Mike's Tales of Woe

He Said What?

2009-10-14T20:46:00.001-07:00

The following story is one that I’ve been recounting to my friends lately, so I figured I would add it here. It came into my mind for the first time in many years for reasons unknown…

From ages sixteen through eighteen, while attending high school in central Pennsylvania, I worked at a multiplex movie theater. I began my illustrious career at the theater, or theatre as the marquee said, as an usher. I tore your tickets, I cleaned up your messes, and I pocketed any and all loose currency I found on the sticky theater floors. It was a decent job for a high school junior.

I also met my first girlfriend at the theater. She was a co-worker of mine from a different high school. Our relationship ended disastrously as I think I mentioned previously in another tale, but at the time, things were swell.

At some point in time, a new usher was hired. This usher, however, was different from the rest of us. His name was Peter. Peter was about 40 I would say, with brown and balding hair, and brilliant blue eyes. He was also, unfortunately, confined to an electric wheelchair and was mentally slow. His speech was quiet and mumbley; and his hands were unsteady when he tore the tickets, which was all his job required—none of the cleaning duties were ever given to Peter.

Peter always had a man helping him out. I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember him pulling me aside one day and telling me Peter’s tragic story: Peter was a normal child until about the age of ten when he was struck by a car and left with irreparable brain damage. It was hard not to feel sorry for Peter.

Peter, at first, was reserved and said little. But as time passed, he became more comfortable with us employees and would tease us and joke around. He also liked to talk up the female workers. Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, complimentary fashion.

One day, according to my then girlfriend Audrey, Peter was talking to her. Their conversation went something like this:

“You look nice today,” Peter said.

“Thank you, Peter. That’s nice of you to say.” Audrey said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she said. “You know him. He works here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know, Mike.” And Audrey described me to Peter.

Then, unbelievably, Peter said, “Oh, him? You can do much better!”

Ouch.

My Troubles with Tires (Part III)

2009-10-06T22:15:00.001-07:00

If you aren’t already aware of my ongoing battle with my car’s tires, then read the following previous posts: My Troubles with Tires (Part I) and My Trouble with Tires (Part II).

So, after replacing literally every one of my car’s four tires, the cruel hand of fate decided to play yet another tire joke on yours truly…

It was a Friday afternoon. I had worked all day, and was looking forward to going home. My coworkers and I left the building at 5pm. But then, as I approached my car, I noticed the driver’s-side rear tire looked a little low. At first, I thought it was a trick of some kind, a mirage, a product of my imaginative faculties. Surely, the air in the tire was just a little low! Certainly I didn’t have yet another flat tire!

But, my friends, the tire was flat. There was no way I could drive on it. I shook my head, incredulous. I turned around and walked toward my coworker D___. Guess what? I said, and I told her I had a flat. She, being privy to this blog and my other tire woes, was in disbelief. Then my boss L___ approached. I told her, yes, I have another flat tire. And L___ being privy to this blog and my other tire woes…laughed.

Normally, I am a man of good humor, but at this moment in time, I found it hard to laugh along with L___. Some time later, after I removed the flat, I noticed that I had not one but two nails jammed in the tread. Some guys have all the luck.

But wait! I said to myself later when I went to the tire shop. Surely, those two nail holes could be plugged! Certainly I wouldn’t have to buy yet another new tire! But, alas, the one nail hole was too close to the edge of the tread, and yet another new tire (number five?) was bought.

Woe is me.

Let’s Get Ready to Rumble

2009-09-30T21:45:00.001-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates recently. I wish I had some kind of awesome excuse for why I haven’t updated this blog in a few months, but I don’t. Honestly, I’m just lazy.

I have a younger brother, and as kids we fought all the time. No big deal really. A few inept punches thrown (few landed), perhaps a wimpy kick or two, and a lot of rolling around on the ground. But there comes a time in almost every young man’s life when he has to engage in a fight with someone who isn’t his brother (or sister, for that matter). Some young men actually yearn to engage in fisticuffs with another person and relish the idea of beating the crap out of someone. Then there are those who fear fighting. Intensely. As a short, underweight kid with braces and glasses, I was one of those kids.

One afternoon after school—I guess I was in 5th or 6th grade—myself and three friends got together to play a game of backyard football. There was Dave, Justin, Adam, and myself. Now, at one point during the game, Dave and Justin got into an argument. I don’t remember what they argued about. All I know is that they ended up rolling around in the grass together. No punches were thrown, just two dudes rolling around on the ground. Adam and I watched together and laughed. How ridiculous! we thought.

Then, Adam looked at me, smiled, and asked: “Hey, do you want to rumble?” (Yes, he said “rumble.”)

Judging by Adam’s smile, I assumed he was joking, so I said, “Sure.”

Next thing I knew, Adam had put me in some kind of hold to keep me from moving. I squirmed around a bit and managed to break free. I turned and looked at Adam. He was no longer smiling. He looked serious. Surely he wasn’t expecting us to really fight, was he? But before I could make any sense of what was going on, Adam squared up and punched me right in the eye. (Remember, I was wearing glasses). I hit the ground like a sack of dirt. Adam stood over me.

“What the hell?” I managed to say.

“Asshole,” Adam said.

Completely dumbfounded, I stood up, covered my eye with my fingers and told Dave I was going home. Walking home, I thought, was that a fight? Was that my first fight? I didn’t even know it was a fight! Had I known, I would’ve at least tried not to get punched in the eye. But, alas, that’s what happened. And it suddenly occurred to me that come the next school day, Adam would tell everyone how he punched poor me in the eye and how I did nothing and just went home. And that, my friends, is exactly what he did.

Oh, Never Mind

2009-06-24T19:07:00.001-07:00

In my sophomore year of college I was single. Just like my freshman year…and my junior year…and my senior year. Now, this wasn’t for lack of trying, but I just seemed to have bad luck when it came to the ladies during college (or any other time for that matter). Here’s a typical example…

I met a girl on the train during one of my trips back to Mechanicsburg. She was my friend’s roommate, and for the life of me, I can’t remember her name (Kathy? Kate? Kat?). Anyway, she was a moderately attractive redhead, who seemed moderately interested in what I had to say during that train ride despite the fact that I was a longhaired, beret-wearing (I wish I were joking), film-student doofus.

I never saw much of this girl after that train ride, except for a few random passing-bys in the dormitory and on campus. But when the new semester started, I saw her, much to my surprise, in my Eastern Philosophy class. We would talk occasionally, but not too often because this was an early morning class and she was either usually late, asleep, or absent all together.

One time during the semester, I noticed that she missed two classes in a row. My brain quickly worked up a plan. I would approach her after class, ask if she needed notes from the classes she missed, and then maybe work up the nerve to ask her out.

The next time the class met, she was there. I meant to get her attention after class, but she somehow exited before I could say anything. So, I followed her. Then, just before I got up the nerve to approach her, it happened. A tall, jock-looking guy in track pants waved at her. She saw him, smiled, ran into his arms, and planted a big kiss on his lips. So much for my plans at romance.

Oh, and just for the record, I don’t consider this a total tale of woe only because I luckily managed to avoid asking a girl out who already had a boyfriend, which is much worse. How do I know? Because in my lifetime, I’ve managed to ask out three different girls who, unbeknownst to me, were already dating someone. And that’s much more embarrassing for all involved.

Dancing Machine—Part II

2009-06-16T07:40:00.001-07:00

Here’s another example of why I don’t like clubs…

So, once again two of my female friends (the same ones from Dancing Machine) dragged me to a club, this time a club in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Once again, off the top of my head, I can’t remember the name of the club, which gives you an indication of the impression it left on me. At any rate, at this point in the evening, I was tired of dancing and was leaning against the wall in a darkened section of the club, drinking a beer.

From where I was standing, I could still see my two friends dancing. This club, if I recall correctly, had these platforms (with vertical bars) interspersed throughout the club where only girls were allowed to dance. Kind of cage-like, I guess. Anyway, while I was watching my friends from afar, I saw an African-American gentleman in oversized clothes approach my then-ex-girlfriend, who was still in one of those cage things.

This guy started chatting up my friend, which was fine with me, but then my friend starting pointing in my direction as if to say, “I’m here with him.” Now, technically, I was there with her, but not in any kind of romantic capacity, so I was kind of annoyed that I was being singled out. Leave me out of it, I probably thought. Anyway, the guy stepped away from my friend for a moment but then returned moments later with what appeared to be a piece of paper and a pen.

He approached my friend again and was ready to either get her number or give her his own. Again, my friend pointed me out to the guy as if to say, “No thanks, I’m here with him.” Yes, me. The short, wimpy guy standing in a dark corner looking totally uninterested in what is going on. So, this guy gives me a strange, smug look then proceeds to write his information on the piece of paper before handing it to my friend as if to say, “Who? That guy? Whatever…here’s my digits, baby.”

What the fuck? If I was my friend’s date, this guy’s move would have been a total slap in the face. At this point, I had a vague urge to throw my beer bottle at this guy or at least the crowd in general and run for my life. But instead I probably just sighed, took a sip of my beer, and tried to look inconspicuous.

Stupid clubs.

Dancing Machine

2009-06-10T06:02:00.001-07:00

Many thanks to my artist friend A. Declet for contributing the awesome original picture for this blog post...

I rarely go to clubs. In fact, I don’t ever think I’ve initiated a club visit, rather I am usually dragged to a club by one of my female friends much to my chagrin. And I’ll give you one example here of why I don’t like clubs…

Two of my female friends, one of them being my then-ex-girlfriend, came to visit me while I was living in Philadelphia. And I got dragged to a club (the name of said club escapes me). Now, if I were left to my own devices, I would have stood in the darkest corner of the club, the one closest to the exit, and drank beer. My friends, however, wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and they made me dance with them, which I have to admit, wasn’t all bad. Now, I’m no dancer, but I had a decent time getting down, boogying, and cutting a rug with my two female friends.

Then, at the end of the night, a large, African-American gentleman pulled my ex-girlfriend aside and started talking to her. He was obviously some kind of bodybuilder, wearing a tight-fitting white shirt with a giant silver cross on his necklace, his muscles bulging. In other words, his physical appearance was the exact opposite of mine: short, skinny, white, and generally secular.

Anyway, after my ex-girlfriend removed herself from conversation with this large gentleman, I asked her what he had said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “He asked me who I was here with, and I pointed to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Him? Man, that’s so messed up!’”

Yeah, I don’t like clubs.

Epic Woe – Part VI

2009-03-13T10:01:00.001-07:00

For the foreseeable future, this is the last installment of my Epic Woe series. Though I had planned to add a few more parts to finish out the tale, I put the tale on hiatus because I was getting hammered by the real life "Carla's" friends for writing about her. Good grief. Perhaps in time I will resume the tale, but for now, enjoy Part VI and all the preceding tales...

To read Part V, please click here. To read Part I, click here.

Sunday, February 26, 2006. I awoke early. I called my parents and spoke to them, calmly. About an hour later I called them again, now upset. I called them once more, this time from the psychiatric division of the Los Angeles County Hospital.

I’m sure one day I’ll blog about my weeklong stay in two psychiatric hospitals, but I’ll spare you the awful (and sometimes hilarious) details for now. Not surprisingly, the doctors diagnosed me with major depressive disorder (see ‘Depression’ at the National Institute of Mental Health Website), and I spent a week under psychiatric supervision/evaluation.

Carla came to visit me in the hospital, and my feelings for her deepened. And when she couldn’t visit me in person, I would plug quarters into the payphones every day just to hear her voice.

When I got out of the hospital, things were far from good, but Carla and I were nervously entertaining the idea of starting a relationship. Obviously, we both had our reservations: she was still hurt by her painful breakup with Roscoe, and I was, well, kind of crazy. Nevertheless, we spoke or saw each other daily (I had lost my insurance job due to my extended absence), and Carla provided me with some of the happiest moments in my life after leaving the hospital.

There was another major problem, however. No matter how much it felt like Carla and I were already in a relationship and did most of things that everyone in a relationship does together, she wouldn’t concede that we were actually in a relationship.

“I’m not ready,” she said.

“I understand that,” I said, “just be honest with me, though. If you don’t want to be in a relationship with me, just say so.”

I had the creeping feeling that I was being jerked around, but no matter what I did or said, Carla convinced me that she just wasn’t ready to be in a relationship. I believed her. I was wrong.

Baseball, a Blade of Grass, and my Uvula

2009-05-24T08:12:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, man, did I love baseball! Loved everything about it. I studied stats for hours. I stared at pictures of great players. I collected baseball cards. I dreamed of playing baseball, dreamed of the sound of the ball smacking an oiled mitt, the crack of a bat, the cheers.

Unfortunately, when it came to actually playing baseball, I stunk. I was so small I could barely hold the bat off my back shoulder. My swing was awkward, as was my gait around the base path. I couldn’t catch for a damn, either. And despite hours of practice with my usually impatient father, I wasn’t getting any better. However, my father and I persisted. Take that boy out of right field, we dreamed! Put him at the top of the order! Let him smack a few dingers over that chain-link fence!

One afternoon while my family was visiting my grandparents in New Jersey, my dad took me out into the backyard for some baseball practice. That day's lesson: learning how to dodge an errant pitch. Now, despite the fact that I rarely connected with the ball, I still got on base frequently, mostly due to the fact that the pitchers were wild and my strike zone was practically nonexistent. But I was getting hit by a lot of pitches. And to make matters worse, I usually cried after I got beaned; and that was embarrassing for all involved.

So, there I was in the backyard, my bat on my shoulder, dodging pitches from my father thrown intentionally at my person. Now, around this time I had the strange penchant for placing a blade of grass in between my lips and occasionally chewing on it. I guess this was my substitute for chewing tobacco or sunflower seeds. Anyway, my dad threw a wild pitch, which headed straight for my helmetless head. I jerked away, stumbled, and fell on the grass. It just so happened that when I hit the ground, I managed to swallow that blade of grass in between my lips. Except, I soon realized due to a peculiar scratching in my throat, that I didn’t completely swallow the grass. In fact, as I soon realized upon going inside and looking in the mirror, that the blade of grass was stuck, yes stuck, to my uvula (usually referred to by many as “that hangey thing in the back of your throat”).

And no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the grass unstuck. I tried drinking copious amounts of water. I tried eating and swallowing excessively. I even tried to pull it out with my fingers, but, of course, this proved impossible because doing so made me gag. Unbelievable, my family collectively groaned. Another embarrassment, another baseball failure.

Ultimately, I had to go to our family doctor who, after proclaiming he had never seen anything like it, took out a pair of lengthy tweezers and effortlessly removed the blade of grass from my uvula.

I never did get any better at baseball, and I hung up my cleats for good after one last embarrassing season where I batted a mean .000 (yes, I never actually got a hit).

P.S. Go Phillies!

Archive Page

2009-05-15T23:45:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends! Just a quick note to say that I added an Archive page to the blog. To see it, just click on the "Archive" link below the red header at the top of this page.

In the archive you'll find links to all my tales of woe along with a brief synopsis for each tale. Enjoy!

Car Crash #2 (Almost)

2009-05-13T08:54:00.001-07:00

Andy liked to drive fast. Always. I was in the passenger seat as Andy sped down a stretch of Good Hope Road in his second car (we were only seventeen): a used, coffee-colored hatchback. It was gray and sunless outside, a bone-chilling Pennsylvania winter afternoon. I clutched at my door handle and stiffened in fear.

“Is my driving scaring you?” Andy asked with a smile.

“No, it’s cool,” I stammered.

I peeked at the speedometer—70mph. We were on a narrow, woods-flanked road with a speed limit of 35mph. Fortunately, I guess, cops rarely patrolled this stretch of road because there was nowhere for them to hide. On our right was a steep, wooded and weed-choked embankment; on our left a steel guardrail and some houses on stilts.

As luck would have it, we soon approached a slow-moving car from behind. Too treacherous to pass, Andy merely cursed the presumably (to Andy) female-driven car:

“God, I can’t believe this bitch!” Andy said.

Inwardly, I sighed with relief as Andy slowed his car. But then, a side road appeared on the right, and Andy punched the gas and made a wild right turn. He laughed as we bounded up the steep hill.

“Jesus,” I said. “You drive like a maniac.”

“I know,” he said, and laughed again. “I’ve never gotten a ticket, though. I’ve wrecked twice, but I’ve never gotten a ticket.”

Seconds later, Andy took a sharp left turn and we drove over a short bridge. Now, for those of you not accustomed to colder climates, bridges usually freeze before the rest of the road (see HowStuffWorks for an explanation). Now on this day, the roads were fine, but this bridge was icy as all get out.

Immediately, Andy’s car fishtailed and the car swerved to the left. Through the front windshield, I could see us headed directly towards a guardrail. I shut my eyes. Andy grabbed the wheel and spun it in the opposite direction. We swerved again; now I was looking at a tree. Andy spun the wheel again—I thought I was going to come out of my seat and I swear at certain moments I could somehow see out the back window. Now I was looking at a telephone pole. We served again and this time we reached the grass alongside of the road where we faced a row of about seven mailboxes. In my mind’s eye I envisioned Andy’s car mowing down all seven mailboxes, sending them spinning into the air before we sped off and never looked back.

Fortunately, however, Andy somehow managed to stop the car back in the middle of the road, perpendicular to traffic. We sat in silence for a few seconds, catching our breath. Then I started laughing. I doubled over in laughter. I thought I was going to throw up.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” Andy said. He punched me in the arm.

“Stop! Stop!” I said, still laughing, envisioning what it would have been like to see Andy’s car swerve back and forth across that road.

Finally, I stopped laughing. “Jesus,” Andy said, “That was fucking ridiculous.” And we drove home.

Car Crash #1

2009-05-06T09:14:00.001-07:00

It' seems to me that almost everyone has a good car crash story. Fortunately, I’ve never caused a car wreck myself, but I’ve been in a few. This one happened back when I was a mere sixteen-year-old on a rainy Friday night in Pennsylvania…

I didn’t have my license yet, but my friend Chris (same guy from "That was Awkward"), who was also sixteen, had just gotten his license recently. He picked me up from my parents’ house in his blue Oldsmobile, which had many amusing quirks, one of them being that you could take the key out of ignition while the engine was running. Yeah, that’s safe.

We were on our way to the local movie theater when it started to rain. Now, Chris was never that great of a driver, but he was especially inept when it came to driving in areas that he wasn’t familiar with. So, we drove down Orrs Bridge road, which curves sharply to the right just before you go over a short

bridge. Chris, not being familiar with this particular stretch of road, took the turn a little fast, fast enough for me to brace myself and say, “Whoah, dude!”

We made the turn but the car slid over the center line and smashed almost head on into an oncoming car. After the impact, we sat in the car, silent, for a few moments before Chris said, “Man, accidents suck.” From that point on, Chris and I for some reason could not stop laughing. We laughed as we exited the car. We laughed as we realized the three people in the other car were safe. We laughed when we realized that we knew the other driver—a girl from our high school class, who was in tears. And we even laughed when the cop showed up. Now, this wasn’t a very “funny” moment per say, but our laughter probably came from a source of relief or nervousness. It also didn’t help that Chris was wearing shorts, sandals, and a pair of outrageous rainbow-striped, knee-high toe socks for some reason. “Man,” he said, looking down, “why did I wear these socks?”

As Chris went over things with the police officer, and as the other driver and her two guy friends regained their composure, I picked up a piece of Chris’s bumper from the side of the road, a memento from car crash number one.

Embarrassing Moments – Acne Disaster

2009-04-24T09:18:00.001-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates; I’ve been busy with school. Please enjoy this third tale in my trilogy of embarrassing moments!

Back in high school, I had a bit of an acne problem. Sure, most high-schoolers have their share of zit troubles, but I of course fell into some unique class of pimple-faced puberty that required prescription drugs to combat my sebaceous, eruptive skin (mostly about the face). I tried numerous prescription drugs and topical creams but to no avail. Eventually, a dermatologist had to prescribe me a drug called Accutane. For those of you unfamiliar with Accutane, it’s pretty much the last-resort, end-all-be-all of acne drugs. It’s powerful stuff that more or less much halts oil production in your skin. It cleared up my acne damn well, but in the process, the drug left me dry as a desert. I was constantly applying lip balm to my chapped lips and lotion to keep my face from flaking off. The stuff even dried out the inside of my nose, for which I used to spray up my nostrils some kind of salty spray less I suffer unpredictable nose bleeds.

At any rate, despite being a crater face (with low self esteem to boot) I somehow managed to have a steady girlfriend. So, one night, as per usual on our dates, we watched a movie (VHS, of course) in my parents’ basement and then ended up making out with each other on the couch. On this particular occasion, my girlfriend was lying on her back while I kissed her ineptly from above.

Suddenly, my nose began to run. No time for that! I merely sniffed and all was well—for the moment. Then my nose ran again; and again I sniffed. But I couldn’t seem to hold whatever it was in my nose back. I kept kissing…I sniffed again…I sniffed again. Finally, I pulled back away from my girlfriend, opened my eyes and saw, oh the horror, that my nose was bleeding and blood was all over my girlfriend’s face.

“Oh, shit,” I said and covered my nose with my hand.

“What?” she asked.

“Um…” I muttered.

I don’t remember how I told her that I had bled all over her face, which ironically was the most flawless and acne-free skin I have ever seen on a girl, but she soon went to the upstairs bathroom to wash her face. In the meantime, I stopped the bleeding by pitching my head back and holding my nose. By the time my girlfriend came back downstairs, I was lying down with my face buried in a pillow, too ashamed to set my eyes upon her clean, clear face.

One Way to Get Rid of a Dead Dog

2009-05-01T17:25:00.001-07:00

Update: Since I posted this blog last night, a friend of mine did some research, and as it turns out, the following tale is an urban legend. I must concede that I was duped completely. Oh, well. Hey, in my opinion it's still a great story , so enjoy!

For some reason, dogs get the short end of the stick when they appear in this blog (see "Tail" of Woe). This strange true tale of woe, told to me by a friend, is no exception…

A young woman—let’s say her name is Nicole—was put in charge of watching her friends’ dog, an old German Shepherd, while her two friends (a married couple) were away on vacation. One bright summer afternoon, Nicole went to her friends’ apartment to check on the dog. She found it on the kitchen floor, dead.

Not knowing what exactly to do, Nicole called her friends and told them the sad news. Her friends were upset to be sure, but the dog was old and they were not wholly surprised by its demise. Not wanting to cut short their vacation, however, Nicole’s friends asked her if she could take the dog to the veterinarian and have it cremated. Nicole agreed.

Now, most people at this point would have called Animal Services or something, but I should let you know that this event happened in my hometown, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, and God knows if they even have such a thing as Animal Services like they do here in Los Angeles (a quick Google search for “Animal Services Mechanicsburg” didn’t yield too many useful results). But, of course, if Nicole was that sensible, this story wouldn’t be heading in the unfortunate direction it’s going, and the world would be short one perplexing story. But I digress…

Nicole tried to move the dog, but did so with much difficulty. First of all, the dog weighed over seventy pounds; and Nicole herself barely weighed 100 lbs. She soon realized there was no way she was going to get the dog out the apartment door, down the hallway, into the elevator, and out to her car without some kind of assistance. So, Nicole called the dog’s owners again.

The owners suggested that Nicole put the dead dog in a suitcase they owned, which was large and had wheels. Yes, a suitcase. Nicole agreed. So, Nicole stuffed the dead dog into a suitcase and wheeled it out of the apartment and to her car outside. But when Nicole went to lift the heavy suitcase into her trunk, she was again met with difficulty.

Fortunately, a man driving by stopped his car and asked Nicole if she needed any help. Nicole said, yes, she did. The man got out of his car and lifted the suitcase, felt its weight.

“Jesus,” he said. “This is heavy. What do you have in here?”

Nicole, not wanting to tell the stranger that she had a dead German Shepherd in a suitcase, said something to the effect of Well, I’m moving and I basically put my entire life in this suitcase.

Then, the man who offered his assistance presumably realized how valuable the suitcase was if it in fact had the young girl’s worldly possessions in it. So, he did what any sensible man in his situation would do:

He punched Nicole in the stomach, snatched the suitcase, jumped in his car, and drove away.

And that’s one way to get rid of a dead dog.

Embarrassing Moments – Car Oops!

2009-03-28T20:26:00.001-07:00

Ah, yes, yet another tale of woe that involves a car! This time it was my first car: a ‘91 white Honda Civic. What a sweet ride it was. Power locks and everything! It looked vey much like this:

So, when I was a junior in high school, I had just started dating a girl that I worked with. We had gone on a few dates, but I can’t remember if we were official yet at the time of this tale. Anyway, our dates were usually less than exciting because, well, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania isn’t exactly known for unparalleled excitement, especially for underage teenagers. So, one night, my date and I were merely driving up and down the Carlisle Pike, trying to figure out how to spend the rest of our evening.

Suddenly, I got a brilliant idea. Why not drive by Kmart and introduce my date to a friend of mine that worked there? Great! I pulled the car into the parking lot; but it looked like Kmart was about to close. I hurriedly got out of the car and my date followed suit. I don’t know why I was in such a rush—maybe I was nervous—but I somehow managed to lock the keys in the car. With the lights on. And the engine running.

“Um…” I said and scratched my head.

“What?” my date asked.

“I just locked the keys in the car.”

“But the engine is still running.”

“Yeah…”

Now what? Well, I told my date, there’s a gas station down the road; they probably have a payphone (ah, pre- cell phone days!). So, we walked together to the gas station where, fortunately, they did have a payphone. I called my dad and told him what had happened.

“How the hell did you do that?” he asked.

I wasn’t quite sure, I told him, but he agreed to drive out to Kmart with a spare key. I don’t remember what my date and I talked about on the way to the gas station, or on the walk back, or while we waited the fifteen to twenty minutes before my dad showed up, but I do have a vague recollection of my dad calling me an idiot at some point or another.

Stupid cars.

Embarrassing Moments – Pee Oops!

2009-03-22T21:57:00.001-07:00

I’ve experienced a lot of embarrassing moments in life; but the one that most readily comes to mind when I think of embarrassing moments is one that happened to me way back in first grade.

After recess, I got in line for the bathroom. I was first in line, but I really had to pee. Now, let me explain the bathroom situation for our first grade classroom. The classroom I in had its own, single toilet bathroom in the actual classroom. I guess the teachers didn’t want us to go down the hall and use the bathrooms that the rest of the school used. Maybe they thought we’d get lost on the way there. Subsequently, I had only a vague idea of where the bathrooms were outside of my classroom.

Anyway, I was next in line for the bathroom and behind me was a kid named Matt. I turned to Matt and said:

“I really have to go.”

“Knock on the door,” he said. “Who’s in there?”

“I don’t know.”

I knocked on the bathroom door.

“Who’s in there?” I asked.

“Nathan,” the young boy said.

“Hurry up! I really have to go!”

“OK.”

But the door remained closed, the toilet unflushed. By now, the rest of my classmates had come back from recess and were seated at their desks.

Then, suddenly, in front of everyone, I peed my pants. A dark wet spot quickly spread over the crotch of my jeans. Soon my teacher, Mrs. Neff, came over and saw what had happened. Next thing I know Mrs. Neff was unlocking the bathroom door and scolding Nathan, who was still on the toilet in mid dump.

Soon I was sent to the nurse’s office. I was provided a new, dry t-shirt, and a set of awful donor pants. If I recall, they were both plaid and polyester. She put my urine-soaked clothes in a plastic bag and sent me on my merry way.

Ah, childhood.

Epic Woe – Part V

2009-03-08T14:11:00.001-07:00

To read Part IV, please click here. To read Part I, click here.

One Friday in February 2006, I called out sick from work. I had had a terrible day at work on Thursday and needed a day to regroup. I probably spent most of that Friday afternoon in bed.

That evening, however, I went out with Carla and a mutual friend. My friend and I were sitting in a Quizno’s in Burbank while Carla chatted with someone on her cell phone outside. I confessed to my friend that I had feelings for Carla.

“Are you going to tell her?” he asked.

“I guess I have to,” I said. “I just don’t know when.”

Moments later, Carla came into the store and announced that she had just arranged a date for herself on Saturday. I couldn’t believe it. Just my luck. My friend and I started to laugh. But when we refused to let Carla in on the joke, she got annoyed. Eventually, my friend excused himself, and I told Carla the news.

“I have something to tell you,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

I hesitated, then managed to clumsily say, “I think I’m starting to get a crush on you.”

Carla smiled.

I drove Carla home that night, and we talked for a long time about many things. When it was all said and done, Carla told me she would be canceling her date on Saturday. Things were good for the moment, but the next two days would be two of the worst days of my life.

Continued in Part VI

Epic Woe – Part IV

2009-03-04T16:24:00.001-08:00

To read Part III, please click here. To read Part I, click here.

It wasn’t long before Carla learned that Roscoe was cheating on her with Dawn. I felt terrible for Carla. She had always been committed to Roscoe, and for that I admired her. She obviously loved him very much. I did my best to be there for her as a friend, and I tried to console her the best I could.

Meanwhile, my life was changing as well. I had quit my job at the bookstore and had completed training for my new job as a claims adjuster for an auto insurance company. In sadder news, my grandfather discovered he had stomach cancer; and within a month, by the end of January 2006, he died. I flew to New Jersey to attend his funeral. I stood by his grave in the falling snow.

Upon returning to California, I fell into a great, sodden depression. I couldn’t sleep at night, and all I wanted to do after work was lay in bed. My concentration suffered as well, which made my new, demanding job even more difficult. Furthermore, I hated the new job, and even though I was only a few months into it, I desperately wanted to quit. Then, in February, I started to see a psychiatrist, and I was put back on an antidepressant I had first taken when I was eighteen.

And, to top it all off, I had finally admitted to myself that I had a crush on Carla.

Continued in Part V

Epic Woe – Part III

2009-03-01T22:14:00.000-08:00

To read Part II, please click here. To read Part I, click here.

Dawn: “Thanks for the talk last night. I really don’t deserve it, but it’s great to get a compliment from such a talented artist.”

This was the first of many comments that Dawn would leave on Roscoe’s MySpace page. Now Carla’s interest was piqued. What was going on with her boyfriend while he was working in Canada? When Carla next spoke to Roscoe, she subtly inquired about Dawn and the comment.

“She’s just an insecure girl,” Roscoe said. “She works on the set in the makeup department. I was just trying to build her confidence and now she’s writing me all the time.”

The comments continued, and Carla and I would both look at Roscoe and Dawn’s respective profiles and laugh about the way Dawn seemed to be pining for Roscoe’s attention. Soon, however, Dawn was posting pictures of her and Roscoe posing together. Carla became increasingly suspicious, but Roscoe, now irritated with Carla’s inquires, insisted that his relationship with Dawn nothing more than a friendship.

Carla and I continued to check Dawn’s profile on a regular basis; and our own friendly talks became more frequent. It was rare for Carla and I to go a couple of days without speaking to one another, either at work or over the phone. We started spending time together outside of work as well.

Then, one day in December, I checked Dawn’s profile and saw the following update. I read: “As long as I have my friends, a ring, and an American boy named Roscoe, I’ll be happy.”

Carla and I spent New Year’s Eve together that year (hello, 2006). On the car ride home from a friend’s party, I told Carla about Dawn’s update. I assumed Carla had read it. She hadn’t.

Continued in Part IV

Epic Woe - Part II

2009-02-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

To read Part I, please click here.

So, like I said, Roscoe was not amused with Carla and I's innocent comments to one another. But why should I care? Well, let me tell you a little about Roscoe (and another future player in this epic tale of woe).

One night, me and some of my coworkers from the bookstore went to a coworker's apartment for a night of, well, serious drinking. Carla, who was drinking Malibu Rum straight from the bottle, was in a partial embrace with another coworker of ours named Julian. Julian had been chugging Budweiser pounders and was muttering half-baked ideas about life and art. Now, despite the fact that Carla was dating Roscoe and that Julian was engaged, Julian decided to plant a kiss on Carla and slip her some tongue. Carla was shocked and appalled.

Within a few days time, Roscoe found out about the kissing incident and made a surprise visit to the bookstore (Carla was at home; Julian was working). Roscoe approached Julian in the kids' area, grabbed him by the throat, pressed him against a flimsy prop tree, and smacked Julian around a bit about the face.

Now, I generally like to live my life with the least amount of face beatings as possible, so I stopped writing comments on Carla's MySpace page. In the meantime, Roscoe got a job working on a film in Canada and was to be away for a few months. Carla quickly forgave Roscoe for beating up Julian, and everything was fine between them. That is until a Canadian girl named Dawn started leaving comments on Roscoe's MySpace page.

Continued in Part III

Epic Woe - Part I

2009-02-24T23:33:00.000-08:00

This tale of woe began four years ago and spans a decent amount of time. For your sake and mine I will try to truncate this tale the best I can, leaving all the tangential matter to your imaginations.

So, it begins...

Sometime in 2005, I joined MySpace. I set up my profile page, complete with a few pictures taken of myself by myself (standard protocol for bachelors who live alone), and wrote what I considered a very witty "About Me" section (it wasn't). I added a few friends, most of whom were coworkers of mine at the bookstore where I worked, and sent out a few comments. One friend I added was a coworker named Carla.

Carla was what most people would call a "Goth." Dark-eyes, long dyed-black hair, black skirt and stockings, and lily-white skin (lily-white: a cliche to be sure, but she was, alas, a lover of lilies). Unlike most Gothic types, however, she had a good sense of humor and seemed only moderately inclined to brooding. She had a boyfriend named Roscoe (of course, I'm not using real names here, but his real name is equally ridiculous--apologies to any Roscoe's out there), and he was a makeup artist in the movie industry. They had been dating for some time, about two years if I recall correctly, and Roscoe was a member of MySpace too.

Keep in mind that this was back when most MySpace profiles were kept on the "public" setting. In other words, everyone looked at everyone else's profile whether they were your "friend" or not.

So, Carla and I started exchanging harmless comments to one another. But apparently Roscoe didn't find them all that harmless.

Continued in Part II

Fallout from "Epic Woe"

2009-02-17T20:23:00.000-08:00

It's been about a week since I deleted the "Epic Woe" posts, and let me tell you, the fallout over my decision to remove those posts has been substantial. I was wholly unprepared for the strong reactions those posts provoked, and in my eagerness to avoid complications, I took the posts down. I now feel that I was wrong to do so.

First, I'm sure I broke some kind of blogger code by deleting the posts. Of course, rules such as this one rarely concern me, so this principle alone did not finalize my decision to re post. Second, and more importantly, it's my life that I'm writing about, and I strongly think that I have every right to post whatever I feel like posting.

There are, however, a few unwritten rules that I try to follow, which I will now list: I try not to be mean, I try not to rant or whine, I try to be honest in my often-unflattering depictions of myself, and I try to put facts first and remain as objective as possible.

Finally, these stories are meant to be funny (in a sense); if you don't find them funny, then don't read this blog.

I will re post the "Epic Woe" stories, now slightly edited, in the next few days. I plan on finishing this lengthy tale quickly so I can move on to other stories. Please stay tuned.

Why I Need to Move - Part II

2009-01-30T16:02:00.000-08:00

Oops! Accidentally deleted this post in the purging of "Epic Woe..." Sorry.

I went out to my car this morning and saw that I left the door not-quite-shut. Immediately, I thought that my battery would be dead, but this thought was fleeting as I soon saw a gaping hole where my car's stereo used to be. Yep, gone. My glove box was also open, and there were papers and crap (not literal crap, of course) everywhere. Who knew I had so much junk in my car? Funny thing was, my GPS device was not stolen and was resting on the passenger seat.

The next thing I thought was, damn it, one of my favorite CD's was in the stereo. I got out of the car and found the CD's case on the ground next to my tire. I opened it and (of course) there was no CD inside. As if the people or person who stole my stereo would actually take the time to remove the disc from the stereo and carefully replace it in its case before setting it on the ground. Oh, well, I hope my thieves or thief likes Swedish death metal.

Good grief.

Epic Woe Apologies

2009-02-10T08:44:00.000-08:00

Fare thee well, and if for ever
Still for ever, fare thee well.
-Byron

If you are a faithful reader of this blog--I know there are at least a few of you--than you may have noticed that I have deleted the series of posts entitled "Epic Woe, or My Troubles with MySpace." Yesterday, it came to my attention that one or more of the persons depicted in these particular posts was reading this blog. Now, although I don't particularly like any of the people I was writing about (to be completely honest), I couldn't in good conscience put their troubles under further scrutiny, especially in a public setting such as this one. Like I said at the beginning of Part I of "Epic Woe...," I did have some misgivings about starting those series of posts. Maybe I should have listened to my gut. So, after much consideration, I decided to delete the posts. My apologies to those who enjoyed them.

Finally, in case you were wondering how the whole series ended, I will say this: it ended very much like my other tales of woe--in heartache.

About

2008-11-27T14:53:00.000-08:00

Buddhists believe that life means suffering. And while I'm no Buddhist, I find it hard to argue with this belief. Over the course of our lives, we endure physical suffering such as pain, sickness, injury, tiredness, old age, and eventually death; and we have to endure psychological suffering like sadness, fear, frustration, disappointment, and depression. What a bummer. So I say, why not laugh at suffering, why not laugh at life? It's the least we can do. This blog is a catalog of my suffering, a compendium of my woes. My hope is that by reading these entries, you will be able to laugh at life...and at me.

Perhaps one term that is critical in the appreciation of this site is this: schadenfreude, which the Oxford English Dictionary defines as "malicious enjoyment of the misfortunes of others." So, please maliciously enjoy some of my past and current misfortunes, as well as other true tales of woe.