't know. [Pause]. It's the channel that has concerts and stuff on at night."
I looked up at the ceiling, perhaps, looking for guidance from God. But my dad just damned him, so there would be none of that.
"Are talking... Bravo, Ovation, PBS???"
"WXYZ something!" he shouted.
"OK, dad. That's a local channel there in Florida. I don't have that here. I'm sorry."
"It's the god-damned channel that they ask you for money on.. you know... give us money, yadda, yadda."
Yadda, yadda. My dad loved Seinfeld.
"Ok, that sounds like PBS. PBS?"
"I don't know, come on... help me out here."
Help you? So I turn to our two PBS channels while still on the phone.
"Ok, on one channel they have a news program, and on another, an exposé on Rumsfeld.
"No no, look for the one with the jazz concert."
Knowing I couldn't, I just sat there on the line.... empty... silence. It grew uncomfortable after a minute.
"Ok then, I'll let you watch the program... nice pictures of the new car mom sent, by the way."
This started a long conversation about his new car, where he somehow revealed he would have preferred the Lexus, even though he had 10 reasons why the Cadillac he bought was superior.
"They even have this ON STAR to unlock the doors if you leave your keys inside."
"Oh, that's great. Have you EVER locked your keys inside the car, Dad?"
Pause. "No."
"Okay, then... "
"But the Lexus doesn't have that, haha..."
I paused myself. "Yes, dad, but the Lexus has an intelligent key that prevents locking the door when the key is inside."
Another pause.
"Bye," he said, and that was that.
Why is it, tell me, that there is an innate desire to grill food on Father's Day?
I communicated with my father today, who granted, has no other children... and he's alone there, far away with mom, and he's going to grill.
What is it with Father's Day and grilling? Does somehow having children, and then honoring your achievement of making a child, call for grilling meats and vegetables over a hot heat source, outdoors?
What do mother's do on Mother's Day? Sew? Bake? No, there's no strong association of what to do that is motherly. But fatherly behavior seems to call for grilling.
And I don't understand it.
