brain dump

is it still an honor if they spelled it wrong?
  • Does it seem like it’s getting dark really early? I know we just switched from daylight saving time (an outdated irritation), and that’s certainly part of it. But it starts getting dark around 4:30PM. By 6PM, it’s night. I don’t remember it getting dark so early in past years. This is probably a stupid question, but it’s really been bothering me.
  • Saw the same car on the way to work Monday and Tuesday mornings this week. I remembered it because its license plate reads EVIL E. On Monday, I wondered whether that stood for Evil Eye, Evelyn, Evil Erin, Ice T’s DJ… Then I saw it again on Tuesday, about fifteen minutes later than Monday but in approximately the same spot, and it made me think that the cosmos was repeating patterns. That theory was validated when I got to work and did the exact same thing I’d done on Monday. To change things up today, I didn’t wear pants to work. Didn’t see EVIL E either, so maybe it worked.
  • We’ve had a natural gas leak at the end of our driveway for two weeks. We called it in on Halloween night. Someone came out around 11:30PM, said he couldn’t fix it but it wasn’t a “bad” leak. A few days later, when no one had come to fix the leak and I was tired of smelling it every time I exited my driveway, I called it in again. This prompted a hillbilly voicemail letting me know we were “on the list” and I shouldn’t call it in again because we were “on the list.” He said “on the list” approximately 734 times in the sixty-second message. He called again two more times, finally catching me on the third round, and again told me about the list. I asked if he could give me an indication of when we’d be at the top of the magical list, and he said that all he could tell me was “We know about the leak. It ain’t bad because it ain’t sputterin’ or hissin’ or nothin’, so you don’t need to worry about it. You’s on the list.” Well, hillbilly gas man, you’re on my list too. Now come fix my fucking gas leak. Please, with NASCAR on top.
  • I like to hand wash my car whenever possible, but a recent day found me with a muddy car and no cash. I went to Bubbles for a quickie no-touch wash. Since I was last there (months ago), the place has become almost completely automated. There used to be a guy who took your order and swiped your card, then another two or three who directed you into the machine and scrubbed the front and back bumpers. On this trip, I took my own order and swiped my own card. There was one guy cleaning the front and back bumpers and another guy lurking in the vacuum area, but that was it. Though I am at times hermit-like and don’t mind limited human interaction, I thought this kind of sucked. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto. Thanks for taking our jobs.

UPDATE: A number of you expressed concern here and elsewhere about my gas leak (har har), so I wanted to provide an uneventful update. I called Center Point and had a bit of a chat with a lovely young man who seemed to understand the bad PR possibilities of a CP employee telling me to quit calling about an active gas leak that I can easily smell whilst walking by.  I told the dude that after those houses blew up in Indianapolis (either from a gas leak, asteroid or missile), it made me afraid that we might have a bigger leak underground that will show itself in dramatic fashion. I hope it’s as inconsequential as the hillbilly suggested it was, through a mouth full of Skoal and not teeth, but I’d rather be on the safe, non-explosive side.

The guy on the phone said that customers should never feel like they can’t call a leak in and that he’s put our work order on the fast track. We’ll see what happens. In the interim, don’t wear your skates over to my house.

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10 responses to “brain dump”

  1. A guy that lives by Joe’s parents here in central Austin complained of a gas leak…his whole house blew up a few weeks later. He’s now on an obit list.
    Call someone else or hope your car and the gases don’t meet up at the same time.

    • There’s no leak in our house (they checked, plus I have a nose for this sort of thing). The leak is at the street, and we have a huge front yard. However, I do worry about shit blowing up. I thought I’d give them a call later today (our two-week anniversary) to see about “the list.”

      I think a lot of Center Point crews went east after Sandy, which I assume is contributing to the delay.

  2. You should call back and tell him that YOU really don’t care when they come, but that you’ve noticed that all of the smokers on the street congregate at the end of your driveway, and many of them have relatives in the media or who are trial lawyers.

      • Related by marriage. Wife Number One was the grandaughter of Gwen Verdon. Fosse wasn’t in it, except as Gwen’s husband. But Gwen was a houseguest in my pre-trailer park life, staying at my house by the beach with Number Two during the filming of Marvin’s Room. Imagine my joy at having a star in the house (less than fun when ya ain’t starstruck) swapping girl talk about my stellar qualities as a husband with my second wife while Lola was trying to get what Lola wanted, which was apparently my ruin and damnation. But I bear her no grudges, other than the fact that she saw me as a bad guy when I was actually closer to her kind than the rest of the gang.

        But let me tell ya a little something. That fuckin’ Leonardo DiCaprio ain’t from this planet. Sparks come off him when you are in the same room. People try to emulate that kind of sparkle but it isn’t a learned thing; some stars are born. Gwen? Same thing. At seventy she was a hot bitch. Seriously. They don’t call them stars by accident. They have some kind of inherent cosmic quality that Walt called “pixie dust.”

        Maybe I am starstruck. CryJack, as you well know, i can go on like this all night. I seem to be one thousand years old, and feeling it. Let me know.


        • Well isn’t that a little bit of interesting trailer park trivia. And really, what were you thinking, having a former mother-in-law come calling? Nothing good was gonna come out of that.

          You’ve seen that video of Gwen’s that Beyonce ripped off, right?

          I always thought the sparkles were from all the cocaine.

          • Nothing is ever up to me. Miss Verdon was coming to see her great grandchild and #2 was a daughter of the theatre so while I did grunt work in the trenches the ladies cooked up their evil schemes and glad-handed on set while I endeavored to pay for it all. I am only peripherally aware of Beyonce and I refuse to know more. This foul treachery extended to Chicago where my second darling is from and my second son was born. And yes, I know about Gwen Verdon and Chicago. She told me that Richard Gere was a sweetheart and that Nicholas Cage was the creepiest human she had ever met. All this name dropping is making me thirsty.

            There are a handfull of stories in the archives about Gwen and one long poem. The poem was written for the insiders who were there. No big deal, but a wild ride nonetheless.

            Cocaine? Don’t ask. The spark you are born with; the powder is what the groundlings use in search of the stars.


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