WHERE'S THE BEYOND SECTION?

Yesterday, Jeffe moved home. For those unfamiliar, Jeffe is my younger brother. He is much like myself in that we do ridiculous, shameless things, regardless of who's around or what's going on. A lot. Pants off-dance off? Sure. Streaking through Desert Ridge in Mickey Mouse gloves and a Fantasia hat? Yep, I got that. Peeing on Obama posters in the store? You can just about chalk that up to the grasshopper. Basically, you can plan on the unplanned if you catch us in the right mood. Yesterday was one of those days.

With Jeff moving home, I got a new bed. A new, COMFY bed. I don't think I've ever slept so well in my life. But the new bed needed sheets, so we had to go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. They have comfy things in that place, and one of them happened to be a cage full of those fluffy throw pillows. Of course, within three seconds of seeing it, Jeffe is in the damn thing. And I mean IN. He disappeared. And it's not like he was wiggling his way further into the pillows. Anyways, it took five minutes and a pulled hamstring to get him out. With the store attendant standing there just staring at us. And of course when we finally got him out, she asks the requisite "Can I help you guys?" Jeffe's response? "Yeah, where's the beyond section?"

Welcome to my life.

STICK TO YOUR GUNS

For any of you that haven't been to Arizona recently, we have this new thing where we put cameras on pretty much every remotely busy intersection in the entire effing greater-Phoenix area. It's super cool. Except not. At all. I'm pretty sure there's a camera for every driver in the state at this point, and it's all just a cash grab by the various little suburbs of our wonderful Valley. It's horse shit.

Some night in early July, I got 'flashed' for supposedly running a red light at Hayden and Indian School in Scottsdale. I have never gotten a ticket in my life, and fancy myself a good driver, so I was a little pissed off to say the least. When the ticket came a couple weeks later it had all the little details including this fun little number: I had fully passed the cross walk and proceeded into the intersection 0.1 seconds after the light turned red. Going a couple under the speed limit. Point #1 - Don't you think if I thought I was going to be remotely close to running the light, I would have picked up the pace a little bit? Do you really think I would have cruised through going under the speed limit? I will speed in your city the rest of my life, Scottsdale, because that 4.3 seconds of yellow required by law definitely was NOT there. I don't give a damn what your computer says. It wasn't. Watch the video you sent me the link to and honestly tell me I was endangering anyone in a COMPLETELY DESERTED INTERSECTION 0.1 SECONDS AFTER A LIGHT TURNED RED. I must be the most aggressive driver on the planet. Point #2 - Learn how to paint a damn crosswalk. Supposedly, it's supposed to be an extension of the accompanying curb. You know, according to your laws and just like every other place in the world. And if you're passed the curb (crosswalk line) when the light turns red (and most likely a tenth of a second afterward), you didn't run the light. Unless you're in Scottsdale, apparently. You should treat one of your native sons better, dumb ass city. From now on, I will be from Phoenix when people ask. Scottsdale no more.

So, when this ticket shows up it says I can go to court and pay them $224, or I can go to "defensive driving school" to apparently learn how to not run red lights/get the ticket off my record. Only $195. Great. Or I can just not pay it, and take my chances of getting served. I chose the last option for about a week, before deciding my dad would inevitably screw it up and accept a ticket for me in the next four months. So, I went to driving school. Driving school, like red light and speeding cameras, is just another money grab that is absolute NONSENSE. Die, both of you. Here are a sampling of questions from my ever-important defensive driving test that supposedly saves lives by educating people -



Obviously, a key to being a good defensive driver is eating carrots. Who knew?



A telegraph machine? For real?



Hmm, imagine that.

Yes, I paid $195 for this. And the best part, there are about 20 different sections of the test with questions like this. It takes all of 12 seconds to answer the three or four questions at the end of a section - without reading the section, I might add - so you would think it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Except that you have to spend an arbitrary amount of time "studying" their supposedly pertinent tidbits to driving safety. Take 12 seconds to answer common sense questions that my dog could answer... wait 13 minutes and 48 seconds until I can move on to the next section. Take 23 seconds to answer common sense questions that your dog could answer... wait 18 minutes and 37 seconds til the next awesome section. For. Five. Effing. Hours.

Oh, and when you get so stoked you're done with that crap and click on the link to take the "final exam" and be done? You get to print off a receipt for your local UPS Store and go pay them more money to use their computer to take the final exam while being "supervised." By the UPS man. Just in case the whole process wasn't inconvenient enough already.

Do not pay these people a dime. Make them find you and serve you; and if they do, go bitch at someone for this nonsense. Stick to your guns.

ONCE UPON A TIME, I HAD PET DUCKS

Once upon a time, I had pet ducks. McLovin and Thunder Dan (named after the best their ever was, period). I don't know why, but I've always had a thing for ducks and kangaroos. Ducks I can't explain, they're just hilarious to me. But every now and then I have a dream where I've got a pet kangaroo and he carries my books to class in his pouch. Awesome. I have a ton of stories about that crazy pair, but I found this old story about the beginnings of Thunder Dan and McLovin, and thought I'd share it here... You know, because I don't have a whole lot else to talk about at the moment, and you don't really have anything better to do but read a 1,285-word story (that is, if you're spending your time here).

Welcome to My Life - The Wild Goose Chase
September 20, 2007

I guess it would be more appropriate to call it a duck hunt than a goose chase, because in reality, that's exactly what it is. Anyways, we all know that I want a duck, ducks to be precise, and I am going to get them. That's just the way it is. The adventure technically began a few days ago with a post on craigslist with me asking the animal lovers of LA where I might be able to acquire a duck. I got a handful of responses all leading me toward downtown LA. I did some legwork and called around, and no one sells damn ducks; they just don't. I guess I should have thought about this in advance, but that would be giving up, and I'm stubborn as hell. Anyways, the emailers said they could be found downtown, so that was where I was headed...

Well, where me and Alex were headed. I should have known how this day would go with the way it started, but whatever. Alex wakes me up with a call from campus around, ooh, 11 or so. He has a meeting til 12, yada yada. Oh wait, his car is here, and his keys are at the girls' house. So, me and Brenden have to drive to the girls' house, where Arianna is sitting on the floor in the fetal position in her underwear, to get Al's keys then drive back home, where I can get his car and drive to campus to pick him up. Obviously. Great way to start the day. Like I said, this was an indicator of what the day would hold.

So I pick Al up and we're headed downtown. Just downtown, no address, no phone numbers. On a wild goose chase, except for ducklings not gooslings... We're feeling Chinatown so that's where we go. We survive ghetto ass South Central and get to Chinatown and start asking around. Only in Chinatown, everyone is actually Chinese... who knew? So, I try to talk to all kinds of Chinamen before we finally see some white people so we pull over to ask them... oh wait, they're German tourists. Effin-A, cotton. Finally, we find a Chinawoman who speaks English, except that Al just about runs her ass over... Another sign. Are you seeing the pattern?

So she says "oh titwightowndatreet" and we're amped. Except we have to turn right and when we do we see the live poultry place with a duck and a chicken on their sign. Double amped. We park (next to the sign that says they aren't responsible when someone beats your ass and jacks your shit) and go inside. Of course, we're the only white people that have ever been in the place, and I'm a foot taller than everyone. Love it. Get to the front and find out they have ducks but no live ones. False advertisement. Better Business Bureau will be getting a call.

So we turn around and go to where that-one-lady-Al-almost-killed told us to go, and end up finding some parking at a meter. Pop in some change, good to go. Then some other Chinawoman comes at us talking gibberish about parking and we just kinda blow it off like yeah, we parked, we're good thanks. Another sign we missed. Glorious. So we go into this place, check out some samurai swords and ninja stars and all kinds of other useless crap and get directions to the pet store. Yes. Ducklings not far away. We walk a couple shops down and find the pet store. YES. We did it. Only we get to the duckling and baby chick cage and they're all out of ducklings. SOB's. So we talk to Hung, that's the guys name (and I highly doubt it's a pun), but he says next week I get my ducks. Hmm, fine. At least we found where they'll be. I try to convince Al to get some little chicks in the mean time cause they're 2 for $5 and cute as hell, but he talks me out of it. Apparently chicks turn into chickens.

We go back toward the car and decide we're going in the Chinamarket cause we have time left on the meter. I buy some new Kanye's, Al looks at cell phone crap, and we leave. Only, we leave to where the car used to be. Yes, USED to be. Apparently your car gets rolled on if it's there after 3. 'But you had time left on the meter' you're thinking... yeah, apparently that doesn't matter in this gay ass city. So, we're effed in the g-a. Al chucks his coke, I yell an f-bomb or two, and we start trying to figure out how to get the car back.

We finally find the damn phone number after calling about 8 different LA agencies and get the address to the impound. We have less than an hour and a half before they start charging even more money for the stolen car. Dick bags. So naturally, we start trotting the streets of LA like we know where we are going. After about an hour of wandering aimlessly and finding out we have the wrong address, Al's phone dying, along with the GPS in it, we decide were going with the cabby.

We wander another half an hour looking for a damn cab and finally find one and get in. Don't worry, just a $2.65 surcharge plus $.35 for every 1/7th of a mile or 47.5 seconds in the cab. Who comes up with this shit? Honestly. After about a two mile ride we suddenly owe just under $10 to cabby. Get out, pay the man, and go join the rest of the fine citizens who got jacked by some stupid 3pm law.

I don't know if you've ever been to an impound, but it is hell. They won't give us the car because it's registered to Al's dad, not him, and we have to go through all kinds of crap to get it back. Call Al's family, get crapped faxed down, yada yada, yada yada. On a side note: there was this model girl whose car got towed while she was doing a shoot downtown. How unfortunate. Maybe there is a bright side to this day. Nope, find out she's married to a Marine. Thank you for serving sir, my brother is a soldier too; but I'm going to steal your gorgeous 21 year-old wife. I'm not even kidding. I'm going to marry her. She even breaks the 5'8" rule, and I still don't have any hesitation.

Anyways, Al has a Prius and everyone knows you can't tow a hybrid with a normal tow truck, you need a flat bed or it will kill it. Obviously, the towing company didn't know that, you know, cause they're smart like that, and Mother Navarro flips. She's pretty good at it. To make this long ass story a little shorter: we got the car back. Still not sure if the genius towing guys messed up the computer with their brilliance yet, but we'll know soon I'm sure. Still livid from dealing with dick bags, we decide we're going on the duck hunt once again. Only it's rush hour, and we're going the wrong way on the 5. Fail. Turn around, get off, drive down to little Mexico, or wherever the eff we were. Get stared down, pointed at, yada yada. Nope, this pet store is closed. Done with this. Ducks aren't worth putting the life on the line today. After two hours in traffic, we finally get home. Hong Kong Express. Arizona Ice Tea. Couch. 93 Suns - Sonics game with Thunder Dan going off. Done. And. Done.

STORY OF THE DAY

So, last week I got my old job back at Biltmore Country Club. Exciting stuff. Minus the heat, the first go-round was a blast - definitely my favorite job ever. Anyways, I signed up for round two and started yesterday. Like the people, love the golf, need the money. Perhaps the best part of the job, besides those things, are the random happenings that make the days interesting. In the summer mid-week we aren't super busy, so we need these things to keep us entertained. The second best part is that we are basically allowed to stand our ground if someone is being a douche bag for no apparent reason. Today was that day.

About 7am I was sitting out on the lot when a 7 Series all done up with body kit and dubs rolls in. This is nothing new, I deal with rich people all day. So, the guy pulls up, pops the trunk, and gets out. I take the clubs, and him and his buddy say something or other about thanks, yada, yada. It doesn't take a genius to realize the difference between someone actually saying thanks and someone just saying it out of obligation. The driver was a decent enough guy, but his buddy thought he was pretty hot shit and just kind of whatever. No big deal to me - it was early, and I wasn't in the mood. So, I took the clubs, closed the trunk, and that was that. Happened to notice the custom plate on the car just said "91" - obviously an athlete. Only thing was it was a wirey white dude no bigger than me driving. But wait, he had a Russian accent. Hockey player, gotta be. After some googling on the BB I figured out who it was, and yes, he is a rather talented hockey player. You know, if you're into that kind of thing. I later noticed he had a little replica of his own jersey hanging from his rear view mirror. So I guess he kind of is a douche. Whatever.

So the day goes along and I'm just doing my thing when they roll up alongside the green at #9, not too far from the front of the clubhouse and where I'm at. Apparently dbag friend is upset that he hasn't been helped by the beverage cart girls yet, but it's only 8:30 so what can you really expect? We can't even serve alcohol that early in the morning. But this guy, he wants his booze. So naturally, he yells at me about how he hasn't been served yet. You get used to unreasonable rich people, and more so their friends who think they're entitled to douchebaggery because they're with someone rich; so again, I was fine with it. I told him the girls would be around soon and if he wanted something that second the restaurant bar was open literally 50 yards away from where he was. Apparently he didn't like that answer and proceeded to mumble something or other and then come at me with his wallet out. Interesting. He pulled a $20 halfway out of it and I was kind of surprised. However, he then decided to smirk, sarcastically say "thanks for the help," and flip me four quarters. Well, two can play that game.

I told him to keep his four quarters and also threw in that a drink wasn't going to help that triple digit pace he was on for the round (1. We have "ranger mode" on our GPS, and I get to see what everyone on the course is shooting. It's awesome 2. He was at something like 53 through nine. AKA, awful). Needless to say, he didn't enjoy me knocking his garbage golf game and proceeded to throw some language at me and challenge me to a hole for that 20 spot he slid back in his wallet. I just laughed and asked him if he was serious. Knowing what he was shooting, there was no question in my mind. But, he insisted. What am I supposed to do? Say no? Pleeeeease.

So, we drove back to the tee, and long story short I kicked his ass. Good times, and a free $20 (although it went to the tip poke and not straight to my wallet. I play by the rules). Needless to say he was still livid when he came back around after the back nine, and as a final attempt at salvaging his manliness left his cart in the parking lot. You know, like a classy individual would do.

I love my job.