July 2019 – Deep Dark Thoughts

Flea Market

I recently visited my good friend, Wes Blalock. My wife and I were invited to San Jose to spend the weekend at his home and we immediately took advantage of the opportunity to abandon our children for three days.

When we arrived at his house, he asked where EM1 and EM2 were. I told him they were unfortunately busy and couldn’t make the trip with us. It was easier to lie to him than to admit we snuck out of the house without telling the kids where we were going.

While we were visiting, Wes asked if my wife and I would like to go to a local flea market the following morning. The market is open on the first Saturday morning of every month and there are typically vendors from all over the region that set up booths and tents in the parking lot of a local community college. Since I love digging through other people’s stuff and I have no problem spending money on garbage I don’t need, I immediately agreed to go.

The market opened at 8 AM sharp. As I am all about punctuality, I rolled out of bed at 8:45, brushed my teeth and threw on some clothes, then wandered into the kitchen looking for something to eat. I found my wife, Wes and his wife in the kitchen waiting for me.

My wife glared at me and said, “We’ve been ready to go for an hour.”

Wes threw a bagel in my direction, picked up his car keys and headed for the front door.

The drive to the flea market was uneventful. Mostly because no one was talking to me. I sat quietly and gnawed on my bagel while my wife made comments that were little more than thinly veiled attacks. “I hope we still get there early enough to get parking.” “I hope we have enough time to explore before it gets too hot.” And, “I wish my husband had more consideration for other people.”

That last one wasn’t even thinly veiled.

When we arrived, we did indeed find parking. It might have been the last spot available in the lot, but we found it. We exited the car and wandered into the collection of colored overhangs, stalls, and booths, finding ourselves immediately surrounded by hundreds of items scattered over tables, laid on blankets, and occasionally just piled in open boxes.

Before we wandered in too deep, I went to an ATM conveniently positioned in the first row of booths. Due to my love of shiny objects, I figured I was going to need some cash, so I slipped my bank card into the machine and tried to make a withdrawal. Either there was a problem with my card or with my savings account, but either way, the results of the transaction were not what I had hoped. The machine spat out my card along with a receipt full of zeros then asked me to go panhandle somewhere else.

Gripping my receipt in one hand and what remained of my dignity in the other, I returned to the rest of my group and told my wife the ATM was broken. I asked Wes if he could lend me a few bucks, and he said, “I’d be happy to, just as soon as you pay back what you already owe me.”

He could have just said, no.

The rest of the day went about as you would imagine. Walking through a flea market with no money is a lot like … well, like being anywhere with no money. Feel free to look, but don’t touch. Whenever I found something I was interested in, I had a conversation with the vendor that went like this:

“How much are you asking?”

“Twenty dollars, sir.”

“Will you take a dollar?”

This would be followed by either laughter or profanity. In one instance, I got both.

Needless to say, I did not end up purchasing any of the fine goods available at the market. My wife, on the other hand, purchased a couple of orchids from a vendor selling plants. I didn’t ask her where she got the cash to buy the flowers. I was worried if I made her mad at me again she might not let me ride home in the car with everyone else. Instead, I just put out my hands and asked if I could carry her stuff.

I’m not the brightest husband out there, but I have figured a few things out. Such as, if you’re still alive after poking the bear once, don’t go back and try it again.

The rest of the weekend passed much more smoothly. I enjoy hanging out with Wes and his family quite a bit and it was a nice break from my own rotten kids. In addition, I got to nap on the couch and watch TV while Wes did all the cooking and household chores. How could that not be a great weekend?

The only downside is that we did eventually have to go back home. I don’t think Wes felt that was as much of a downside as I did. I’m not saying he was eager to see us leave, I’m just saying that my car doesn’t actually need to be push started. Still, there he was, leaning against the back of the car, yelling, “Go, go, go!”

He’s always ready to lend a helping hand.

That’s why he’s such a great friend.

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Movie Time

I love to go out to the movies. What I don’t like is having to go out to the movies with all the other people who love to go out to the movies. I understand that the theaters need to sell tickets in order to stay in business, but there is a part of me that believes every theater room should have one seat and one seat only. You buy your ticket, go in and watch the movie in complete privacy, then go home.

I have never liked crowds, so this is nothing new. I typically go to the movies on Tuesday during the first screening of the show I want to see. Statistically, Tuesdays are the days that the fewest people go to movies, so this is not coincidence. I also choose movies that have been showing for a few weeks already so most people who want to see it have already done so.

Despite these precautions, I am still besieged by other people who, for some reason, believe they have as much right to be in the theater as I do. I don’t know where they get these ridiculous ideas.

Most people in a theater are pretty considerate of others and I really don’t have a problem with them. This is about 95% of the theater-going audience. It’s the other 5 percent that always seem to manage to have a representative in the room when I am there that make me want to stand out front with a picket sign proclaiming, “Shut up or get out,” and “Ushers should be armed.”

Desperate times require desperate measures.

We all know the people I’m referring to. We have all dealt with them at one time or another. If you can’t think of a single time that you were bothered by someone in a movie theater, it’s probably because you’re one of them.

First on my list for banishment are the loud talkers, loud eaters, loud laughers, and just generally loud everything. These are the people that sit five rows away from you, but you can still hear their “whispered” conversation as if they were sitting in your lap. Usually they love to chat during the previews (which I dislike but am not going to make a big deal about), then decide the conversation they started needs to be finished even if it goes on for the first ten minutes of the movie. These are the same people who bring their own noisy food which they inevitably unwrap at the quietest parts of the movie. The worst of this bunch are the ones who have seen the move already and happily announce to the rest of the people in the theater things like, “Oh, there’s the guy that’s going to shoot the dog later.”

Next on my hit parade are the parents who bring little kids to mature-themed movies because $8 is cheaper than a babysitter. I don’t care if you think you need a couple hours away from the house or you really wanted to watch this particular movie, if you’re going to emotionally scar your offspring, do it at home like the rest of us. There are plenty of things you can stream on your TV to give Junior a pathological fear of chainsaws.

Leave the kid outside tied to a tree if you must, but don’t let the little brat into the theater. While I’m watching scantily-dressed teenagers get cut open with a meat hook, I don’t want to hear, “Daddy, what’s that man doing to the other man? Why is that girl running away from him?” Usually followed immediately by, “I have to go potty.”

Sick people should also be verboten from any theater. I saw a movie once where I had to listen to the guy behind me sniff, cough and sneeze through the entire show. The noise was bad enough, but the fact he brought his plague virus into a sealed and crowded room to share with the rest of humanity should be a crime in all fifty states. I can’t say with 100 percent certainty that this guy was the reason I came down with a nasty cold less than a week later, but I would still like to run into him in a dark alley someday so I can kick him in the nuts.

Okay, that might be a bit harsh. Maybe just one nut.

The left one.

There are so many more theater pests that I think should be fitted with shock collars at the front door, but no one has the time to read my entire list. A couple more quick ones are: People who check their phones during the movie so that it lights up the entire theater. People sitting next to you that you’ve never met before but have decided they want to chat or “tell you something funny.” People who snore.

Yes, I said snore.

I actually had a man sitting next to me who fell asleep while we were watching “Thor: Ragnarok.” I don’t know how the hell he managed it, but about midway through the flick, he was slumped to the side of his chair and making more noise than the movie soundtrack.

I mean, come on. If you’re that bored with a movie, just get up and walk away for crying out loud.

Although I have already for the most part given up on humanity, I am not going to give up on my movies. I will continue to go to the theater and watch whatever strikes my fancy. I will also be silently judging everyone else who chooses to be in the theater with me. I will be the old guy in the fifth row who keeps turning around to stare at people and mutter obscenities under his breath.

If you see me, feel free to say hi. Then please gather up your things and exit the theater.

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Happy Birthday, ‘Merica

Last week was the Fourth of July. If you live in the USA, that is sort of a big deal, since it is the day we celebrate the birth of our country. We go out in the yard, blow some stuff up, and barbeque burgers on the grill as a patriotic gesture of our love and respect for this great nation.

If you live outside the US, then it was just another Thursday. You, of course, can still go outside and blow some stuff up, but it will no longer be a celebration. It will simply be vandalism.

For the Fourth, this year we invited several friends and family members to our home for the festivities. I fired up the grill and cooked burgers and hot dogs, provided plenty of sodas and alcohol, and even set up our inflatable pool for anyone who wanted to swim.

A quick side note: our pool is only two feet deep and eight feet wide, so by “swim” I mean sit in one place and try not to move around too much so the water doesn’t all splash out.

Most of the invitations were met with a series of questions. Things like: “Will there be fireworks?” “Can I bring some fireworks?” and “What kind of fireworks do you have?”

Unfortunately, I live out in the country. My house is surrounded by acres of dried brush and scrub trees or, as some people call it, “kindling.” Any attempt at lighting fireworks within a ten-mile radius of my home would most likely result in a smoldering pile of ash that used to be the house. Because of this, I advised everyone that fireworks would not be part of the activities. Most people were okay with this development, however, many of the teenaged members of our family suddenly remembered previous engagements they had made elsewhere.

I don’t mind. I prefer the kids go light someone else’s house on fire. It’s makes less impact on my own insurance.

For the younger children, my wife’s cousin came up with the wonderful idea of bringing glowsticks to the party. When it got dark, the kids broke open the glowsticks and proceeded to decorate the entire yard with multi-colored lights. It was quite the display. Plus, I didn’t have to worry about fires when somebody threw a couple of the light sticks up onto the roof. Of course, I still have to figure out how to get that litter off of my roof, but that is a problem for another day.

Maybe I can grab the burned out glowsticks in December when I’m up on the roof stringing lights for Christmas. Of course, I’m kidding about that. I never took the Christmas lights down from 2017.

The best part of the evening was right before the sun set. A friend brought a really nice bottle of Irish whiskey to my home as a gift. Although this was supposed to be an American celebration, I decided in the name of international relations to allow the foreign alcohol to come to the party. That turned out to be a very good decision.

Although no fireworks got lit that night, myself and several other guests certainly did.

I shared a few cigars with those that wanted to partake, poured several shots of the whiskey, then sat back to watch the kids bludgeon and whip each other with glowsticks. My rapidly blurring vision made the whole spectacle even more magical as I stared at the flashing red, blue, green, and yellow lights.

At one point, I thought I had begun to hallucinate as a blue disk of light began to float around my chair. As it turns out, somebody had put a ring of glowsticks on the dog and she was just running in circles trying to get it off. I would have helped her, but with a cigar in one hand and whiskey in the other I was already fully occupied.

I have my priorities.

I think, in general, the evening was a success. Everyone appeared to have a good time. I ate too much and I drank too much, which I believe is completely appropriate. If the good ol’ U. S. of A. represents anything, it is excess and self-indulgence, and I am certainly the poster child for both of those.

Perhaps the only downside is now that the Fourth of July is over, there are no more holidays to celebrate for a couple of months. The closest excuse to party is Labor Day which doesn’t come around until September.

I did notice on a calendar that Canada celebrates Civic/Provincial day on August 5^th. Which makes me think of another great American tradition: Cultural appropriation.

Happy Civic Day, eh?

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Happy Birthday to Me

Last weekend, I celebrated yet another birthday. On Saturday, I turned WTF years old.

It would be nice if people reached a certain age and birthdays just stopped happening, but unfortunately that’s not how the process works. You get a new one every year whether you want it or not.

I started my special day by waking up before anyone else in the house had started moving. Ordinarily in these circumstances, I would immediately begin making as much noise as possible to wake up the kids. They have an annoying habit of sleeping in until noon if left alone and I get a great deal of pleasure out of making their lives miserable. This day was different, however. I figured a quiet house was just what I needed.

Breakfast was a birthday bowl of cold cereal. A birthday bowl of cereal is like a normal bowl of cereal except there are usually a few more tears in it. I debated putting a candle in the bowl to make it more festive, but I’m pretty sure a candle won’t light after it has been submerged in milk. To add to the air of desperation, I had to eat my breakfast with an oversized serving spoon because no one had bothered to do any dishes that week. That’s okay, though. I managed just fine since I have a big mouth. I know I have a big mouth because people have been telling me that my entire life.

Things did pick up in the afternoon. As a gift to me, my family took me to a movie and a restaurant for dinner. I got to choose the movie, and I got to pick my favorite restaurant. As an added bonus, I also got to pay for everything.

Happy birthday to me!

While we were at the theater, I bought some popcorn. I always have popcorn when I see a movie. It’s just my thing. Usually when my wife and I get popcorn we argue over whether or not to put butter on it. I prefer it dry, since I don’t like the plasticky burnt taste of the fake butter. I also hate how greasy it makes my fingers. My wife loves the stuff for some unknowable reason and insists that it be used to ruin an otherwise perfectly good tub of popcorn.

We usually argue in line for a few minutes and when we get to the front counter, she tells the kid working the snack bar to add the butter. This was my birthday, though. So, on this day when we got to the kid behind the counter … she told him to add butter.

Then I paid for the snacks.

Happy birthday to me!

I enjoyed the movie, and dinner afterwards was pleasant. I swore the kids to secrecy about my birthday. I didn’t want them telling the waiter just so they could watch dad squirm in his chair as the restaurant staff sang an offkey version of a birthday song while holding a melting blob of ice cream with a candle in it. I enjoy a free dessert as much as the next guy, but I don’t care to be the center of attention in a circus like that.

So, while we were eating, I told the waiter that it was EM2’s birthday.

After dinner, we headed home for a quiet evening. A little late-night television, a glass of wine, and two kids laughing and arguing while they watched videos on their phones.

And there was cake.

Lest anyone think we forgot the most important part of any birthday celebration, my wife baked me a lovely, homemade, chocolate birthday cake. She even managed to find a pink box to put it in and a sticker with a barcode to put on the side of the box. She always goes the extra mile because she loves me so much.

My wife covered every square inch of the cake’s surface with candles, then applied a blowtorch to it for three minutes to get them all lit. Okay, that part’s a lie. It’s just my attempt at an old age joke. The reality, though simpler, was actually much more depressing.

My wife rummaged in the junk drawer, located a single candle at the bottom of the clutter, and stuck it in the cake. The family sang Happy Birthday to me, hurrying to get through it before they completely lost interest in what they were doing. Somehow my daughters managed to get through the song without ever once looking up from their cellphones. Maybe they just forgot the words and had to read them on their screens.

After fourteen or fifteen attempts, along with a five-minute rest break when I got dizzy and started to hyperventilate, I blew out the candle. (Yup. Another old age joke.)

The kids both grabbed a piece of cake and disappeared upstairs to watch a Korean soap opera. My wife took two bites of her cake, set it on the counter and started answering work e-mails on her cellphone. I got to work cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.

Ah, yes. I can’t wait to do it all again next year.

Happy birthday to me!

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