People in Your Neighborhood - The Edition I Nearly Forgot

Back in December I traveled to a trade show for my job. At that time, I decided the place was brimming with subjects who deserved The Writings’ “People in Your Neighborhood” treatment. Alas, due to the hustle and bustle of the holidays, an abundance of sporting events, changing tides, protests from the AARP, a bevy of lawsuits, a temporary crippling of my left pinkie, and a memory as sharp the scissors you used in kindergarten, the aforementioned Writing was never composed. Today we correct that problem. These are the people in your neighborhood, if your neighborhood happens to be a trade show at a conference for high school athletic directors.

The Used Car Salesmen
The products this trio was looking to market to the attending public were not used cars, but the mindset was the same one you’ll find at most lots in the land. Stalk, chase, grab, and more; just do whatever you can to make the sale. While each member of the trio served as a wheel of the most annoying tricycle you’ll ever encounter, each guy also held his own very distinct style and persona.

Mr. Astonished
I have no clue if Mr. Astonished was really ever astonished by anything at all, but his expression sure made it seem that way. Each attendee he encountered was greeted with eyes so wide that there was actual worry about whether his eyeballs would roll right out of his skull. Thankfully, they never did, and people seemed to show interest in their product – perhaps only to take their glances away from his crazy eyes.

Mr. Superball
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Oh, Mr. Superball, please cease with the incessant bouncing. I know you picked up that bouncy ball at another vendor’s booth. I know it’s pretty amazing that the technology exists to make a palm-sized ball that bounces even though there’s no air pumped inside. I also know that you think you look pretty cool bouncing a ball continuously, one hand to the other, while waiting for the next conference attendee to latch on to. It’s great that your coordination and ambidexterity allow you to complete such a task. Unfortunately, the whole thing is unbelievably grating. I’m not sure I’d be any more annoyed if you grabbed a Sharpie and attempted to draw a handlebar mustache on my face. Please stop. Please.

The Godfather
The senior member of the group, the Godfather was the one that Mr. Astonished and Mr. Superball seemed to look to for approval any time they reeled in a potential customer. Built like a bowling ball (with the same amount of hair), the Godfather took the aggressive approach to tracking down prospective buyers. “Hey! Come check out something you need!” His voice sounded as if he was an old friend of Joe Camel, and his efforts often had the effect of hounding someone to take your half-ashen cigarette.

The Passive Guy
The Passive Guy sat across the aisle. That’s kind of a boring description, but that’s literally all he did. He sat. Sure, he’d answer questions if people asked him directly, but beyond that he did not do much to acknowledge that folks were even in his vicinity. It seemed to be a risky sales method.

The Very Passive Guy
The Very Passive guy may have very well been The Passive Guy’s grandfather. How did he earn his “Very Passive” tag? I credit it to age and wisdom… That, and the fact that I saw him dozing off at one point.

The Zapper
Technology is a great thing, unless The Zapper is involved. The Zapper uses a hand-held barcode reader to scan the name badges of conference attendees so that he can have evidence that folks actually visited his booth and he can gain their contact information to follow up after the event. It's actually a pretty slick idea, but The Zapper seemed to take it to unintended extremes. He would seek out folks that had not given his booth a second glance and still ask if he could scan their name badges. It seemed a bit intrusive, considering that some of these folks were actually talking to others when he'd but in with his query, but it even crawled into creepy territory at times. What would your response be if a guy you'd never spoken to before sidled up next to you and said nothing but, "Mind if I zap ya?"

The Game Changer
Folks at a booth across the aisle were hawking a product intended to cut down the length of a nosebleed, which seems like a worthwhile cause. Unfortunately, the woman at the booth continually referred to the product as “a game changer.” … Listen, lady. Your product is dandy, but if the game we’re stuck in involves chronic nosebleeds, I’m not sure I want to keep playing.

People in your neighborhood - At the park... again

People at your neighborhood with a setting of the city park? Yes, it has been done. And, yes, the weekend was an interesting one, featuring other events that might be worthy of Writings treatment. There were storm clouds at a football game that appeared as if they had been computer-generated for a movie about the Apocalypse (and three quarters of football that seemed slightly Apocalyptic, as well). There was also the loathesome task of moving a friend out of a third-story apartment, leaving me sore in muscles that I was not aware I possessed. Nevertheless, we're headed back to the park- a public setting prime for observation.

The guy that prefers wool
As I type this, the current temperature in Manhattan, Kan., is 71-degrees. Skies are clear and anyone that argues that the weather is anything but beautiful should probably receive thorough psychiatric testing. It's hard to imagine a nicer evening, yet during my walk I crossed paths* with a couple. The male counterpart of the duo was wearing a knit sweater, the type one commonly sees accompanying the cheesiest of smiles on Christmas cards. Upon seeing the guy, I felt the urgent need to pinch my arm, thus ensuring that my nerve endings were still operating as they should and that I was not actually walking around in shorts in the midst of sub-freezing day. Alas, I felt the pinch and realized that it was, in fact, a gorgeous night.

*Meaning I walked by them. Please don't interpret the negative connotation of "crossed paths" in this instance. There were no sweater-induced fisticuffs.

So why was this guy wearing a heavy sweater? Current polling shows "his wife picked it out" as the most likely option, with "it shrunk while he was wearing it and now he can't get his head back through the neck-hole," and "he works for a sweater company and believes that showing off the product is the best way to advertise" ranking second and third, respectively.

The Mom on Speed
When I first noticed the MoS, it was actually because of her kid. Her young son, probably near two years of age, sat upright in his stroller with a grin on his face. It was the type of look one might see on the face of someone enjoying a zip down the loopiest roller coaster track. Soon after, I realized why the kid looked so excited. His mom was pushing the stroller at the average speed of a small Honda. MoS was not jogging, running, or riding any sort of motorbike, mind you; she was walking, but at an unbelievable speed. I expected to see junior fling his arms in the air and yell "oooooooooooooohhh" as if he was on the first hill of a roller coaster, but as far as I know, pictures of his ride were not available for purchase after exiting the stroller.

The Mom on Demerol
On the opposite end of the spectrum MoD pushed her young child's stroller with the zest of a severely disgruntled employee on her way to an annual evaluation. While MoS was busy setting land-speed records, MoD was preoccupied with moving so slowly that one could have confused her with a park bench. I'm fairly confident I saw her youngster turn around in his seat and check her pulse at one point.

The football players
A group of college guys tossing the pigskin around in the park. Notice I said that they were "tossing the pigskin around" rather than "playing catch." There was not a lot of catching involved, as learning that fundamental part of the game was apparently overlooked in favor of seeking out the latest in Under Armour sportswear. Nice work, guys.

The bug that flew directly into my eye
Sure, it doesn't qualify as any sort of "people," but he enjoyed the park just the same. At least he did until he decided he'd like to play chicken with my right eye. (Both sides lost.) His exploratory journey left my eye watering for the remainder of the constitutional, making it appear as if I was having the most depressing trip through the park ever. Please know, that was not the case (though I do miss the old hamster-wheel-in-a-shack playground equipment that - as far as I can tell - served mainly as the device to injure children so that their parents could have an excuse to take them home.)

Note to other bugs thinking of dive-bombing my retinas: If you want to get a glimpse of how I see the world, checking out The Writings is the recommended method. (And you don't have to touch any eyeballs in the process.)

People in Your Neighborhood - On the Road Again

As detailed in previous Writings and in academic journals throughout the nation (I assume), I recently returned from a four-day tour of the Midwest. The task at hand? Checking to make sure that seats are installed in correct locations at different college football stadiums. Yes, to some this probably sounds about as exciting as reading the ingredients on a bag of peanut M&M's (Yellow 5 and Red 40? Hello, flavor country!), but I actually enjoyed the trip. For someone who has been known to watch more college football on a Saturday than any person should attempt, it was a great opportunity to check out four college football stadiums that I'd never been to. Sure, the only action witnessed on said fields was some stretching cheerleaders in Ames and wedding pictures in Champaign*, but I still won't complain. I also enjoy the notion of a road trip, in part because there are so many new people to encounter. In the spirit of reader interaction, I urge you to insert your own clever segue into this edition of People in Your Neighborhood here. Just don't actually write it on your computer screen; that doesn't turn out well.

*Luckily, the two events were hundreds of miles and a couple days apart. I imagine wedding pictures might not go well if the groom was gawking as the cheer squad worked to loosen up their hamstrings.

The lunchlady-looking Maid Rite employee with supersonic hearing
I hope, dear reader, that you have seen the Saturday Night Live sketch where Adam Sandler sings "Lunch Lady Land" as Chris Farley plays the role of the song's protagonist. If not, you will just have to imagine a hefty man dressed up in an apron, wearing a brunette wig and a hairnet; that's the lunchlady. Now, picture this lunchlady 20 years later and you have the woman behind the counter at Maid Rite*. The woman actually kind of reminded me of mother of the criminal family in "The Goonies." She also approached her job with the zest of someone performing court-ordered community service.

*Fun fact: Maid Rite does not offer maid service, nor does it serve any flavor of Rite soda... The Writings: We're here to educate.
 
Lunchlady Doris took our orders* then went back to prepare the food (apparently Maid Rite is all about multitasking). After what seemed to be 45 minutes, but was probably closer to 9 (though, in Maid Rite's spirit of multitasking, she may have run out to change the oil in her car while the food cooked), she returned with our food. As my coworkers and I walked toward the door, one realized that we might need ketchup. Under his breath, he joked that we should just take one of the restaurant's ketchup bottles. It was a very quiet remark. So quiet, in fact, that I had to be filled in on what he said later on. Nevertheless, the queen of the fryer - now back behind the counter and 25 feet away - yelled our way "I put ketchup packets with your fries." Sure, it was probably a case of impeccable timing, rather than an exhibition of the type of hearing that any being would be jealous of, but I was not about to whisper anything in order to test it.

*Note for all: The Maid Rite menu is a deceiving one. At no point does the menu list details on what a Maid Rite sandwich actually is. The author assumed it was a hamburger, and when the lunchlady asked if I'd like ketchup, mustard, pickle and onion on it, I was nearly sure that was the case. Naturally, I was pretty surprised when I hopped back in the rented Jeep, and unwrapped my sandwich only to find a glorified sloppy joe. Such culinary works are not exactly ideal for road travel.


The fight crowd, plus the one girl who had sense
Saturday night, my cohorts and I wandered to a Champaign eatery. Once there, we discovered it was fight night. A UFC pay-per-view event was taking place at that very time, and this locale was a hot spot for fight fans. It turned out that we were about the only three folks in the place that had not come specifically to watch punches, kicks, and chokeholds. I'm still not sure that watching a guy's face bleed makes for great dinner entertainment, but it seemed on Saturday that such views were definitely in the minority. Every single television in the place was tuned to the UFC event; there was not a baseball game or even live coverage of a Canasta tournament to be found. When one fighter took another down with a leg-sweep, the folks rooted like they had just seen a 99-yard touchdown. When blood dripped inside the UFC octagon, the viewers cheered as if their winning Powerball numbers had just been read. And when one competitor was forced to tap out because another had contorted him in a way that would make Gumby cry, nearly everyone in the joint roared as if their favorite team had just won the Olympics, Super Bowl and World Series all at once. It was intense.

The crowd was a diverse one. I saw buzzcuts and tattoos, mullets and tattoos, braided beards and tattoos, and motorcycle jackets and tattoos. Oh yeah, and there I sat in my polo shirt and cargo shorts. I fit in about as well as the guy allergic to body paint at the tryouts for the Blue Man Group.*

*The Writings: Where else can you go for references that actually make it seem like the Blue Man Group is worth paying attention to?

I soon noticed, however, that I was not the only square peg in the room. One table over, a young woman sat, head resting on her arm with a glazed look in her eyes and a "how the hell did I end up here" look adorning her face. It was the type of body language typically reserved for college-level accounting classes. While the rest of her table hooted and hollered intelligent things like "Whoa" and "You see that?" this girl looked like she might soon attempt to see how close she could come to jabbing her fork into her retina.

Luckily for all involved, the girl with sense did not follow such urges. After all, knowing the crowd in the place, the violence probably would have been met with applause.

The rhymeless rapper over there

In news that can only be classified as the good sort, it seems that my old next-door neighbor has moved away. The lad, affectionately deemed DJ Dingus or Mixmaster MustGo by the author, left without even dropping a farewell rhyme. Now, I must attempt to cope with the departure. I'll do it in the way he would've wanted: by putting together some horrible rhymes (set to the tune of the theme to Fresh Prince of Bel-air, for those who enjoy dated 90s sitcoms).

The Rhymeless Rapper Over there

Now this is the story all about how,

My neighbor had less lyrical talent than an emphysematic cow.

And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there,

I'll tell you all about the rhymeless rapper over there.

One door to the east, he moved in,

About a year ago, the situation was definitely no win,

For me, because he thought he was cool

Attempting to rap but sounding like a fool,

His dreams were misguided, ‘cause he was no good,

Why he carried on every night I never understood.

His rambling, pointless lyrics carried through my paper-thin wall,

Why must every sentence end with “yeah-uhh” and begin with “y’all”?

The only thing louder was his lady, who was, frankly, no peach,

Why’d she call her parents every night just to scream and screech?

On my long list of neighbors, he's right at the crest,

Of those I hoped would move. I’d gladly take the rest.

Walking down the hall today I noticed his place was cleaned out,

The utter joy I felt made we want to shout.

Now in my home, earmuffs I don’t have to wear,

'cause I no longer hear the rhymeless rapper over there.

People in Your Neighborhood - The Concert Edition

On Friday night, I had the opportunity to see Ben Folds in concert for the second time. The show was excellent. The people were prime subjects for examination. Join me, won't you, as look into the cast of characters one might meet up with at a concert.

The Vulture
In the wild, vultures fly circles around dead or dying animals in anticipation of a fly-caked feast. At a concert, the vulture drives circles around the City Market where the concert is taking place, stopping their truck in the middle of the street to ask pedestrians who is actually performing in the concert that night. Upon hearing the name "Ben Folds" the vulture will provide a quizzical look - the type one might see on the face of someone attempting to set up their cell phone while using instructions written in Latin - and reply back in the most southern of twangs "Band Folds?"

I don't think the vulture ended up buying a ticket.


The bargain shopper
Just outside the gate to get into the concert, as it is with most events, there were folks in bulk working to purchase tickets and folks looking to sell. One particular buyer did not seem to have a convincing purchasing pitch. As others just spoke of wanting tickets for the chance to get in, this hopeful buyer hollered out that he wanted to "get a cheap ticket." Note to buyer: if I'm looking to sell my car and I know that there are several potential buyers, I'm not going to be sucked in by the guy who calls me saying that he wants to buy a car for cheap. The same goes for you and your ticket purchase.


The hippie lady who likes giving directions
While navigating the crowd to find the best locale for our concert viewing, we zipped in front of some folks and behind others. The band prior to Ben Folds played music slightly more rockish* than the featured artist, and some folks found such rhythms fit to dance to. Hippie Lady, with her braided hair and tie-dyed outfit, swayed to the music as if she were a shirt on a clothesline drifting in the breeze. As we approached Hippie Lady, she stopped her dancing, and - with an annoyed look gracing her face - went into air traffic controller mode. She waved for us to cross in front of her with the urgency of Dwight Schrute trying to get his office mates away from a fire. At no point did she ever shout "Have you ever seen a burn victim?" but it may have been coming if we hadn't hustled. After we had passed by, Hippie Lady went back to dancing in a manner that may have been last seen in 1969.


The guys with the funny-looking pipe
Maybe this one doesn't need examination. We better leave it alone.

One of the kids had an awful cough, though.


The Sleeper
Attending a "rock fest" takes a lot out of a person. In fact, for some, it's all they can do to stay awake for the 5.5 hours the show goes on. As you may have guessed, the sleeper didn't make it to the end. Instead he lay flat on his back on the City Market sidewalk, just feet away from the edge of the concert crowd and used the brick wall of a storefront as his pillow. Though the sounds of Mr. Folds' piano were quite amplified for all in attendance, The Sleeper snoozed as though he'd ingested a double-dose of Ambien.

Odds that he had ingested just far too much of something alcoholic by nature? Pretty strong.



The best way to end this Writing? With Mr. Folds' own clsing, of course. (Please note that the camera-work is not mine; just uploaded from YouTube. My cellphone video looks more like something filmed from a neighboring town and the sound features more static than a transmission from space.)

Ben Folds closing song

People In Your Neighborhood - The Fan of Lethal Fruit

It's time once again to peel back the skin of the orange that is our society and deeply examine the pulp inside.* I made a trip earlier this evening to buy some of life's essentials (frozen pizza and oven chips) and encountered a one of the world's finest characters. What makes him tick? Let's try to find out...

*It may only be February, but I think we have a good candidate for "Worst Metaphor of the Year." Congratulations, Derek! We'll see you on the red carpet.

The guy who confuses covert martial artists and fruit
Quick, what is your favorite type of apple? Gala? Granny Smith? Golden Delicious? Jonathan? McIntosh? Ninja?

Wait, Ninja?

Yes, according to the gentleman in front of me in the checkout line, he was purchasing a Ninja apple.

The consumer - middle-aged, portly, and astoundingly confused - was buying little of consequence. Typically, someone like this would not linger in my mind hour afterward, but everything took a turn when the cashier held up the apple the guy was purchasing to determine what type it was. With her spindly fingers holding the fruit just in front of her wearied face, she tossed out a guess.

"Gala?"

Alas, the hefty man shook his head. The guess was off the mark.

Thinking, the man looked toward the ground. He seemed to be mentally spelunking into the deepest crevices of his mind, searching valiantly for the name of the apple he hoped to purchase.

Some might argue that an apple is an apple; that if you have to put that much thought into what specific type of fruit your purchasing, it's really not worth arguing about. After all, he could have lied. He could have called the apple Gala, paid for it, and had his teeth down to the core by now... Instead, he thought.

Finally, as if the good Lord had shone the light of wisdom on him through the market's fluorescent lamps, the man looked up. Confidently, he looked at the cashier and said, "It's the Japanese one. You know, a Ninja."

It was at this time I took a subtle step backward. I've seen movies. I know what ninjas are capable of. They're silent assassins. Though I was fairly confident an apple could not be a ninja (nor a ninja an apple), I approached the situation with caution, just in case. Luckily, before the type of store-wide panic that could only come from the threat of an apple attack could set in, the cashier cleared things up. "Do you mean a Fuji, sir?"

"Aw, yeah. That's it."

Crisis resolved.

With his apple bagged and the rest of his groceries paid for, as well, the man walked out the market doors. It was with much regret that he escaped before I could ask him pressing questions. Questions like, "What made you think Ninja was a kind of apple?" "Haven't you ever heard of the Teenage Mutant Ninja (not apple) Turtles?" and "Why the heck are you only buying one apple, anyway?"

Apparently, some of life's mysteries will never be solved.

Thirsty?

At the grocery store this evening, I noticed a couple. Both members of this couple had a cart, and each cart contained as many six-packs of soda bottles as one could possibly fit in a grocery cart. Seriously. I'm fairly confident that if the greatest minds in the world of architectural engineering convened at this grocery store, they would not have been able to find a way to get more six-packs of soda in these carts.

The question that immediately came to mind, upon seeing these carts, was, "Why in the world do these two need that much soda?" After much thought, I have decided there are three possible answers.

1. They plan to take the soda to an undisclosed location, remove the labels, and then stick their own labels on them, all in effort to start their own soda company, which they have unfortunately decided to call "I Can't Believe It's Not Dr. Pepper."

2. They're so concerned about children's teeth rotting from sugary soda that they're buying all they can and then pouring the bottles into area rivers, ponds and streams. Sadly, this means we'll soon encounter hordes of deer on caffeine highs and with rotting teeth.  

3. They recently purchased a pet store and they're really interested in testing whether hamsters will explode if they drink highly carbonated beverages.

As I see it, these are the only three possible explanations for buying that much soda.

What do you mean, "They might be having a party"?

... I guess that's possible. But would exploding hamsters really add that much to a party?

People in your Neighborhood - Back to the Park

It's true; we at The Writings have dissected* the sort of folk on might encounter during a lap around their nearest park before. Nonetheless, the wonderful thing about the park is that no two trips are alike. Consider the park-goers encountered in my neighborhood this very evening...

*Not literally.

The guy looking for the gym
Whenever one goes out to do any sort of activity that might be considered exercise (running, walking, biking, army crawling, weightlifting, chasing one's shadow, hiding from gypsies, or spinning until one becomes dizzy), it seems one is always bound to encounter a muscle-bound person that looks like they went to GNC and purchased an Everything Basket. From television and film, I gather some of these Herculean folks think a clever way to impress those of the female variety is to ask them "Which way to the gym?"*

*I have never tried this. Reasons: 1) It's creepy; 2) I have little muscle to speak of; 3) I look younger than my age. So young that the female hearing this query would probably direct me toward the jungle gym... Oooh, monkey bars!

This evening, I encountered such a Hans-and-Franz-ian individual. He walked with a menacing stature, wearing a cutoff shirt to alert everyone that he was, in fact, strong. Sadly for this fellow, the "Which way to the gym?" question would not have worked out well, as he was carrying two dumbbells with him on his stroll. Some might say this is a method to help gain strength as one walks. I like to think he left the gym and forgot how to get back.

"No, seriously, which way to the gym? They know I have these dumbells and I don't want to have to pay for them."


The guy looking for the fridge
The title of this one is misleading. I'm not referring to any folks that might be large in stature and candidates for the next season of The Biggest Loser. No, the man I'm referring to looked like a refrigerator repairman. This silver-haired gentleman enjoyed his evening constitutional while wearing a dirty t-shirt, dirty jeans, and aviator sunglasses that have surely been around since the last time they were in style. I cannot confirm that he had a wrench in his back pocket, but as he meandered around the park's perimeter, he almost seemed like he was searching for something - something like the house he was supposed to be completing a service call at.


The guy with a tattoo in an unfortunate location
As I journeyed around the municipal recreation area, several joggers zipped past me at different times. Did I feel silly sauntering down the sidewalk when so many folks were getting in touch with their inner Prefontaine? No. I despise running. It's horrible. I really, really cannot stand it. (Editor's note: This anti-running rant carried on for approximately 2,387 more words. In the interest of reader wellness, we have eliminated the rest.)

The joggers that went by came in all shapes in sizes - big and small; round and stick-like; dogless and dogful - but only one made me stop to ponder his sanity. As I walked northward on the west end of the park, a figure zipped past me without warning. I was listening to my iPod and pondering what life would be like with discernable skills; therefore, I heard no approaching footsteps. As the figure took off past me, I noticed it was some guy lacking a shirt. Whether he wore no shirt as a fashion choice or a product of the recession was unclear, but one thing was not: his lower back. There, at the L-5 vertebrae, was ink on skin creating some sort of design that I did not bother to commit to memory. Like so many Hollywood starlets and college-aged females, he had a tattoo on his lower back.

Unfortunately for this guy, he apparently is not aware of the following rule: tattoo on a girl's lower back - okay; tattoo on a guy's lower back - odd and disturbing. Unfortunately, I spent the rest of my walk around the park pondering why this guy would get the ink-needle treatment on this area of his body. Was it a fraternity prank while he was passed out? Is his idol Angelina Jolie? Was it as the result of a pinkie-swear with his BFF? I probably should have asked, but catching up with him would have involved running.

Hi Neighbor

I'm currently listening to some smooth R&B tunes... Unfortunately, it's not by choice. You see, the apartment that I call home* is encased by walls whose thickness rivals that of most delicious Triscuit crackers. While having walls an octogenarian could bite through might prove beneficial should I ever become locked in my apartment while hosting a game of bridge and need a creative escape route, this feature of my apartment is not so pleasant on a night like tonight.

*I also call it "the building... thingy... where my bed and TV is," but that's neither here nor there.

My neighbor, new as of the beginning of August, enjoys doing his best Brian McKnight impersonation in the evenings, meaning I get to experience the performances as if I were on the front row of a concert I'd feel inordinately out of place at. It can be quite the show.

When my neighbor isn't singing, it's not uncommon to hear a nagging female voice on that side of the wall. Whether this girl is my neighbor's wife, girlfriend, "it's complicated" friend, mistress, lady of the night, sister, sister-in-law, maid, or a hobo he decided to take in as an act of goodwill is something unknown to me. What is known is that this girl really seems to enjoy calling her mother and yelling at her over the phone. I'm not sure what the mother could have done to this girl to make her so consistently angry, but with the way she yells, it seems like it would have to involve the torture of some small animals.

Interestingly, prior to this neighbor, the guy that used to live next door also took great joy in singing, however he seemed to embrace soft rock more than R&B. Instead of Ruben Studdard, I was hearing Clay Aiken. I can't say it was any better.

Two consecutive neighbors that performed daily/nightly concerts, and yet I still haven't attempted to see how many Q-Tips I could fit in my ears... That, dear readers, is willpower.

The neighbor before these Apartment Idol contestants was a timid one. She was apparently so shy that, back when my television was next to the shared wall, she would slide notes under my door requesting that I turn the volume down. Unfortunately for her, she never knocked or did anything to make me aware that she had passed this written communication underneath my door, which is not in my line of sight from my living room area. This meant I often read notes requesting that I turn down my television volume as I left for work the following morning. It seems passive aggressiveness may not always be the best route.*

*Note to self...

What's the point of all this? There really isn't one. Sorry.

I guess maybe it should spark thoughts in my head wondering what neighbors say about me. Hopefully it's something like, "No offense, but Beyonce would be the best neighbor ever."

People in Your Neighborhood - The Perplexed Grocery Shopper

"It just doesn't make any logical sense."

I heard the aforementioned quote just minutes ago. Oddly, it did not take place in any sort of philosophical debate. This sentence was not uttered in a lecture hall, a library, or even some sort of coffee shop where mind-cramping issues might be discussed.

No, I heard this quote in the frozen pizza aisle at the supermarket.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying the grocery store is not a place that serve as home to stimulating topics of conversation. I'm sure many issues so deep that my feeble mind could not comprehend them have been discussed while comparing prices of Ketchup vs. Catsup. Unfortunately, this quote was not uttered in a discussion about fertilizers used to ensure good crops of tomatoes. It was not in reference to an embargo that prevents us from being able to purchase Cuban cuisine. It did not even relate to the fact that the Little Debbie website has a gift shop section.

No, this slice of wisdom was given verbal birth because a grocery shopper did not understand a two-for-$5 promotion.

Yes. That's right.

The gentleman in question, dressed as if his grocery shopping was a precursor to a monster truck rally this evening (and heretofore referred to as "the professor"), could not process the concept that the market could charge $2.75 for one pizza, but then only charge $5 if he were to buy two.

The professor was utterly baffled. It reminded me of the time I read Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time." Sure, I made it through, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be writing any dissertations on wormholes.

"It makes no f****** sense," he said.

That's right. This issue of this grocery promotion was so disturbing that profanity came into play.

Unfortunately, his colleague ("the professess") was of little assistance with the matter. Sure, she verbally volleyed with him, countering his quip of "They can't do it," with the utterly brilliant, "Yes, they can," but her followup to the next question was less encouraging.

"How?" asked the professor.

Digging into the deepest recesses of her mind, the professess retorted, "I don't know. They just can."

There I was, trying buy something perfectly unhealthy to transport to my freezer, and all of the sudden I was at the mercy of a conversation that basically equated a two-for-$5 special to the illusions of David Coppefield.

"How did he make the Statue of Liberty disappear?"

"I don't know, but can you imagine how much more amazing it would of been if he had sold us two $10 tickets for $17.50?... Amazing!"

I grabbed a couple pizzas and left, trying to avoid shaking my head as I pushed my cart away. I continued my shopping, checked out at the cashier, and went on my way.

I did not, however, ask the cashier how they could logically run that promotion on frozen pizzas.

... I figured good magicians never share their secrets.

GSD

There is a day, oh friends, that is a truly grand one, but it is one that receives little glory. When it comes to days worthy of marking one's calendar in anticipation, the hubbub usually surrounds holidays, birthdays and weddings, despite the fact that this day consistently accomplishes a feat that these other celebratory periods rarely do. It brings folks of all backgrounds together. This day knows no race, no religion, no age, and no social standing. It knows no discrimination; no bias whatsoever. It only knows the sound of fingers combing through a handful of change to find an extra nickel.

This day, this marvelous day, is Garage Sale Day.

Originally established by Nordic settlers looking to pawn off their foul-smelling lutefisk on unsuspecting folks of different origin, Garage Sale Day (or GSD, as it's most commonly referred) has come a long way. Back then, GSD was called "Give Me Something of Value for This or I Will Shove it in Your Ear Day." While GMSVFTOIWSIIYED (as it was more commonly referred) involved more bloodshed than the GSDs of today, the general spirit was the same: getting rid of junk you don't want and receiving something you can use in return.*

*If you find an ounce** of truth in that paragraph, please contact the author immediately.

**No, I'm really not sure how one goes about weighing truth accurately enough to know when there's an ounce of it present. I'd check The Sharper Image.

What is it that makes GSD so blog-inspiringly wonderful? It encompasses parts of all holidays that you enjoy. It brings together family. (Who else is going to help you lug your aging living room furniture out to the front lawn?) It promotes the spirit of giving. (How else are you getting rid of those old sneakers that can't even get someone to part with a nickel?) For those who find their televisions continually stuck on HGTV, it even involves festive decorations. (They're next to the used kitchen items, in that box marked "50 cents.")

I was lucky enough to actively participate in GSD over the weekend, as I offered two hands, a couple of feet, and a coin-counting mind to family in effort to help them with their sale. The bargains were fleeting, but the memories will last a lifetime.

On GSD, there's no dress code
Thick and thin, deep and wide, these garage sale goers sported their wardrobes with pride. While the clothes we had on sale were mainly limited to the jeans/t-shirts/polos variety, the potential customers were a bit more diverse with their fashions. While Customer A might have been wearing sweats so worn that you wondered if they had just recently completed a three-month stay on their sofa, Customer B appeared ready to saddle up a horse of a different color, donning a western shirt, Wranglers, and a pair of boots featuring more colors than a box of Pop Ice. Another customer was fully prepared for a heat wave, and for any snuff cravings that might occur, sporting a shirt with cutoff sleeves and a can of chaw in the breast pocket. Unfortunately, he was not carrying around a spit cup, spittoon, or a button that said "I'm enjoying my gums while they're not bleeding."

Smoking ban? Not here
Ah, the great outdoors. On a breezy Saturday morning it can be invigorating to inhale that fresh Spring air. On this breezy Saturday morning, we had the great pleasure of having that fresh air combined with some fresh second-hand smoke. Refreshing. The smoke-and-shop freedom is one rarely granted anymore, thus GSD presents a great opportunity for those who choose to spend appalling chunks of their income on cigarettes. On Saturday, an older woman sifted through some shirts with one hand while loosely grasping her cigarette in the other. With each puff, smoke left her lungs and found its way to the threaded items below, all while a tail of ash nearly half an inch long wagged at the end of her coffin nail,* like a tired child nearing an inevitable fall from the monkey bars.

*Have you ever tried to find a synonym for cigarette that doesn't come off sounding inappropriate? It's not easy.

Everything is negotiable
Run to your nearest fast food establishment, order the most expensive value meal on the menu, and then when the monetary transactions coordinator (sounds better than cashier, right?) tells you the total you need to pay, say, "Let's call it $2." If that works, let me know, because I haven't eaten dinner yet. Odds are, it won't. While the roots of our economy may have seen more focus on bargaining, there just isn't much room for it today. Garage sales are a different story. Need a slightly used nose trimmer, but you aren't willing to pay the $4 it's marked for? Make a different offer. They just might take it.

On Saturday, a woman walked up to me with a Pyrex baking dish, still in the box. It wouldn't have known a casserole if it had spent weeks watching Rachel Ray. This brand new dish was priced at $2. This woman, who certainly didn't appear to be struggling to find cash, asked me if I would take $1.50 for it. Granted, her very question spit in the face of one essential rule of life: if you are buying a baking dish, you have an oven. If you have an oven, you don't haggle over a matter of 50 cents. I was taken aback by her determination to get this dish for two quarters less than the asking price. What did she need the extra 50 cents for? Buying 2.5 chicken nuggets at Wendy's? Did she have a half-off coupon for Everything's a Dollar? Was she going to travel back in time to a period when you could actually get something for 50 cents? Once I quit trying to imagine what this woman could possibly need that extra half-dollar for, I accepted her offer. After all, I thought, maybe she only has $1.50 on her before she has to break a large bill. I don't like counting out a ton of change anyway, so this could have been making my life easier... Then she paid with two crisp $1 bills.

GSD is open to window shoppers
Granted, this isn't your typical window shopping. The windows in play are actually those of the cars that slowly idle by as those inside squint and crane their necks, attempting to see what goods might be available. If something looks interesting, they'll find a good parking spot like in front of a mailbox or a neighbor's driveway. If not, they creep on to the next sale.

It's worth mentioning that window shoppers are typically not interested in pleasantries. As they take inventory of your items from their vehicle, they will ignore any attempts you might make to be friendly. Waves will receive bewildered looks in return, attempts to invite them to check things out from a closer perspective seem to come off as offensive. The only instance in which you might hear from a window shopper is when they shout questions about your merchandise from inside their vehicle. "Yo, you got any baby clothes?"

Curious? Better test it out
Garage sales are perfect for folks who prefer to get a feel for things before making a purchase. You can test out toys, try on shoes, and even take furniture for a test sit. Granted, I'm not sure that repeatedly bouncing on a couch is necessary in testing it, but I'm also not the one considering ignoring the pet hair on it and buying it... Please, please just buy the couch.

You bought what?
What this says about me, I'll never know, but watching folks to see what items they were interested in was an interesting exercise. Who could have guessed that a 70-year-old man would be thrilled to find a box full of Beanie Babies? Or that the only others who would ask about Beanie Babies the rest of the day would be two young boys? It also seems that the consolation prizes for those that miss out on Beanie Babies are old, crafty Halloween decorations. That's right, this pair of brothers asked no questions about footballs or video games, their allowances were devoted to stuffed animals and Hobby Lobby pumpkins.

Open to all, still ignored by some
Unfortunately, although GSD is open to all, it seems that some folks still refuse to recognize it. They ignore the swarms of people digging through boxes of old ball caps. They look past the humidifier ready to bring moist air to a new home. They fail to recognize the thrill of rummaging through a stranger's belongings in effort to discover something they might have a use for. In essence, they're tossing rubbish on the entire celebration.

Saturday, this happened quite literally as the landlord of this housing development took a wild ride atop his grass devouring, children cowering, driver empowering lawn tractor. Whether he was oblivious to the fact that an inordinate number of folks in the neighborhood had contents of their homes arranged in their driveways, or he was attempting to be deemed the Grinch of GSD, no one knew for sure. While his intentions were unclear as he tore through each and every yard (literally grinding away a chunk of sidewalk just feet from where we were set up), he certainly left his mark. The grass clippings that this grass master had strewn about like confetti on New Year's was now masking the merchandise. The couch, donning a "sold" sign by this point, wore a bit of the outdoors when the new owner's arrived to pick it up. Shirts stacked symmetrically on a card table now featured a texture of natural camouflage. Elsewhere, clumps of grass clippings tossed into 25-cent boxes confused customers, who probably figured we had a lot of nerve to ask for them to pay for yard clippings. Luckily, Old Man Mower struck as the sale was winding to a close. It seems that even he could not destroy the spirit of GSD.

While it may have its detractors, GSD remains a fixture in American culture. Don't forget to mark your calendar.

Ode to Employees at the Local Consumer Electronics Retailer

I apologize in advance... It seems I am really into celebrating National Poetry Month this year.


Ode to Employees at the Local Consumer Electronics Retailer

I walk through the doors, and you're there to greet me,
That courtesy welcome is fine;
But then at the DVDs, another of you will meet me,
As if he were second in line.

I wave off all help. I say I'm "just looking,"
And, honestly, that much is true;
But three steps later another clerk thinks a sale is cooking,
And I wonder why you can't take a clue.

As I browse video games, another Blue Shirt attacks,
This one tries to start small talk;
Yes, I like playing games. That's why I'm checking out this rack,
What I don't like are salesfolk who stalk.

I'm an adult. If I need help, I'll ask,
I consider it my duty as a consumer;
In the mean time, relax. Try to find another task,
Instead of hanging off me like a tumor.

I feel like sprinting away. Your approach I am fearing,
Because everywhere there's blue-shaded interrogation;
Maybe, like Elaine Benes, I should pretend I'm hard of hearing.
Or just sign you all up for treatments of sedation.

At long last, I'm at checkout. I found items to buy,
Relying on nothing but my casual consumer form.
Don't worry, Blue Shirts, when I return you can again try,
To secure my patronage with a tactical swarm.

It's all happening at the zoo...

If one is to believe the lyrics of a song that once reached #16 on the Billboard Hot 100, someone once told Paul Simon "It's all happening at the zoo." He did believe it, but I remain a bit skeptical. After all, "all" is a rather all-encompassing term. All right?

Nevertheless, digging deep into Mr. Simon's lyrics is not what this space is intended for. Today, we're here for something important (as opposed to most days, where we're here for random drivel and inside jokes*). Today, we're here to delve into detail about a trip to the local zoo. (See how important that is? The Writings: We're here to make a difference.)

*Can it be deemed an inside joke if you're the only one that finds it funny? Food for thought...

Before I get too far, I must clarify one thing: I'm not the weird guy that goes to the zoo alone. I may be a guy and I may be weird (something has to explain the sheer delight I get out of watching bad movies, right?), but I'm still not the lonesome zoo-goer. Hopefully that does not come as a big surprise to anyone. (If it does, I may need to reexamine things.) No, this trip to the zoo was a special occasion. Members of my family and I chose to take advantage of the Spring Break/spring weather combination by giving my diminutive niece her first zoological park experience in her seven months of Earthly existence.

Alas, it seems we were not the only folks in the Little Apple that considered this day to be fit for exploration of animals. In fact, when we arrived the parking lot to said zoo was packed tighter than Comic Book Guy's favorite t-shirt, forcing a slew of vehicles to park along the street leading to the parking lot. Whether or not any arguments reminiscent of the Seinfeld episode "The Parking Space" resulted from this bloated parking lot situation, I can neither confirm nor deny. We were able to land a spot in the main lot.

Once inside (Yes, the zoo is outside, but we were inside the perimeter walls of the zoo. This is getting confusing, and I'm the one writing it. I apologize profusely.), our clan witnessed a bevy of animals.* Unfortunately, it seemed that most animals were pining for a return of cooler weather. The sun-shiny 80-degree temperatures forced most creatures into shady portions of their habitats, where they exhibited about as much energy as the average Post-It note. While it was a nice opportunity to view animals not native to the area**, their collective state of torpor left a bit to be desired.

*If this sentence states anything more than the obvious to you, you should probably get out more. It's a zoo, of course we saw a lot of animals.

**While the squirrels running rampant around town may provide momentary distractions for people with attention spans as short as mine, it's somewhat impressive to see a tiger that is not animated and advertising a frosted breakfast cereal.

In the midst of studying all these animals, I also found a bit of time observe some of the homo sapien species, as well. Those familiar with The Writings* know that "People in your neighborhood" are occasionally featured in this literary grove.

*Whether or not that qualifier is synonymous with "those with entirely too much time on their hands," is currently being researched.

The zoo provided a couple of fine candidates for such study. Consider the following:

- The third wheel
I have been the third wheel. I have been the third wheel several times. I've also been the fifth wheel, the ninth wheel, the 17th wheel, and the (insert odd number here)th wheel. I have plenty of experience providing social situations with an awkward axle alignment, yet I have never been the third wheel at a zoo. For this, I'm thankful. You see, as an experienced third wheel, I feel I have an excellent grasp for determining what environments are conducive to the third wheel situation. Movies (as long as the triad strays from chick flicks... high school Derek was not so fortunate) are excellent third wheel situations. Once the show starts, the third wheel's attention can be focused on the screen for 90 minutes. There's no worry of playing witness to "couple-y" dialect (including all derivations of "schmoopy"). All that matters is what's on screen. (And possibly how much popcorn you have left.)

The zoo, on the other hand, is where third wheels hit bumpy terrain. While the open environment of the zoo is great for spreading out and providing topics of conversation ("Did that chimp just make an obscene gesture?), things get dicey when the couples choose to act like couples. As was the case with the 3W* situation today, once the public displays of affection come about, the wheelie has two options.

1) He can distance himself from the couple, checking out zoo exhibits at his own pace. Granted, this may keep others from realizing that he is, in fact, a third wheel, along minimizing the awkward situations that present themselves in the presence of PDA, but this also brings the risk of people misidentifying you as "the weird guy that goes to the zoo alone."

2) He can trail two steps behind the couple, seemingly in position to run "Red Rover" through their interlocked hands at any point. Occasionally he'll sidle up to the couple and make a remark about something, but before long he's back to pulling caboose duty.

The third wheeler today chose option 2. Remember kids, third wheeling at the zoo is bad news.

*3W = third wheel. That's insider terminology. Now you can't say you didn't learn anything today.**

**You can, however, say that what you learned was made up by the author and really serves no practical purpose.


-The overwhelmed mom
Although this deals with an overwhelmed mother, you won't identify this woman by searching for the lady who is tearing her hair out. No, to find the overwhelmed mother, you will first need to find the pack of young children running wildly. Truth be told, you will probably hear them before you see them. Listen for a medley of high-pitched squeals containing the following, "I wanna see the monkeys," "Mom, are there any snakes?" "When can we get ice cream?" and "Mommmmmm, I gotta pee!" Once you hear this racket, step aside quickly and watch as this swarm of three-to-ten-year-olds zips past you down the walking path. Once they have past and are out of sight, count to six and then turn to look in the direction the flock of youths had come from. See the woman slowly pushing an empty stroller and carrying a large purse with five different half-full (half-empty, she'd argue) beverage bottles sticking out? Yeah, the one that looks as if she might consider hiding in the wallaby habitat for a few weeks. That's the overwhelmed mom.


Naturally, the being most worth observing on this day was one of the youngest in the place. Although my niece spent a large portion of the journey wearing a cap that was too large and pretty much limited her viewing options to the underside of a pink cap bill, she seemed to enjoy the trip. Sure, she paid no attention to any of the animals (aside from the goat we fed while holding her near. At this, her eyes turned a bit quizzical. I couldn't tell if she was wondering what type of crazy dog she was encountering (since canines are the only animals she's really interacted with before) or trying to figure out if we'd witness a live birth from this very pregnant animal. Seriously, it looked as if it should have been on bed rest.), but she spent much of the walkabout with a toothy (well, two-toothed) grin on her face. I'm guessing she'll show a bit more interest in future zoological ventures, but today's will always be her first. And she was at least a bit more lively than the wildlife.

People in your Neighborhood - The two random folks edition

What happens when one particular location doesn't provide enough material for a Writing examining the ins and outs of those you encounter everyday? You improvise.

Don't get confused, I'm not going to ask member's of the audience to name an occupation and a location (partially because I have no audience and partially because it's rather difficult to have live interaction with web readers while writing). Instead, I'm just going to cheat the system a bit, and not focus on one particular location for this edition of People in Your Neighborhood. (Then again, it's my system, so I can determine whether or not I'm cheating... If you're editing text while reading this (keep your red pen handy), feel free to mark out the previous, non-parenthetical sentence.)

The guy at the grocery store who is a little too excited about a certain item in the frozen food aisle
If I had to venture a guess, I would say I purchase more food of the frozen dinner variety than most individuals. As someone who may occasionally struggle with motivation once he's planted on his couch in the evening (once in couch mode, devoting the effort to putting out a fire might depend on how content I was with the room's temperature), the frozen meals provide pretty simple forms of sustenance. If I was eating dinners with less prep time, I'd eating Playdough straight from the can. 

I may eat more frozen meals than most arctic foxes, but I try to keep a level head about them. Sure, some are decently tasty and satisfying, but I'm not going to go boasting about the food to anyone in particular... This guy was different. While I checked out the chilled culinary items, he regaled his shopping companion with tales of a frozen chicken pot pie. If one were to take his word for it, this guy apparently found the Holy Grail of chicken stew contained in a pie crust. No, he never went as far as saying the pot pie could give the gift of eternal life, but he did refer to the dish as "addictively delicious" in a tone normally used by eight-year-olds talking about their new bikes.

Perhaps I misconstrued his enthusiasm, and it was actually a cry for help. After all, addiction is never a good thing, even when the subject of said addiction is fowl in a crust.


The guy with inappropriately sheathed feet
I once wrote of how I disapprove of the idea of wearing flip flops with long pants. Two years later, I have not flip-flopped (clever, I know) on this issue. Alas, the aforementioned Writing was written in effort to sway the continued progression of a fall-weather fashion. My protest has proven unsuccessful, but I always assumed that people would be smart enough to not even consider such fashions upon the arrival of brisk winter breezes.

As is often the case, I was wrong.

With temperatures floating in the 30s the last few days, I have witnessed a couple different portrayals of Mr. Coldtoes. The motivation for adorning flip-flops in such weather has proven to be a subject my mind cannot comprehend. When outside for extended periods of time in the winter, there's little I despise more than the rapid chilling of extremities. Having my toes cool to the point of physical pain is certainly not something I'd volunteer for, yet it seems Mr. Chillyfoot is signing up for such duty every time he slides those sandals on.

Honestly, if the weather gets much cooler, Jonny Birkenstock is flirting with frostbite. At that point, wearing flip flops in the cold weather is somewhat akin to going scuba diving in a suit washed in a bucket of chum.

Then again, I guess Eddie Toecicles may just be preparing to play the abominable snowman in the live stage production of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (casting, production, and creation pending).

I'm #1

It's true, ladies and gentlemen. I'm number one.

I'm the best.

I'm the tops.

Those who speak Spanish might call me "numero uno."

Others might refer to me as "da bomb*," "the shizzle**," or "the cat's pajamas***."

*If they have time-traveled from 1997.

**If their name rhymes with "doop snog."

***If they are... trying to start a small business where they sell feline sleepwear.

Please don't jump to the conclusion that I've begun sailing in the great ship of narcissism (especially because it doesn't catch much wind with mirrors used as sails), I'm simply speaking the truth.

Don't believe me? Check this out.

That's right, a simple Google search for my name along with the word "fool" lists this very blog as the top result. Thus, it's clear that in the all-seeing eyes of Mr. Google (as far as I know, he has not earned his doctorate), I am the most foolish of all Derek Larsons.

I'm currently in the process of adding this to my resume.

Granted, some (including Google) may say that the listings of search results should not be used as any sort of scientific measuring stick or ranking system (or cough suppressant, but that seems obvious), but that sounds like the talk of those in the corporate world trying to keep me from taking my rightful spot as the most foolish of all those who share my name. Like King Arthur receiving Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake or the most rotund of all the Lost Boys, Thud Butt, receiving leadership responsibilities from Peter Pan at the end of Hook, I have earned this title and will not take it lightly.

Now that I know where I stand in relation to all others that don my name as if they've raided my personality, it seems natural to wonder what others are doing with my 11-letter moniker that begins with 'd.'

Google (an anagram for "ego log"... somewhat fitting) brings forth information on several Derek Larsons - most of whom I'm 98.9-percent sure are not me. At the top list is an assistant professor of history and environmental studies. I do not have a business card listing such as my form of employment (and this guy has a beard, while I could not even grow one if Abe Lincoln and Grizzly Adams were offering me membership in the Benevolent Order of the Folically Rich Faces), therefore I can conclude that this DL and I are not the same person.

Using the logic of this blog, the fact that he is atop the search listings for "Derek Larson" must mean he is the most important of all DLs. Is this a shot to the ego? For some, possibly.

For me, no.

After all, if you're a single 20-something who writes endlessly about trivial matters, odds are your ego has been beaten down to a nearly unrecognizable point through the years. Sadly, mine has been on life support since the days when I enjoyed chicken patties (on buns!) in the elementary school cafeteria (/old gym).

But enough about me... lets talk about people who share a name with me. There's a Derek Larson that is a web designer. There is another that is a conceptual artist. There's even one who has put himself out there in the world of YouTube. (Please note: not all who sport my name condone combining fire with flatulence. Play smart, kids.)

No matter what these folks are doing, even if they're crafting canoes out of limestone, one fact remains: there may be 8,510 search results for "Derek Larson," but there's only one atop the list of "Derek Larson" + "fool."

I'm #1.

The People in Your Neighborhood - At a Car Show

When one heads to a car show, one expects to see classic cars (that, or talking cars doing a comedy act of the Abbott and Costello variety... Who's Shifting From First, anyone?). If such were not the case, we would probably be dealing with a massive case of false advertising.

Thanks to this past weekend, I can attest that the number of unique, visually stunning vehicles parked at such a show can be overwhelming. However, there is another aspect - an unadvertised draw - that these automotive showcases feature. It's the attendees. The folks scoping out everything from engines to spoilers can be as different as the Model A and a '71 Stingray. Naturally, they're a crew prime for examination.

These are the people in your neighborhood...

-The guy with an uncomfortably warm belly
As someone who may be quicker than most when it comes to reaching the point of perspiration, I don't normally scoff at new ways to keep cool, but Mr. Warm Belly has taken things to a rather creeptastic level. When the temperature reaches the mid-80s but there's still several classic V8s to see, he fights off sweat by pulling up his grimy t-shirt and tucking it so that it stays snugly above his protruding gut. (The fact that there is actually somewhere to tuck his shirt above his gut tells you something about his physique.) I guess the basic premise of the idea seems close to conventional. After all, if your arms are warm you roll up your sleeves... But, the end result looks like something that would have most drivers shifting into reverse.


-The members of ZZ Top
Unfortunately, I cannot confirm that the actual members of ZZ Top were in attendance at this motor carriage extravaganza, but their look was popular enough that it left all those who are folically challenge in the face feeling inadequate.. I am pretty confident you would struggle to find this many chest-length beards at the World Beard and Moustache Championships.
The forest of facial hair was so thick that I fully expected to hear the familiar chords of "Sharp Dressed Man" and see the signature guitar flip as I searched to find some sort of purchasable sustinance that did not have grease as the primary ingredient (mission: failed).


-The power-walking guy with great fashion sense
Some people come to car shows for the cars. Some come for the company. Some come to ignore all else and power-walk laps around a park, all while sporting the latest in early-90s fashion: the fanny pack. What treasures lie inside this zipper-bound representation of all that is hip? (The Writings.. Your source for horrible puns.) Only this man knows for sure. However, my guess is that it's some sort of shoe in-sole, because he just started another lap.


-The multitasker
Being a father of three young boys would be no easy task. Of this, I'm very confident. Simply keeping the kids entertained would be a continual challenge. However, taking the youngsters on a bike ride around the park would be a good start. The kids would get the opportunity to be outside on a lovely day, and you would be able to get some exercise at the same time. And what is the logical way to get the most out of a healthy cardiovascular workout like a bike ride? Naturally, it's by enjoying a cigarette as you pedal along.

That's right, the multitasker gets his nicotine fix while cruising on his Huffy. Unfortunately, reports that he shotguns Budweiser while jogging or eats deep-fried Oreos by the handful while jumping rope remain unconfirmed.


-The fool who falls victim to a ridiculous sunburn that leaves his nose redder than a certain reindeer's and provides a farmer's tan that would have Old McDonald saying "e-i-e-i-oh crap"
This fool normally follows up such an event by writing about it in self-depricating fashion in his blog... Yes, I'm an idiot.

These Are the People in Your Neighborhood - Quick Canadian Version, part 1

The kid in the line for customs that looks like a young C. Montgomery Burns*
You'll recognize this kid from the gigantic backpack he carries, which is so large that it may very well contain the Ark of the Covenant. As a result, young Monty is hunched over like Quasimoto. It's fairly obvious that the entire set of encyclopedias in his bag are more important than his posture.

*Mr. Burns of The Simpsons, for those who may be confused.


The old man in the line for customs with the eyebrows
Yes, I realize most people have eyebrows, but this guy has the kind that make you look once... twice... and then a third time, just to make sure you are not hallucinating. This elderly gentleman could best be described as having a a gray gerbil perched above each eye. The eyebrow hairs were longer than those atop my head, and the silvery drooping over each peeper had to impair his vision just a bit.


The cab driver so interested in telling the author about the town he grew up in that he looks directly at him, instead of at the car traveling 100 km/hour that is about 0.8 m in front of his cab
Picture the author smiling and nodding in polite fashion, while also gripping his seat's armrests so tightly that his wrists ache and his eyes exhibit a terror only seen in horror films... Welcome to Montreal, Derek!

A Heartfelt Farewell

This is dedicated to my neighbor down the hall. You will be missed, neighbor.

It was a great surprise today when I noticed your Penske truck parked in front of the apartment building; door open and ramp down. After all, I didn't even know you were moving. How about providing a little warning?

Granted, prior to today I could not have picked you out of a possible neighbor lineup (for all I knew, two chimps wearing capris lived in your apartment)... but still, it was not easy see all your things packed up*.

*The "was not easy" part may or may not deride from the fact that your stuff was all over the place, making it difficult for me to even get up the stairs.

The large cardboard box overflowing with issues of Thrasher magazine tells me we would have been quick friends. After all, who doesn't love in-depth discussions about kickflips, ollies, and rail-grinding? I mean, it's all extremely riveting... or should i say killer**?

**This attempt at skateboard terminology brought to you by the "You Are Right, I Have No Clue What I'm Talking About" Foundation.

When I left my apartment after lunch, there you were down the hallway, pushing two packed boxes across the carpeting, caveman-prior-to-the-invention-of-the-wheel-style***. You're obviously a motivated person... No carrying one box at a time for you.

***I'm no Rhodes Scholar, but I might venture to guess that someone who reads more issues of Thrasher than should have ever crossed a printing press might own a skateboard himself. A skateboard is a mode of conveyance with wheels. A heavy box would be a lot easier to push if it were on top of a mode of conveyance with wheels... Hmmm...

It's tough to see you go, neighbor, but I do understand your motivation. The fact that these apartments lack a built in half-pipe was nearly a deal-breaker for me, too.

The People In Your Neighborhood - At The Movie Theater

It's readily apparent that I enjoy spending a bit of time detailing observations of folks I encounter on an everyday basis. Until today, I have never had the gumption to name such pieces so that they can be properly cataloged. I figured this series needed a hook. Where does an educated person look for inspiration? Naturally, they look to Sesame Street.

Sesame Street - People in Your Neighborhood (1988)


Anyway, on a trip to the movies Friday afternoon, I familiarized myself with a few of folks in your neighborhood (in your neighborhood... in your neigh-bor hoo-ood). These are the people you may meet at the movie theater...


The guy so beaten down by the life of a husband and father that he does not even know what movie he is seeing
TGSBDBTLOAHAFTHDNEKWMHIS (for short) usually comes in the form of a guy in his late 20s or early 30s. He has the run down look of a guy who has changed more diapers, read more stories, and played with more dollies than he ever imagined. How can you be sure you are encountering TGSBDBTLOAHAFTHDNEKWMHIS? Stand behind him in the line to purchase tickets. If he says to the girl behind the counter, "Yeah, gimme three for that panda thing," you can cross this guy off your "People I Need to Encounter" checklist.

That's right... He did not even bother to find out the name of the film he was about to sit through for 90 minutes. He knew it had a panda, he probably was aware it was animated, he realized there was little chance of nudity or grotesque humor, and apparently checked out. Hooray, film.


Mr. Curious
Mr. Curious has a little too much time on his hands. He's waiting in the lobby for other members of his party and he looks a bit like Richard Dreyfuss (particularly in What About Bob?). Hands stuck deep in his pockets, Mr. Curious strolls around the lobby, just looking to pass the time. A display for an upcoming movie, perhaps Space Chimps, catches his eye. It is constructed of different pieces, including a spaceship portion, that rocks gently.

Mr. Curious did not win his name in a poker game. He got it for a reason. How is that contraption rocking? He has to find out. Naturally, the best way to do this is a quick check of "what is under the hood." In this case, it involves stretching to his tiptoes to peek over the top of the display to see the backside... Curiosity fulfilled.


The bonehead sitting alone in the movie theater furiously typing notes into his phone so that he can remember things for a blog entry, trying to finish before the previews begin
... Ladies and gentlemen, your author!

It's Good To Be (at) the King

Three minutes and 41 seconds ago, I entered my apartment. Considering that I had a Burger King to-go bag in hand and that I had not consumed food of any sort for six hours, one might think that I would have sat down and torn the wrapper off my Tendercrisp sandwich. Yet, here I sit, typing away on my laptop.

What could cause such disregard for my own hunger? Have I suddenly become ill? Did I discover my food has been replaced with rat remains? Is a member of PETA holding me at gunpoint?

No.

I just experienced a magical moment one can only have at a place like Burger King.

Upon my entry in BK, I noticed group of teenage males waiting for their food. Naturally, I thought little of it.

After placing my order with the guy behind the counter (unfortunately the 65-year-old German woman who has worked there since the first Bush presidency was not in), I walked by the awkward group of guys. They were apparently discussing plans for setting of fireworks. The discussion included the following spat of verbal volleys:

"We have to wait awhile. It's not close to being dark yet."
"Yeah, but it can't be too dark. We have to be able to see the stuff."

... Checkmate.

I barely had time to hope that these kids were on the debate team before I noticed something. Something that will occupy my thoughts whenever I enter this royal burger establishment from now on.

Picture, if you can, the two nerds that befriend Billy Madison in the motion picture about the latter's return to school. It's lunchtime and Billy has food dumped on him by the eldest O'Doyle*. Two kids sitting across the table begin to tell Billy that he's become one of them... Someone unpopular (dun dun DUNNNNN).

*O'Doyle rules.

Hopefully, now that the scene is set, you're picturing those two kids. Now quit picturing the fatter one, and focus on the one with long hair.

Now picture the long-haired kid from Billy Madison standing in your local BK, discussing strategies for firecracker usage. This kid was the spitting image of him. I kept expecting him to look my way and reel off some spiel about "loser denial."

I was so taken aback, I could barely fill my Sprite. Luckily, I fought through and was able to hold back from asking him what it was like kissing the "mucus queen" at the end of the film.

This all was too much. My brain was overloaded. I needed the chick who was calling out order numbers with the zest of a death row inmate to give me my food so I could go home.

... Then the guy with the guy with the mullet that made his head kind of look like a black French poodle had suffered a cardiac arrhythmia atop it walked in....