Apple Store, between 4 and 5 am

This was the earliest I could get an appointment for my one true love.

Despite the pre-dawn hour, there are more than a dozen brightly-shirted Apple employees and as many maintenance crew bustling* about.

*if bustling is, say, 6 on a 1 to 10 scale, they are actually more of a 2, but It's Late and I'm Tired.

Skip to the interesting part, and it's the phenomena that is the... odd... Australian woman, the dual-sleeve tattooed Apple Guy, and me. We are strangers that are forced to interact as our computers quietly** whir away, fixing their own problems with the occasional click of guidance from Apple Guy. What strikes me is that while we are undoubtedly awash in awkwardness, none of us act or seem to feel awkward.

I know, right, "What happened to 'the interesting part?'"


UPDATED SUCKA!

**The whole reason I took my computer in was that it makes a terrible, awful, no good, very bad Grinding sound (think Electric Razor vs. Belt Sander in a gravel pit) . So naturally, for the hour I was there it was silent as a snowflake. Though Apple Guy was kind enough to make a big show of putting his ear next to it in all different places and saying, "Hmm, well, I don't hear anything yet, but maybe it will make some noise later!"

Smelly Books for Sale!

This place had a book fair the other day, only $1 a book.
But wait, that's not all!
Get there in the last hour, like I did, and you can get as many books as fit in a box for just $5!

Combing random piles of books to determine whether they are worth a dollar is a rigorous mental process. "Might someone else benefit from reading this? Do I need the extra clutter? Will I actually read this?"

But when volunteers begin barking "$5 a box," the criteria slacken a hair:
"Will this fit in the box? Does it have words and/or pictures on the pages? When the End Times come, how long will this burn, providing me warmth and light?"

When all was said and done, I think finding the Bridge to Terabithia was worth the $5. But I'm all set if I ever decide to visit Atlanta, Sicily, or Thailand, refinish some furniture, or need inspirational quotes for teachers or lawyers. Or if I can't sleep.

Variation on a Theme

"You can't fire me, I quit!"
or
"You can fire me, but when you realize what an asshole you are and offer to 'let' me come back, I will say to you: Thanks but No Thanks! [Asshole!]"

Speaking of themes, it's not unusual for me to be among the most diligent and competent workers at a company and simultaneously be the least paid/appreciated/respected. Honesty, reason, and an unwavering willingness to help out will get you nowhere at a lot of jobs, but I'm sure I'll find one where that's not the case.

The silver lining in this case is that there are a dozen people in the office who completely back me up, and are as sad to see me go as I am to leave. And I find that I am still capable of making difficult decisions based on principle. So it could be worse.

Yesterday -

Saw a kid stealing mouthwash from the corner store - my new credit score is 804 - returning desire to paint the 4th, white wall of my otherwise green room

Who I am

I am a condescending hypocrite with a big brain*, bigger heart, and a slew of abrasive defense mechanisms that, when balled up together, are bigger than 12 of those brains and 9 of those hearts put together. (Laid end to end they circle the earth 47 times, but I never thought that kind of visualization was very useful.)

I was born to have hairy legs, weird thumbs, and freckles - but also to have nice eyes, tall...ness, and, well, freckles.

I often blame my circumstances on...my circumstances, but I'm not afraid to take responsibility for my life.

I sometimes trick people into thinking I can really juggle by juggling for a few seconds, then acting like I don't feel like juggling anymore, when really if I tried to jug- one more -gle, I'd drop everything but I usually explain to those people that I've just tried to trick them into thinking I can juggle.

I write in a blog I know my family and a very few friends read, often revealing my innermost thoughts, but I don't write every day, week, month, or season. So what?**


((*I say to this to mean both that people often think I'm smart (I think they're wrong) and that I have a big head. Serious. Human hats don't fit on it. No lie. Send me a hat, I'll send you a picture of it not fitting on my head.))


Now, you have me at a disadvantage!
Who are you?
**and how was your summer?

There's this guy Paul,

and I am nearby when he tells this story, showing off a framed print of this comic book page, the intellectual property of Frank Miller:

"So I give it to the Kinko's girl to scan, and she says 'I can't do that sir, it's copyrighted material.' So I go, 'I'm Frank Miller." [Here, storytelling Paul freezes every facial muscle in what is no doubt a flawless recreation of his excellent poker-face deadpan.]

"Then she started to argue with me, so I cut her off - I'm Frank Miller."

It becomes obvious to me that his story is that he cleverly manipulated a Kinko's employee...but wait a minute. Would a Kinko's employee care? Would they go that far and not bother to check his ID? Above all else, why would a successful and published comic book artist need to go to freakin' Kinko's to get a medium-quality print of their own work??

So I call bullshit!

"Bullshit Paul! You did not tell the Kinko's girl you were Frank Miller."

"Yeah I did, buddy."

"You are such a liar."

Paul is already walking away, but turns to deliver this gem before shutting himself in his office:

"I don't lie Joe. It's not worth it."



(For those who are slow like me, I would point out that Paul is not Frank Miller)

Perfect timing

After tending bar, I return to the day job office to drop off my monkey suit and pick up my bike - it's about 9pm when I pull on my helmet and look out the window at distant flashes of what a coworker is calling "heat lightning." As my buddy and I pull into the street on our bikes, a wind starts to pick up.

After three blocks the wind has increased exponentially, and the intersection ahead of me is empty except for a giant dust storm that looks so angry I briefly consider stopping and looking for shelter for the night. But instead I close my right eye, turn my head, and push through it, feeling a sandblast of NY grime.

As we continue through Manhattan to the bridge, the persistent whirling dirt that dusts my eyes with grit mingles with a light, cold drizzle.

Finally, past all the belligerent truck drivers and sharp-turning cabs, we reach the bridge and its sheltered lanes of relative calm. There's hardly anyone else there, so I get to look over my shoulder at the near-constant white flashes above Manhattan.

Halfway across the bridge, the flashes have caught up; I can see them to the side and reflecting off tall buildings ahead.

Not one block into Queens, lightning flashes nearby and the intermittent thwack of fat raindrops on my helmet begins. A dozen long city blocks to go - I'm not going to beat this storm home but I couldn't be more thrilled! The rain increases in surges, retreating a little, then returning even thicker. Finally it drops all pretense - the thunder follows the lightning more and more closely until I can hear the individual branches of a bolt as it crackles above me. My tires are spitting water in a crazy arc and my eyes, squinted since the dust of Manhattan, narrow to allow just the glow of traffic signals and taillights. Going as fast as I can through drenching curtains of water while making sure I have enough time to react on the newly-wet road with just coaster brakes, I fishtail (mildly) only once.

I arrive at my doorstep dripping, beaming, taking a last look at the sky and the rain as someone high up in the apartment building across the way closes their window.

That was really, really fun.


*The red line represents the temperature this evening, dropping from 90 at the beginning of the ride to 70 toward the end. The wind speed went from below 8mph to 20mph in the same time period.