Cars of a Bygone Era

As I was driving home and mindlessly fiddling with MP3 player, texting on my cell phone, eating a foot long sandwich and making an obscene gesture at a lovely elderly woman who apparently had forgotten that her car was equipped with a blinker and was evidently unaware that in the not to distant past America instituted something called the lane system, wherein each driver has a designated horizontal space in which to maneuver their vehicle, I observed in front of me a great classic vehicle from my childhood. The driver in front of me had somehow got his hands on an automobile believed by most, including yours truly, to be extinct:

The Pea Green Station Wagon With Wood Panel Sides

The greatest thing that came to my memory about this specific car was that on some of the models the third row of seats (which was actually the back side of the second row if my memory serves me correctly) actually faced out the back of the car, affording the passengers an unparalleled view through the large picture window. Even with the view being an excellent attribute to this seating position, the back seat was the least coveted position imaginable. When I was a child, this was the punishment seat for unruly, disgruntled children to which my sibling and I were banished to by our heartless parents. Our car actually had lap belts in those seats, and we were ordered to stay in them, lest we would discover the torture that would befall us if our father “had to pull this car over”. When my sibling and I would argue, or incessantly ask if we were there yet, my parents had the option of placing us in the back seat, thereby creating the greatest possible physical distance between us and them. By making us remain in our lap belts, it was difficult to turn around, which afforded them the pleasure of not having to see our tortured, little faces that were distorted from several minutes of crying, and rather they could pretend everything was fine by only having to see the mundane backs of our heads in the review mirror. Given that we had to face away from the front seat dignitaries, coupled with loud music and the fact that we were seated as far as possible from our parental units, we were subjected to an acoustical nightmare which rendered our constant pleas for food, water and bathroom breaks mute (let’s at least go along with the pretense that they could not hear us, and that they weren’t secretly just ignoring us). The more I thought about that heinous back seat, the more I cringed inside, and desperately wanted to reminisce about a more pleasant car from my childhood. The funny thing is that the only cars that would come to the forefront of my mind were cars that, in today’s world, would be considered gross safety hazards on wheels.

The Datsun 240Z

This little death trap belonged to my mother around the time I was probably six or seven years old. These were the grand times of lax safety laws which entitled an adult to not only endanger their own safety by not wearing safety belts, but also the liberty to play vehicular Russian Roulette with their children as well. I have no other explanation for my mother’s lack of regard for the safety of her two sons other than somewhere she must have read an ad, or possibly the owner’s manual, that recommended that the small hatchback portion of the car could be used for a small suitcase, a bag of golf clubs, or possibly two juvenile males. Day after day on the way to school I sat in that match-box sized space closer in proximity than one brother should be to another, in all actuality never probably realizing the possibility that all it would take would be for some other driver, in a car only slightly bigger than ours, to lose focus and come careening into our fragile cocoon, causing my brother and I to be the first documented case of accident-induced Siamese Twinism. But yet, here I am unscathed after all those dangerous rides. I guess mother’s do know best.

 

Big Ol’ Pickup Truck

During the spring and summertime I played baseball in the few years approaching my tenth birthday. After getting our free watered down soda from the marginally sanitary snack shack after the game, I remember jumping, without a care in the world, into the bed of my dad’s unshelled truck. Like the 240Z, there were no seat belts in the back of the truck, and no pesky laws at the time requiring them. Seat belts were reserved for the first-class passengers in the cab of the truck. I recall engaging in a little maneuver I liked to call the Actuary’s Nightmare (OK, so maybe it was not called that then. I did not even know what an actuary was until I was like 25). As if riding in the bed of the truck was not dangerous enough in itself, I exponentially increased the risk factor by sitting on the wheel well placing my center of gravity precariously higher than the side of the truck while sticking my head over the side and looking down at the menacing road which loomed only a few feet away as we motored down the road at 40-50 miles per hour. Not only did sitting on the wheel well place me higher, therefore becoming more susceptible to being plastered in the face by 100 mile an hour mosquito missiles and flying pebble projectiles launched by the wheels of cars in front of us, I was also stupidly subjecting myself to the possibility of being thrown out of the truck due to a sudden swerve or unforeseen pothole, which would have scraped off my joy-filled, youthful face, and left in its place a countenance most closely resembling uncooked hamburger with little rocks and pebbles imbedded in it.
I am simply thankful that despite the repeated ill-advised flaunting of my bravado in the face of certain danger in the bed of the truck, and the hazard-laden rides in the cramped back seat of the 240Z, nary an injury did I suffer during my adventures in the cars of my childhood.

Light Me Up!

A couple of weeks ago I decided to engage in a little winter time grilling. I had not had BBQ chicken for quite sometime, and decided that my taste bud’s urge for this particular fowl would be satiated on this evening. I happily hummed to myself as I retrieved the charcoal from my closet, and poured it into the grill’s awaiting pit. I stacked the briquettes as instructed into a small pyramid (although I have tried many a time, unsuccessfully, to recreate a 1:132 scale replica of the Taj Mahal out of charcoal lumps. I would be eternally indebted to anyone who has had success with such a venture and is able to send me a complete set of schematic drawings). I then attempted to light the charcoal, but they refused to ignite. I even attempted to place some paper underneath the charcoal to get it going, but to no avail. I eventually had to admit defeat, and resorted to cooking the chicken in the oven.

After eating my dried-out oven-baked yard bird, and feeling quite disgruntled about not being able to use my grill, I pondered the idea of authoring a scathing correspondence to the maker of this disappointing product. I then thought better of this, and decided that the optimum results would be obtained by using the transparent management technique they teach at every single supervisor/manager training: Start with a positive, follow up with a concern. “Gee Bob, thanks for coming in today. So, I really like how you sharpen your pencils in such an efficient manner, however you are not allowed to randomly punch transients while wearing your work uniform. Your being demoted. Have a good weekend.” I adapted this technique to my letter by raving about the all the positive aspects of the product and my past successful experiences with their brand of charcoal. I then followed up my compliments by deftly deflecting all the excuses they would potentially give as to why the product may no longer be working as intended. The product was only approximately six months all old, I had kept the product out of inclement weather (specifically rain) and had kept the package tightly closed as instructed (by the way, all of this was true. I was not attempting in any way to defraud this company, and believed I truly had a defective product). I then explained the problems I was experiencing, and thanked the company for considering my letter. I did not ask for reimbursement for the product, although I would be lying if I was not secretly hoping for some type of monetary compensation, along with a personal letter of apology from the president of the company and the firing of all line staff involved in the production of my specific bag of inferior charcoal nuggets.

Today, I went to the mailbox, and was ecstatic to find therein an envelope from the charcoal maker. I eagerly opened the envelope and out fell a coupon for a gratis bag of charcoal. I thought to myself how awesome it was that there were still companies out there that put customers first and cared about making a quality product. My joyful revelation quickly turned first to confusion over the absurdity of a portion of their response letter, followed soon after by the emotionally devastating pain most commonly endured by a jilted lover. An excerpt of the letter reads as follows: “We’re sorry to hear about your recent issue with the charcoal not lighting. Please be assured that this is very unusual and we would not expect this to occur. We are happy to enclose a coupon for reimbursement.” OK, I have two comments. 1) Do you really have to say you would not expect your product to be defective? Are other companies actually sending out responses to complaint letters that say things like “Your letter means a lot to our company. We purposefully do not securely attach the heads to our hammers in the hopes that they will break loose mid-swing and fly into the unprotected foreheads of unsuspecting handymen like you described in your letter. Mission accomplished!” or “Thank you for using our condoms. They failed as we had planned. Congratulations on your impending bundle of joy.” 2) The second comment that “this is very unusual” implies that I must be lying, but they aren’t going to come right out and say that. The translation of the second and third sentences is quite clear: “We don’t believe a damn word you are saying, and full well know that you are just claiming to have had a problem with your perfectly adequate charcoal in the hopes you will get a coupon for a free bag of charcoal. Well, here is your free coupon. We hope you choke on your next grilled meal, and will be maniacally laughing at your funeral.” I can just see it now. This company has probably made a folder with my name on it, along with my alleged fraudulent complaint inside, and a descriptor stamped in large red lettering on the outside “Suspect Complainer”. Now I know how Hester Prynne felt.

Questionable (At Best) Signage

I realized last evening that despite my intent to continue to procrastinate, and believe I had all the time in the world to complete my yuletide tasks, Christmas was beginning to bare down on me like a gluttonous buffeteer salivating over a new hot pan of fried chicken at Sizzler, and there was no stopping it. So I headed out with the masses last night to try and finish up the majority of my Christmas shopping. During my travels around town, I witnessed some very interesting signage here and there.

The first occurred while I was shopping in an unnamed large discount store. I came across a sign in front of some batteries. The price displayed was not exceptionally low and was of no significant consequence, except the way in which the price was displayed for multiple items: Battery 4-packs: $3.99, 2 for $7.98, 3 for $11.97, 4 for $15.96. Many stores will offer you a discount for buying multiple items, which is pretty kindly of them, and I figured this merchandiser was doing so as well. My nerd math brain then kicked in and thought wait a gall darn minute. That is no discount at all. These sneaky grinches had perverted the time honored tradition of buy more, save more, and simply listed the prices for buying up to four packages, all at $3.99 per piece. I tried to make sense of the sign, and came to the conclusion that either the company was just trying to bamboozle the public, or the producer of this joyfully holiday embroidered piece of paper had taken a class in asinine sign making. Maybe there was a limit of four per person, and they simply wanted to let you know how much they were if you bought four. I scanned the sign, and nope, no such limit. I then began to become disappointed in my heart of hearts as I needed six packages, and they had totally neglected my needs by stopping at four. How ever would I figure out how much my purchase total would be? If only there was some type of machine located near the exit where you would take all your purchases, they would add the total for you, and a disgruntled, underpaid cashier would tell you how much you owed in an incomprehensible mumble. Dare to dream I guess. Here’s a holiday tip for the management: Unless you are offering some type of multiple purchase deal, quit wasting ink on this type of sign, and then upping your prices to the consumer due to all your excessive ink usage.

After leaving this establishment I headed down a major street and passed by an unbelievable banner outside of a local Mexican food restaurant, whose business sign read “authentic Mexican food“. I really expected to see the typical signage saying “Try Our Great Fajitas” or “$1.99 Margaritas from 5-7”, but instead my eyes focused on a huge red and white banner that said, “Special: Cheeseburger, Fries and Soda, $5.99”. Does anything signify complete loss of confidence in your “specialty” product more than advertising a completely unrelated product? The only way this restaurant could have outdone this not-so-subtle implication that its food is nothing more than culinary fecal matter on a Goodwill plate, is to put on its sign “We Have Clean Restrooms!”

A few minutes later I arrived at my final destination: a poorly lit, customer barren mall on the other side of town fraught with no-name shops and vacant store fronts. As I walked in the front door, I noticed yet another new business that is so common in this revolving door of failed business ventures thinly disguised as a mall. The general idea actually was quite clever. The establishment was called Evening Dental, and advertised providing dental services to customers in the evening/night-time hours that are unable to make it to the dentist during traditional daytime hours. As I began to mentally applaud the genius that came up with this idea, my applause turned to a gargantuan two thumbs down as I noted the business’ logo, written in dramatic Old English Lettering, “ED”. Sure, I get it. Evening Dental. ED. But when an acronym is so famous for something, particularly of a less desirable nature, it is probably not a good idea to use it, lest you be the subject of ridicule in someone’s personal blog. You don’t see Personal Messenger Service or the Frankfurt University of Culinary Knowledge using their acronyms, do you? The only thing that would have made this any more classic would have been for the window to have had an Oedipal-level dramatically ironic motto such as “Evening Dental: We’re Up All Night Long.” In this time of stressful shopping, at least sign makers are keeping me entertained and providing me a little holiday cheer.

Cast of Characters: A Christmas Program Story

Tonight was the night for my 6-year old son’s Christmas Program at his after school program. The attendance at the child’s Christmas Program is something that our grandparent’s did, our parent’s did, we continue to do, and generations of the future will do as well. Going hand in hand with the Christmas Program is every parent’s obligation to capture this moment for posterity via video camera (and the child’s unavoidable eventual embarrassment when the video is shown to the first girlfriend/boyfriend to visit the family home). As the show started, I firmly pressed the record button and panned the entire cast of the show. As I moved back and forth over these tiny performers with my camera, I observed through the viewfinder a cast of familiar characters that I can only assume has been present at every single Christmas Program since the dawn of time.

I first observed the Nose Picker. This kid was too busy searching the recesses of his nasal cavity to participate in any meaningful way in the performance. And this particular child was no amateur digital spelunker. This little guy was engaged in some serious and aggressive two-knuckle deep coagulated mucus mining.

My lens meandered to the outside edge of the ensemble and came into contact with the Space Cadet. This kid had absolutely no clue what was going on around him, and was staring at the side wall of the auditorium with a hydroponically cultivated marijuana two-joint gaze. He made none of the expertly choreographed hand motions that accompanied the songs, nor did he appear to know the words to any of the numerous songs. There were times during the program he moved his mouth, but I was unable to distinguish if he was making a futile effort to actually sing some of the songs, or if he was just mumbling incoherently to himself. I could just imagine that this would be the child that would suffer, in the coming spring, a minor concussion caused by a plummeting white stitched missile that beaned him in his half-empty melon while he was watching two ladybugs chew on a leaf rather than playing an attentive right-field on his t-ball team like he was supposed to. I began to experience true sorrow in my heart for this young child as I flashed forward in my mind to his future high school photo that would most certainly have the caption directly below his empty expression “Most Likely to be Livin’ in Oblivion” (please see my previous post by clicking here to see the characteristics of these tortured souls).

I could no longer allow that child’s ill-fated existence to dampen my holiday spirits, and quickly moved the camera only to find an even sadder sight than the Space Cadet: the Drama King/Queen. We all know this child. The poor child has been groomed since before birth to fulfill the failed dreams of a parent that continues to feverishly search for a way to capture at least a sliver of glory by living vicariously through their child in a desperate attempt to escape their current existence that is mired in mediocrity. It started with intrauterine cameras being inserted to capture the perfect fetal photograph to submit for Most Beautiful Zygote, then onto Best Looking Baby in the local newspaper, and several tiring months traveling to toddler talent and beauty pageants around the state. Years of beatings with a spiked stick have resulted in a child that never misses a dance step, maintains perfect posture even while sleeping and has perfected that façade of happiness the parent calls a smile. I easily spotted this child tonight as she maneuvered herself to the middle of the stage even though the show directors had placed her towards the edge of the stage. The child also sang the loudest and had the most demonstrative hand motions of the group, sometimes going so far as to improvise her own hand motions when the other children were following the stage directions as rehearsed. This blatant attempt at one-upping everyone on the stage made me want to punch the little snot in the throat, but I quickly realized that my anger was misguided and my flying-fist-o-fury should be directed at the idiot parent in the back of the room putting her fingers at the edge of her mouth encouraging the child to smile so wide the corners of her mouth touched her ears. As I completed a final pan of the singers with my camera, I smiled to myself as I realized that the remainder of the children appeared to be like my son: putting forth at least a decent effort, knowing some of the words, doing some of the hand motions, and constantly eyeing the back of the room where tables were holding cookies that had been promised to them by their parents if they would just “try their best”. Tis the season!

Does This Tattoo Accentuate My Nerdiness?

A year or so ago, I gave quasi-serious thought to getting a tattoo. At the time I was 33, and as nerdy as ever. A few of the females that I supervised at work at the time consistently, and without the slightest hint of faltering in their advice, consistently discouraged me from adorning myself with “The Devil’s Ink”. OK, so they didn’t use those exact words, and actually were not opposed to tattoos to my knowledge, however dissuaded me from getting one by gently and lovingly stating “you’re not a tattoo guy”. I acknowledge that tattoos on males typically express some level of Barney Badassness, and I would be described by most as a Gary Good Guy. I realized that they were right, and never did get a tattoo, but did not know until today how thankful I should be to those wonderful women who gave me such sage-like advice.

I was in the checkout line at a local convenience store, and when it came my turn to pay, I came face-to-face with a 45 year-old gentleman that bore a striking resemblance to Ward Cleaver,. This cashier could not have been more straight-laced, and even had the argyle cardigan sweater, neatly pressed slacks and penny loafers to prove it. As he was ringing up my purchase and I was dwelling on why an individual who was working at a convenience store would be so immaculately dressed, I noticed a miniscule shimmer coming from the left side of his head. Hello? What was that? A closer look, and with what would immediately evolve into a much too obvious disbelieving stare with my mouth agape, revealed a small diamond stud earring in Joe Cool’s dangling lobe. OK, sir, this is totally not you, and it is not 1985. Even if this guy fancied himself a modern day John Bender of Breakfast Club, there was no Claire Standish in sight, and this was just plain wrong, if not downright creepy.

During my drive home, while trying to shake the all-consuming image in my head of Mr. Rogers meets George Michaels (pre-moment of indiscretion in a public bathroom), I had another experience of “Square Peg Round Hole” when I witnessed a female, who had to be pushing sixty-five, wearing her saucy little sweat pants with the can’t-be-missed “JUICY” lettering across her ample derriere. The size of this lady’s backside was not the issue, but it just didn’t seem write for someone to be wearing their granddaughter’s clothes. When I see someone of an age that might be wearing depends, it is ironic, and more disturbing than anything I can presently conjure in my head, that they would chose to wear clothing with the word “juicy” on it. It was at that moment that I had an epiphany about the brilliance of the female council at work, and just how right they had been about certain things just not “fitting” some people. Thank you so much to those ladies, you know who you are.

Livin’ in Oblivion or Common Discourtesy? You Make the Call

On my way home this evening, I had several experiences that made me realize the increasing number of people who are either living in something akin to a heroin fueled trip in which they are oblivious to everything and everyone around them and are unable to focus on anything but themselves and their actions, or, in the alternative, these individuals are completely aware of others, and are so egotistical that the well being of others is squashed underfoot like an annoying bug that they have not even a pittance of feeling for. I left work and traveled through the adjacent hospital parking lot which I do night after night. As I entered the thoroughfare of the hospital parking lot, I found myself traveling behind someone who would be going backwards if they were traveling any slower. As I felt my anger build over having to drive behind this person at this abnormally slow pace, and being unable to pass, I became exponentially infuriated when they came to a complete stop, and just sat in the middle of the road. The people had what appeared to be a fully functional review mirror and side view mirrors, so I know darn well they were able to see me. But did they move for five, then ten, then twenty agonizing seconds? Absolutely not. Is it really that hard to realize that hey, you are not the only driver on the road? This is not that bizarre Twilight Zone episode where everyone has disappeared from the face of the earth. Just admit that you don’t know where the hell you are going, move over to the side or find a parking place and discuss with your equally oblivious traveling companion the complexities of the hospital parking lot, and let the rest of us get home before it is time to turn around and come back to work. The car’s driver finally came to a conclusion as to how to most effectively get to their desired destination and let me pass.

I then had to stop for some groceries, and was again perturbed by the irreverent behavior of a fellow shopper. I was having a very successful and pleasant shopping trip, had selected whatever it was I needed on the aisle and made my way to the end of the aisle to continue with my positive shopping mojo. I ran into a veritable shopping roadblock when another purchaser of consumer products stopped their shopping cart right in the middle of the end of the aisle, preventing my passage on either side. They then began to pick up their selection from the opposite side of the aisle. Instead of bringing to their attention that they were blocking me in, I chose to pretend I was in deep contemplation about whether to purchase creamed or whole kernel corn that was stacked on the other side of the aisle, figuring they would quickly make their selection and then move along allowing me to continue on my way. The guy then looked right at me thereby providing irrefutable evidence that he was aware of my existence, and then without experiencing the smallest morsel of remorse, he had the audacity to leave his cart in its inconvenient placement and walked down the aisle some 20 yards away from his cart and picked up other items. I immediately began to wish upon a star that my shopping cart had destructive blades sticking out of its side like an ancient Roman chariot, with which I could run down the side of my enemies cart, thereby eviscerating his inconveniently-placed buggy and spilling its precious cargo to the floor. But instead, I waited for the butthead to come back to his cart, move it out of the way, and then nod gratefully to him all the while casting a hex upon him that the avocado in his cart was overripe and was as dark inside as his heart.

After picking up the rest of my purchases, and successfully making it through the checkout line without experiencing any further major annoyances, I headed to my car. As soon as I approached my car, two young individuals in their early twenties sauntered over to me and the older one of the two, in full view of his loyal sidekick, asked for some spare change to buy something to smoke/snort/inject…err, I mean eat. I reached into my pocket and handed him all the change I had on my person, which was a grand total of approximately seventy-five cents. They then moved onto a gentlemen parked diagonally from me, and began solicitation him for donations. As soon as I had finished putting my purchases in my trunk, the young man who had not asked me for money came over to me and asked if I had any spare change. Hello? Were you not standing right here a second ago when your friend asked me for money, and I gave him what I had? Oh yeah, sure, I have change left young man. I purposefully gave your friend everything I had but held one nickel in reserve in case you were to come back and ask me for change. You know, if you paid as much attention in school as you have demonstrated this evening, I can totally understand why you are out here begging for money. I then told him I had just given his friend all the money I had in a tone of voice that implied compassion for his obviously diminished mental capacity and yet at the same time expressed my inward feelings of “pay attention to what is going on stupid!” I then got in my car and for a split second exacted my mental revenge by fantasizing about driving on a one lane road going five miles an hour in a 55 mile an hour zone in front of the individuals I had encountered this evening, reveling in the cacophony of honking horns and the flying expletives of the drivers behind me whose lips were covered with the spittle of their fury. Maybe someday.

Oh Mickey, You’re So Fine!

I must preface this blog by stating that it concerns the exploits of my six-year old son, “T”, and I at Disneyland Resort in Southern California. If you have not visited this amusement park, many of the references will most likely be lost on you. If you have visited California’s Magical Kingdom, then by all means read on my friend, read on.

“T” and I traveled to Disneyland from our hometown after he got out of school on a Friday afternoon. I truly fancy myself a modern day Clark Griswold of the Vacation movies franchise, and definitely believe in conducting my vacations/trips with the goal of experiencing maximum fun time. We left on a Friday afternoon so that we could stay the night, and get to the park as soon as they opened, which did occur as planned. When one arrives at Disneyland when they first open, the optimum strategy is to make your way to attractions that traditionally have the longest lines, and therefore you are able to get on these rides with minimum wait time before the parks population inevitably balloons to what I can only describe as a mass of stampeding humanity. Given that this trip focused on wanting “T” to have fun, I defered to him and allowed him to select the first ride. “Maximum fun time” approach was immediately scattered to the wind when he answered unequivocally “The monorail”. My well thought out arguments as to why the monorail is an illogical first ride choice coupled with pleas of desperation not to subject me to such an act of pure cruelty fell on the deaf ears of a six year-old child, and so the monorail it was to be. In all the years I have been visiting Disneyland, I never knew that you could ride in the very front of the monorail where the engineer/drivers sits. Heck, I never even knew there was a driver/engineer, and just figured the whole thing was run by the guy on the platform or maybe even at master control in the secret deep, dark recesses of the park, where unnatural acts take place including, but not limited to, the maintenance of the cryogenically frozen body of Walt Disney, the planning of how to sell even more products at exorbitant prices and perhaps the most depraved thing of all, the repeated torturing of unruly patrons who decide to rip off the plush masked heads of the beloved Disney characters walking throughout the park, those who won’t keep their damn heads and arms inside the rides or the worst offenders of all: those who use flash photography inside the Pirates of the Caribbean. Thanks to Disneyland employee of the year, Bill Mindyourowndangbusiness (I swear that was his last name), we were informed of our option to ride up front, which would end up being a pain in the butt for me as the trip went on. You see, there would be 4 ½ more trips on the monorail (no, I did not jump out of the car mid-trip because I could not take the ride anymore…we just went only half way around one time), during which one there would be tears in “T’s” eyes because he could not sit up front, and yet another ride during which we would wait for two different monorails so that we could ride up front. When we weren’t wasting our $70 park tickets riding a glorified train on stilts, we spent the majority of our day traversing the park in the most inefficient manner possible. The smart person would ride all the attractions in one land, and then move onto a new land. But not us. The “maximum amount of fun time” approach had been displaced with complete attraction visiting bedlam as we sporadically walked from one side of the park to the other, over to California Adventure and back again, in a pattern that made as much sense as flying from Los Angeles to Las Vegas with a layover in New York.

After a long day in the park, we decided to eat dinner outside of Disneyland, and I discovered that inside the park was not the only place to get financially raped for a meal. “T” had decided he wanted breakfast for dinner, so we decided to visit a familiar casual dining restuarant. I perused the menu, and thought some artery-clogging fried delicacies would hit the spot. Mozzarella sticks. Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Let’s see, five cheese sticks, $11.99. I literally had to do a quadruple take to make sure I had read this right. Now I understand that there is a cost of living difference between my hometown and Los Angeles, but this was a good five dollars more than our town charges for the exact same crappy mozzarella sticks (notice how those once deliciously-perceived golden fried sticks of heaven had become barely tolerable nuggets of grease due to a simple change in price). The thing that irks me is I know they must buy from the same distributor for all their restaurants (or at least the same one in a given region, and I live only 120 miles away from Los Angeles), so I am fairly confident the cost of the item to the restuarant is the same in both towns. I am sure they probably pay the poor overworked servers minimum wage in both towns, so you really only have the cooks, janitorial staff and the managers who may make more in LA, so I really doubt they need to practically charge double for their mediocre food to make up the difference. I contemplated asking the server why the steep price differential, but decided to forego that line of questioning after I played out the following potential conversation in my mind, “So, I notice the cheese sticks are 12 bucks?” “Yes sir, they are, but keep in mind you get nearly half a dozen cheese sticks for that price, plus they come with your choice of dipping sauce.” “Thanks for the math lesson and letting me know that five is almost six. And I actually get my choice of dipping sauce? Oh, be still my beating heart! Uh yeah, that’s great, but why do they cost so much? Do you use some type of fancy French cheese or something?” “No, sir, regular American cheese.” “Well, for the love of goodness sake, at least tell me you use Wisconsin cheese, and the high cost of this culinary delight is due to having to pay for the cost of the cheese to make the trek half way across the United States.” “Uh no, sir. We use the finest local government cheese that belongs to our grossly underpaid janitorial staff, and we simply extort it from them by threatening to fire them. Your cheese stick is then lovingly dipped in the discarded grease that we steal from the ten gallon drums outside the neighboring restaurant’s back door.” “Okie dokie then. I will just have the overpriced ham and egg melt instead.” The only thing that made the bill semi-tolerable was the fact that the my son’s meal was free, therefore deleting eight dollars from the tab for his giant pancake that had three miniscule cherries, four bruised banana slices and some yogurt.

After spending a pleasant evening in our hotel room away from the hubbub of the park , we arose early the next morning to once again be at the park at the time of it’s opening. The majority of the morning was spent actually visiting other attractions other than the monorail, and the day passed relatively uneventful until right before we left. We had decided to go for one last jaunt around the circumference of the park on the Disneyland Railroad train. At that time, we encountered the most hated of all the Disneyland patrons: the Disneyland Know-it-All. This is the 50-something year-old guy who has visited the Magic Kingdom every six months for the last 30 years, and who has dubbed himself the Unofficial Guru of Disneyland Trivia. This guy talked to his wife loud enough for “T” and I to hear even though we were a good fifteen feet away from him, and appeared to be putting on a private show for us as we were the only other travelers in the same train car. First, he went into pointing out the most innocuous differences in the Disneyland landscape since his last visit, “Look honey, they used to park the double decker bus by the bank, and now they park it by City Hall”, and “Well, would you look at that. They have Chip signing autographs during the ten o’clock hour instead of Dale”. How the flip this guy can tell the difference between those two rabid woodland creatures is a mystery to me. As we moved along on what had quickly become an annoying journey, Mr. Entertainer started making obviously scripted jokes based on the train’s automated overhead messages that were so bad he should have been driving a boat on the Jungle Cruise. The sad thing is that after every joke, he looked at me for desperate approval that apparently he had not gotten from his parents growing up. The final pleasant experience of the day came as we were walking out of the park, and I witnessed a defenseless toddler, tears streaming down his painfully distorted face, repeatedly having his mother target his unappreciative buttocks with a loving open hand. Nothing says Happiest Place on Earth like a good ol’ fashioned public ass whooping!

Rest Area Blues

Once every three months I am required to attend a meeting for work in the Anaheim area, about three hours away from my hometown. On my way back today, I was making great time, and had somehow magically avoided the typical nightmarish afternoon Los Angeles traffic. About an hour or so outside of home, I felt the first sensations of needing to use the facilities, however I figured I could just make it the rest of the way home. Unfortunately, a large, unexpected traffic jam stopped me dead in my tracks in a part of the freeway where road congestion is extremely rare. Due to this almost twenty minute delay, I succumbed to what now had become the unique excruciating pain that only a full bladder can cause, and decided to stop at the last rest area before my hometown.

As I entered the men’s bathroom, I witnessed the evidence of past visitors disregard for others as they had chosen not to flush the urinals. The middle urinal had nice, clean water and was my receptacle of choice. I then realized that the urinal I was at was amazingly clean because the last individual had evidently decided to forego the use of the urinal all together and instead had chosen to relieve himself right on the floor resulting in the small puddle of fluid that my feet were firmly planted in (I know, my fault for not paying attention). After finishing using the restroom, I quickly washed my hands in front of the most brilliant of restroom inventions: the shiny piece of metal adorning the wall that is the substitute for a real mirror. I understand that they don’t use glass because several thousand glass mirrors were probably destroyed by unrepentant hooligans, however they might as well not use anything given the worthlessness of the metal plate. Even if these same little dirt bags had not scratched graffiti and gang signs into the “mirror” that was now before me, the clarity and reflective properties of this surface is so poor that the only thing it could be used for would be to verify if you had suffered some type of disfiguring facial injury. Attempting to get any more specific information than this regarding your personal appearance would be an exercise in futility. As I exited the restroom, I immediately went to the grass covered area, and began feverishly wiping my feet on the ground in an attempt to rid myself of the mixture of dirty bathroom floor and urine that had resulted in an odoriferous emanation coming from my person that could only aptly be described as the tell-tale scent of an incontinent derelict.

On the way home I had been almost falling asleep, and despite my disturbing experience in the bathroom that would turn any normal human beings’ stomach away from food or beverage, I found myself wanting something to eat or drink to help keep me awake on the rest of my journey. As I walked up to the vending machines, which were actually on all four sides of the building, I noticed a couple of signs directing me to a bill changer. I figured OK, the machines must not take dollar bills, so you have to get coin change. That was fine with me as I had several one dollar bills. I put a dollar bill in. Rejected. I turned it around. Denied. I flipped it over. Yet again I was turned away. I tried several different dollar bills, and much to my chagrin the machine kept a miserly hold on its sacred coinage. At this point, I began to reminisce about my younger days, and the hours I had spent watching WWF wraslin’. I had decided that the only way to teach this little nuisance a lesson was to emulate my childhood heroes and deliver a devastating flying knee. However, before I had the audacity to commit simple assault on an inanimate object, which would most certainly have caused the multiple bystanders to question my mental stability, out of the corner of my eye, I noted that the vending machines had slots which said “accepts dollar bills”. I then did the “I am too cool for school” nonchalant strut over to the vending machines as if I had not just been contemplating waylaying an unsuspecting change machine.

I walked around to the firs three sides of the building and saw the basic vending machine fare: sodas, candy,chips, ect. I then checked out the last side, and there before me, in all it’s glory, with an ethereal back glow typically reserved for angels, was the almighty Super Duper Deluxe Coffee Maker 3000. This thing had more gadgets and doodads than Batman’s utility belt. You could pick a number of different types of coffee drinks, the strength of your coffee, the amount of milk and the amount of sugar (all with selection levels from 1-3). I chose a café mocha and made my selections on the other optional attributes. However, all it took was one small taste of my brewed beverage of mediocrity to be snapped back to reality. This drink was nothing special at all, and tasted more like regular black coffee than anything else. As I realized that my drink was a complete let down , I looked again at the machine and realized that it’s celestial aura had faded away, and I noticed that the machine had graffiti on the side and cracked plexiglas on the front. I guess when you have high expectations of things you completely overlook blemishes that should be easily noticed. I trudged back to my car disappointed with my coffee and upset about my pee shoes. Next time, I shall just stop and go behind a bush.