Oh So Narcoleptic

Time to Go Back to the Federal Credit Union

2010-01-06T20:17:00.005-05:00

I rarely lose my temper over the phone at customer service people. But just now, I went fucking thermal on some dude from TD Bank.

TD Bank is the gang of retards who absorbed Commerce Bank and polluted what used to be good.

Two weeks into December I spoke to an inarticulate knob, "K." He's one of those guys who tries to talk really fast over you when he doesn't have an answer. Every sentence is a string of non sequiturs that provide no information, no summation, and usually end with something equally useless like, "So, y'know."

I can't imagine where talking like a fucking sixth grader is considered professional communication, nor in what universe it's acceptable to straight-up lie to your customers.

K took all my information, told me I'd be charged $24.30 for new checks -- these cockrings have the stones to call their checking "free" -- and said they'd be in the mail in the next day or so. In the meantime, he suggested I go to a bank branch and get a free temporary check to use.

Great, I will! I trundled off in my carshare to the bank branch in my hometown. I waited in line for a teller only to be told I should sit on the principal's office bench on the other side of the room and wait for somebody behind one of the desks to help me because tellers can't issue temporary checks.

O.K., let's do that then. A few moments later -- this is suburban south Jersey, I've never seen that bank with more than eight people in it at one time, ever -- a pleasant-faced woman with a she-mullet asked if she could help me. Yes, I'm waiting on a shipment of new personal checks and am in need of a temporary check.

She was sorry -- sad face -- but that branch's temporary checks had just been shipped up the street to another branch that was apparently out.

Did I want a money order instead? Terrific.

OK, that will be a $4 charge.

Of course it will be. You ship every single last temp check of yours to another branch -- only moments ago, apparently, the delivery van's exhaust could still be seen hovering in a cloud in the parking lot -- and the only other option for the checkless is a piece of paper the same damn size that represents the same damn function yet costs four bucks.

Whatever, I don't have all day to drive from bank branch to bank branch in search of the elusive temp check that manages to escape moments before the camera crews arrive. Here's more of my money, give me my damn money order already. Christ.

From Thanksgiving to December 26 I had some monster flu/sinus infection that kicked my ass. One doctor's visit yielded scrips for antibiotics, an antihistamine-decongestant combo that I dubbed the Jimi Hendrix cough syrup because of how hard it made me trip, and allergy nasal spray to try and kill the swelling in my sinuses. The next doctor's visit 10 days later yielded scrips for stronger meds as the first round didn't do dick and my fever got higher, nose bled more frequently and body became more worn down.

Suffice to say, I wasn't at my most observant. By the time I figured out, Hey! Those dicks said my checks would be here in four days and it's been 13, it was the day before Christmas Eve. While on hold, I committed the following recording to memory: Our wait time is longer than expected. You may want to call back at another time.

Kiss my ass, I've been waiting 17 minutes, I'm not hanging up. But I really enjoy your tricks to annoy your phone customers into hanging up, like playing music from a radio station that isn't tuned in. Nice! Did you learn that from Comcast?

A very nice girl by the name of "R" answered my call. I explained to her that K was to have placed an order for more checks on the 11th and that none arrived and my account had not been charged. Was there a mixup at the bank, or did someone at the post office decide to embark on the exciting careers of identity theft and check fraud?

She said a service call had been noted on my account for that date, but that no, she regretted to inform me, no order was ever placed for my checks. So she and I did the same waltz K and I had done three weeks before and the order was placed. R told me that because of the screwup, she would be happy to expedite the order free of charge and that I should expect my new checks by Wednesday. If I had any further need for contact, I was to call her direct extension.

Finally, some actual customer service!

Today is Wednesday. There aren't any fucking checks here. And by the time I got home to look for the third time, R had already left for the day.

So "J," today's customer service rep, got my call in his queue after a 10-minute on-hold wait.

I was so fucking pissed, I started at the beginning with dear K. Think I may have referred to him as an "ass hat." Not that that description is in any way wrong, but I try to curb my language when speaking to people not in my immediate friend circle or bar during the baseball and hockey seasons.

K was useless. He prattled on during the call like we were communicating instructions for handling uranium, and then didn't do anything he said he would do.

R was very sweet, but a liar. She TOLD me Wednesday. She SAID two-day delivery, I called Monday before noon. Monday plus two equals Wednesday. She SAID the order would be processed the same day. She lied. Or, doesn't understand her own company's ordering and shipping policies, which in my book is just as bad. If you promise something you can't deliver, you are falsely advertising your capabilities.

J is a leftover from the Commerce days, he told me, after I said since the buyout the service at his bank sucks. I hate people who yell at workers in the service industry -- I used to be one -- and I know how much it blows to be on the receiving end of abuse because one or more of your co-workers are inept. But I could not mellow out. Livid is a grand understatement of how enraged I'd become.

I asked J for the tracking number of the shipment that R had placed. He said there isn't one. I asked that when my checks don't arrive tomorrow, should I contact him directly. He suggested I go to a bank branch and get a temporary check. I almost put my fist through the wall. I asked how he knew the order had been placed when my online balance didn't reflect a deduction of $24.30. He said it was on his computer. I asked what proof he could possibly give me that the order had been placed, I would be charged, and the shipment did actually exist because based on the stories I was told by the two previous employees, I had zero reason to believe a word he was telling me.

He said there was absolutely nothing he could do.

Register my shock and awe. Fuck you, TD Bank. I'm almost relieved to be poor, because the mere thought of your employees tending to any significant quantities of my earnings makes me want to force K to carve pieces off of R and force-feed them to J while I film it for the enjoyment of all on the interwebs.

No, YOU have a nice day.

Why Melanie Hain's Violent End Isn't Exactly a Surprise, Considering

2009-10-09T12:25:00.008-04:00

Melanie Hain's husband, Scott, killed her and himself in their home and their children bore witness. That is beyond tragic, it's horrible, awful and destructive far beyond the mere body count.

Hearing innocent children, running from a house containing the corpses of both their parents, shouting "Daddy shot Mommy!" is the kind of thing even the morons behind the crappy Saw franchise wouldn't glorify.

While Melanie Hain didn't pull the trigger on herself, her attitude about the role of firearms in daily life had everything to do with her death. The Hain murder/suicide is an incredibly unfortunate yet almost foregone example of poetic justice. Perhaps the term "poetic justice" is a bit large for my point because there is no triumph of good over evil here, rather a victory of logic.

Gun ownership is a massive responsibility. As it was taught to me, something that should be regarded with the utmost care and least possible amount of outside attention. You don't advertise you own a gun, don't show anyone your gun, never let anyone hold or fire your gun outside of an approved range setting, and never let anyone know you are carrying your gun, if in a concealed carry permit area.

This is Firearm Basics 101.

Lebanon, Pennsylvania, has an open carry policy, so while she's off the hook for the visible holster, Melanie Hain still managed to fail FB 101 miserably. Instead of keeping her weapon to herself and using it for what is was intended -- target shooting, hunting, self-defense -- she mistranslated freedom from tyranny into shoving her opinion down her community's throat in an aggressive and dangerous manner in a totally inappropriate setting.

Her permit was revoked by the sheriff for poor judgement, "poor" being a very politically correct, epic understatement.

People get a little mental on September 11th. I can understand that. A confirmed agnostic, I have at times thought to stop at the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul to light a candle because I just want to do something meaningful in memory of the dead.

Wearing a semiautomatic handgun on your belt to a 5-year old's soccer game is wrong on mythic levels. What was she trying to say, that if al Qaeda decided to show up and brutalize the town pigtail league, she could fire eleven rounds at them?

Stupid. Willful. Obnoxious. Menacing. Pointless.

Melanie Hain is the poster child for everything a legal gun owner shouldn't be. Namely, dead.

You don't carry a gun to be cool. You know who did? Biggie. Tupac. Plaxico Burress. And more recently, the idiot kid from New York who shot himself in the penis. I don't call that sound company to keep considering two are worm food, one is doing time and out of a lucrative NFL career, and one SHOT HIMSELF IN THE DICK.

The math is so simple.

1 self-righteous, arrogant woman, so high off herself that she wouldn't even dream of toning it down and not traumatizing the hell out of at least two teams of little girls, their parents and assorted spectators + 1 gun-owning man with whatever mental troubles would lead him to believe murder/suicide is the end to domestic trouble = 3 orphans who witnessed the deaths of their parents.

Put that on a poster.

When in France, Don't Do as Roman Does

2009-10-01T10:45:00.003-04:00

The job of law enforcement is to enforce the law, yes?

So why the big waah over snatching Polanski when he was foolish enough to leave his safe haven? That's what law enforcement does to catch people who've broken the law. In his case, knowingly breaking the law, intentionally committing rape of a child under the influence of narcotics he provided, and then running away like a bitch instead of manning up and taking his punishment.

Which I can't help laughing at the prospect that it will be similar to his original crime, minus the drugs.

Unless every single news report I've ever read is wrong, Roman Polanski drugged a 13-year old with half a lude and fucked her in the ass while she groggily cried for her mother. He was due to serve 90 days, bailed halfway and ran to France.

Apparently he was under threat of additional jail time thanks to inflated statements made by the prosecutor to the judge. That's a shitty move, clearly. The incident speaks for itself, there's no need to pile on.

But what I don't understand about this outcrying of support for the guy is that it all appears to be based on respect for his creative abilities and some kind of weird leniency because his wife was murdered by the Manson Family.

Um. What?

Sorry, France, but you are way in the wrong here. You want to pardon Jean Genet, knock yourselves out. But harboring our criminal trash doesn't erase their records.

Ask the family of Ira Einhorn's girlfriend, who he killed and stuffed in a steamer trunk before hitting the check-in line at the international terminal.

Quick Reality Check for the Non-Executive-level Health Care Reform Haters

2009-09-28T14:30:00.006-04:00

Are you drunk?

I can't think what beside a booze- or painkiller-induced haze could possibly produce the impression that some bond exists between you and health care companies.

You're nowhere near the upper echelons of the tax brackets. You don't holiday on Saint Bart's or stable your horses in Saratoga, and couldn't possibly get your kids into Salve Regina.

You probably live off your salary to pay your bills, not interest or dividends. And health insurance cuts a gigantic chunk out of what should be money heading toward your savings or your kids' tuition.

So, why do you think you have ANYTHING in common with people who live a thousand times higher than you? Your whiteness? You wish.

News flash: These people think you're shit. They're laughing at how gullible and what suckers you are for falling for their tricks.

I mean, how do you not get that by sprinkling lobbyists around public events promising the downfall of humanity via healthcare reform, they've scared you into doing their bidding FOR them.

It's not a matter of education, it's a matter of understanding your place. The place you've been relegated to by those who make their money off of you.

For a group of people so pissed off and fired up about government takeover, you don't even see that you're making yourself beholden to a far greater evil. You're like the sad little high school freshmen who get told they'll get the nod from the cool kids if they let them party in their parents' houses while they're away.

Oh, no! Someone microwaved Mom's prized Faberge egg copy?! And Dad's fly-fishing rod is broken at the bottom of the pool which is now one-third cheap domestic beer and vomit?!

I don't understand what happened! I just trusted some strangers who can afford to buy and replace every single thing in my life, and they trashed everything and left me to pick up the pieces, broke and alone to face my parents.

Who saw that coming? Every person on the planet with elementary reasoning skills.

Wake up, you morons. Money talks, end of story.

You are not allied with anyone or anything.

Whiteness doesn't buy you entre into the upper crust. If you were a different shade, maybe you could get hired as domestic help, but other than that, you will never have any social dealings with any of the people who make their fortunes off the birth of your kids, the cancer and heart disease that will kill your parents, and the myriad of mental problems you clearly suffer and are medicated for, disallowing you the use of your own sober faculties.

And if I see another person carrying a "Keep your Government away from My Medicare" sign, I will find you and possibly beat you unconscious with a full-color printout of www.medicare.GOV.

Can't Help Myself

2009-08-17T19:20:00.002-04:00

If people could make accurate flash judgments about me the way I do of them, I wouldn't want so much to play them for fools.

I left my apartment a few minutes ago and went down the street for some penne and Breyer's ice cream -- don't kill my childhood, Unilever, I read you're considering nixing the brand. As I was walking back up the sidewalk, a group of hipsters gathered around my front steps, as people are wont to do when the coffee shop's outdoor seating is occupied or unappealing for whatever reason.

Now I don't mind if people sit on my front steps. I don't want to, so, help yourself. That said, don't smoke and ditch your butts there. Don't leave your paper coffee cups in my doorjamb. Don't drop your gum wrappers, beer bottles, beer cans, toothbrushes, tampon applicators, used tissues and other random shit on my stoop like it's a home first for your ass, and second your garbage.

And, while you sit there, remember that people live upstairs. So, shut up. If you're standing 18 inches away from each other, there's no reason to shout. You're outdoors, but do something crazy and use your indoor voices. It's for your own good. I have a tendency to water my plants that live directly above your head rather sloppily when my Hot Shots Golf is drowned out by your talk of the awesomeness of things that could just as easily be discussed at your house at the volume of your choice without annoying me.

There were three guys standing, and a girl and fourth guy sitting on my top step. I spent half a block finding the right key. Plenty long enough for anyone with the dullest of junior detective skills to have caught on, and politely moved aside.

I knew they wouldn't. Which was why I walked up to the two sitting down, and spoke with a gross, breathy, boy-crazy tone aimed at the twit with the number three clipper blade hair/beard-cut and toolish Bono shades.

"Excuse me, guys."

Twit clasped his hands together in that douchey "well, well, well, what do we have here" move and spoke directly to my rack, Yeesss?... in that Tom Jones, throw-your-panties-on-my-stage schtick that doesn't work for anyone who isn't Tom Jones.

By that point, everybody but Rico Knobby had noticed my keys were in my hand, and I wasn't soliciting the wannabe alpha male for something more than space to get by. The three standing had cleared a path, and the girl was making embarrassed haste out of my way as she said, I had no idea anyone lived here! Sorry!

I looked her in the face and said, It's not a problem, grinned creepily, and went inside. They were still down there when I walked in my apartment door, marveling that people inhabited a building on a busy corner in a big city like they just found proof of life in another cosmic ZIP code.

They're gone now, which is good because I have to water my plants.

Dear Dead Man from Wrigley Field,

2009-08-13T13:44:00.004-04:00

Not only are you Palin-stupid, you’ve sealed yourself a truly unpleasant fate. You’re on camera, dickweed. Think we got our fan rep because we’re tolerant people?

Let me explain to you why you’re going to be on the receiving end of pain, and why you deserve it:

1.) How dare you disrespect the Cubs. You’re at a Cubs GAME, useless fuck. Whether it’s right, whether it’s wrong – and yes, Philadelphia knows this from personal experience and cringes at some home idiots’ mortifying behavior – shit fans pull on home turf refects poorly on the home team. You didn’t hurt Victorino, you hurt your team. And what kind of idiotic bastard shits on his own team?

I guess we’ll ask you when the swelling goes down and you regain the ability to speak.

2.) How dare you disrespect Wrigley Field. Are you mental? Wrigley is one of the most treasured places in this country, and Chicago, one of the most amazing cities on the planet. And you took a big, fat, ivy-covered dump on its storied history and a legacy that dates back to 1916.

3.) How dare you disrespect Lou Piniella. I don’t care about Sweet Lou’s temper on or off the field. He’s the Major League Baseball manager of a Major League Baseball team. You don’t call yourself a baseball fan and then spit in the face of the guy who’s trying to win you a pennant.

Nihil sanctum est, ass clown?

4.) TOSS A BEER AT SHANE VICTORINO, WILL YOU? Whoo, bad call, bro. What is it, exactly that so offends you about Shane? Is it his ridiculous speed, crazy eye at the plate, pleasant demeanor, stolen base percentage, winning smile... or just that the Phils were winning and he was the player ripest by location for assault.

Let me guess... you think Victorino wasn’t really born in Hawai’i and shouldn’t be allowed to play for Amurricaah.

Well, I hope it was worth it. You’ve got a beating coming. And that hair gel and Axe body spray hard shell you sport won’t protect you.

Enjoy your anonymity, pussy. It won’t last.

Know What's Embarrassing?

2009-08-11T18:20:00.006-04:00

Having to explain to a client, on speakerphone, in front of your boss' boss, why said client shouldn't use a certain photo because the knucklehead in dead center is flashing the two-fingered salute.

Is there a diplomatic way of saying, That means fuck you to Brits, Irish, Scots, Welshmen, Africans, Australians and New Zealanders?

Not really.

Unless you're Shakespeare and referring to the French dickweeds at the Battle of Agincourt.

Sleep in Peace, Kind Voice

2009-06-23T08:44:00.005-04:00

Yesterday I got up three hours early for work. I like to mess around in the mornings, reorganize stuff, work out, enjoy some OCD time and move things around my apartment like pieces on a chess board. And read the news.

I made an honest mistake. Thought I was clicking an Al Arabiya link to a gallery of pictures from the Iran protests. Instead, I got the footage of Neda Soltani dying in the street.

I'd never seen anybody die before. Her eyes were open. She was looking at the people trying to help her, while gasping blood and air through a sucking gunshot wound in her chest. The translations of the people speaking were "Don't be afraid, Neda," "Stay with me, Neda," and "Can you hear me, Neda."

Blood pumped out of her mouth, down her face and neck. Her eyes bulged and rolled back in her head. And women around the group screamed in unintelligible horror.

Somebody gunned down a 26-year old woman in the street like a dog. She didn't have a weapon in her hand, she had a phone.

I guess my question is who the fuck do you animals think you are? I know you must think that your divine cock and bull elevates you to a higher plane than the rest of us. But that is the most laughable horseshit of all. Because when it comes down to it, you have a bunch of brainwashed minions to do your bidding for you.

That means two things:

1.) You're a huge pussy who can't get his dainty hands dirty. Anyone can order someone else to do his handy work.

2.) You're about as supreme as gum stuck to the street. It's almost hilarious, the solid black veil of denial you live behind. You don't have any powers, guy. That's why your only recourse is man-to-man violence with man-made weapons.

Worse still, you know it. Which makes you a liar on top of being an obvious coward, bully and poor spiritual prestidigitator.

What is passing for news reports--while you imprison the press in the mightiest hi-sign of epic human failure--is that Neda Soltani was shot either by some Basiji ass clown on a motorcycle OR a rooftop sharp shooter. You sent rooftop sharp shooters to control people throwing rocks?

There are confirmed reports of 17 dead, with the number increasing to 150 unconfirmed. Thousands are injured and getting treatment on the fly, if at all. And untold numbers of protesters, reporters, academics and public figures have been either wrenched from their homes or disappeared by the hands of the authorities.

Pulling this kind of garbage doesn't push you ahead. It shackles you to the rest of the violent, loveless wizards of misery in the world. The Kim Jong Ils, the al-Zawahiris, the Liebermans, the bin Ladens, the Cheneys. All the same trash-talking big mouths with the minuscule ice chips in their hearts that drive their thoughtless dogma and fear-swelled rhetoric.

That is sad company to keep.

If You Don't Want the Truth, Don't Buy an Angled Mirror

2009-03-20T15:05:00.006-04:00

I made an appointment to see a dentist. I'm hyperventilating as a type this.

I'm not afraid of the dentist, so much as terrified and convinced I'm going to die. It is unfair for dentistry to pay for the sins of orthodonture, but if you're coming at my mouth with a metal instrument, my run reflex responds no matter what your postgraduate specialty is.

It's been about 18 years-ish since I've been to any dental professional. The last time was when I got my wisdom teeth removed in college. The knockout drops wore off in the middle of it and I woke up to the hygienist's knee on my chest, and blood and tooth shrapnel covering the doctor and tech's masks, their gowns, the light fixture, the mirror opposite me, and my face.

My wisdom teeth weren't content just to sit in the gums like normal teeth, they had to anchor themselves around my jawbone. The teeth they pulled, which I saved and at times consider submitting to the Mutter Museum, are over an inch long and according to the dentist, missing most of the root. Same as Mom, same as Pop-pop.

The knee on the chest was for leverage to fight against my jaw muscles. I chew a lot of gum. I have the temporomandibulars of a pliosaur, and they're about as cooperative, even under heavy sedation.

Braces were the bane of my existence. Horrible steel loops unceremoniously shoved onto each tooth, and tied tightly together by a noose of sharp wire. If you had the same rig, I guarantee you remember that horrific device with which the ortho moved the cuffs into place -- it used the force of your bite to ram them higher up on the body of each tooth and through the gum line. The scraping sensation of metal so near nerve would make Krueger claws on a chalkboard a welcome sound.

Each time the orthodontist tightened the wire, the ends plunged through the flesh behind the molars. I never noticed at the time because the sensation of the wire tightening was like having my entire face crushed in a vice. More blood and skewered flesh couldn't even be detected over the ungodly pain of having my top and bottom jaws dragged into line by steel.

It would take two or three days. By that time, the swollen doughnuts of flesh around the metal skewers were white with infection and oozed disgusting, foul-smelling bacteria when poked with peroxide-soaked Q-tips.

I can't even comprehend my breath in middle school, with matching infections on the right and left sides of my mouth. The ortho gave out little packets of wax to use as protective layers between particularly rough metal additions and tender flesh. The wax supply usually lasted about a day, and in my hypersensitive, infectious state, many a time I turned in desperation to rinds off the Jarlsberg in the 'fridge for protection.

Mmm, gum infection and cheese rinds. You can count the number of middle school boyfriends I had on the hand of someone who lost his fingers and thumb in an industrial accident. The Stiff Stuff'ed broccoli floret hairdo and man-brows were big contributors to that goose egg also, one can assume with the 20/20 vision provided by the rear view mirror of time.

"Oh, but think how pretty you'll be when the braces come off and your teeth are all straight!"

That was the single, biggest lie I was ever told by every adult who stared into the tear wells of my eyes and instead of noticing the horror of the present chose to stare off dreamily at some imagined future bliss they were sure I'd grow into. As if buck teeth were really the problem, and once properly aligned I'd suddenly be the Breck shampoo girl.

Once those awful dental versions of S&M cuffs were yanked off my teeth, the results were hardly brag-worthy. The color of my teeth was a mottled yellow with whiter rings around the center like the reverse color scheme of '70s-style gym socks. The shapes of my teeth had changed, as the rings seemed to have shaved off a few microns of surface area as they left. I should've figured that when the sheer will of my right front snaggletooth pushing to return home broke my retainer in half that it would be mere months until the teeth settled back into their original positions.

OK, it took a year. Sue me. All that agony and expense, and the little enamel bastards moved back. For years, people have delighted in telling me how my mouth will get me in trouble. It's too big, you see. So big, in fact, that it's amazing it could belong to such a tiny girl. (Are "adults" as hilarious now as I remember them to be when I was younger? Yes. Just as hilarious. Which is to say, not at all hilarious.)

Joke's on them, apparently, because my mouth is so small that the stretching and widening didn't take. A year after the steel was removed, the eye teeth and bicuspids waved two-tooth salutes at the epic failure.

While I don't fear torture at the hands of the White Angel of Auschwitz, I do think this office visit is going to kill me. I have 18 years worth of random crap stuck to my molars and a big old heart murmur. Apparently the American Heart Association has backtracked from their original advice of a week's worth of preemptive antibiotics to ward off mortal infection after swallowing said crap and having it get stuck in a heart chamber thanks to lazy mitral valves. The day of, an hour before, was the rule for a while. And now, nothing. Which doesn't exactly fill me with hope or good tidings.

Why did they change their tune? Bacterial endocarditis still has a body count. Presumably not large enough to concern anyone, except we of the prolapse.

Anyway, I figured a university dental school was the way to go. For now, I'll ignore the irony of having to go to the dental school of the university for which I freelance because the job doesn't involve any health benefits and the school's supposed to be a bargain. The nearest appointment I could get was eight weeks away, and as it is a teaching facility, they want you to block out hours for each consultation every two weeks.

Scrap that. I want to spend as little time as humanly possible in that chair, not three-hour blocks with unlicensed kids in their mid-20s. So, local it is. Like the general practitioner I found in the neighborhood when I last contracted strep. This guy has a website, which I take to be a good sign. And there are photos of all of his employees on the site, smiling and pleasant, with tidy office and shiny dental tool backgrounds.

I'd be lying if I said the little cartoon people frolicking with toothbrushes over hill and digital dell on the homepage didn't tickle me. And swallowing bile and panic, I dialed the number to be greeted by exactly the type of person I hoped would answer -- kind, lovely, comforting, and not at all horrified to hear that I discovered two canyon-sized cavities in my back upper molars with the help of a plastic dental mirror.

I told her about the murmur and asked if I needed to consult a GP before my appointment. She had to have been able to tell I was petrified just to be speaking to someone in a dental office because she was so good at putting me at ease. Don't you worry about a thing, was her response. She assured me that the doctor would answer all of my questions and that if I felt that I would like to curb the risk and pop a few penicillin while filling out the new patient paperwork, then she would make it so. We set a date, and I felt total relief as I ended the call.

Joe can't comprehend how I can handle weaponry and face down most things with scarcely a change in pulse, but the prospect of the dentist's chair makes me quake in terror. Yeah, well, you're best just to accept it, oh one who never experienced braces.

So next week I trundle off, either to relief or my doom, but most certainly back below the poverty line. The mirror tells all and I'm ashamed to say I can see quite plainly two cavities in the top molars, two in the lower front, some black juje in the indentations of the lower left, and a bunch of seriously weird discolorations on the sides of teeth that never see the light of day.

I'm starting to feel lightheaded again. Got to floss.

Vent-age Point

2009-03-12T13:59:00.003-04:00

Facebook, gone.

MySpace, fuck off.

Twitter, like I really give a shit that you're vacuuming to Thriller today, shut up.

And now LinkedIn. Later, yawnfest.

It's official. I am off the grid.

It's too much, the minutiae, I don't care. It's like living in a fucking reality tv show, I can't take it anymore.

I guess people have always been boring as shit, I just never knew they were so proud of it.

I Can't Get No [Middle] Relief

2009-01-06T11:01:00.001-05:00

Are we agreed that Bud Selig has officially gone off the reservation for the first time of 2009?

How do you suspend JC Romero for 50 games -- and a loss of $1.25 million -- for being unwilling to admit he is guilty of doing something legal? The sentence doesn't make grammatical sense, which doesn't bode well for the actual policy part.

Just so we're clear, JC Romero is being suspended for taking legal OTC supplements bought from a Cherry Hill GNC, and Barry Bond's fat, disgusting, lying, cheating shadow still hangs over the righteous Hank Aaron.

Maybe all the drugs baseball players don't do anymore get shipped direct to Bud's residence and he's just on a cocktail of horse tranquilizers and pain killers, falling off his throne, crown tilted, waving his sceptre around like a drunk with his last bottle, talking crazy shit and his family just hasn't had time to take him in the backyard and shoot him.

Good job, Cotton Selig. Ye Olde Salem Phillies shalt not play the baseball under yon influence of eeeevil vitttamins.

Celebrating the World Series

2008-11-03T18:40:00.004-05:00

Finally.

Finally Philadelphia has a championship team, and for me, it couldn't have come at a better time. With our presidential election campaign plumbing the depths of cruelty and lies, I've really needed something to lift my spirits. Especially because I have way too many people close to me who think--wrongly, in my opinion--that Barack Obama is some kind of creature hellbent on the destruction of the upper crust, white culture as we know it, and Israel. And honestly, I cringe in fear at anyone who thinks that Sarah Palin should do anything beside shut her trap and do a better job keeping her kids from breeding before they're legal to drink.

So when the World Series parade date and time were announced, the first thing I did was email the boss lady and ask if I knocked out some jobs on my day off, could I split out early. She was totally down with the plan, so at 11.30 a.m. I headed downstairs to jump on the Broad Street line.

Denied. The line to get through the turnstiles began on the sidewalk. My idea was to get to City Hall, meet up with FishSandwich and Johanna and find a place to watch. Then hoof it down the parade route to South Philly and catch up with Roger and Jenny. I booked from Broad Street and Cecil B. Moore Avenue to 16th and JFK in 27 minutes, walking like Gumby because I'd ridden horses with my sister the day prior and was suffering badly in the knee, hip and quadracep regions.

As I approached the madhouse crowds, my phone buzzed with a text message from Johanna with her location. I responded, pressed send and put the phone back in my pocket. When I took it out again to look for a response, I had a message saying the transmission had failed, did I want to try again.

And that's how the phone angle went for the rest of the afternoon. No outgoing calls, no outgoing messages, no voicemail. Which meant, no finding my friends who could have rightly assumed that I'd flaked out and gone home to sleep. Because eight times out of 10, when things become a hassle, I've gone home and to sleep.

Not this time. I figured I should tough it out because it's the World Series parade! Woo! World Series! We won! We won! So I wiggled my way through a hundred moms with strollers and a hundred incredibly drunk and stumbling teenagers, and got as close as I could to the curb. Unfortunately, that was about 50 people back, but there was a miniscule eyeline to the street so I settled in.

I was standing next to a very quiet-spoken, pleasant man with a hellion 7-year old. The kid whined the entire time. I get it, it's not fun standing in a crowd when your line of vision is everybody else's belt buckles, but kid, it's no better three feet up, how 'bout you shut it.

Evidently the dad was holding a bag of doughnuts, and the kid's whine was mostly in response to dad's refusal to hand the bag over. Each time he asked and was refused, he kicked me in the shins. I knew I should've worn my Fryes. After the third kick, dad relented, probably because he saw what his son was doing and death in my eyes and wanted to halt a potential homicide. When the kid finished his doughnut, he was crusty with glaze. Dad handed him a napkin, but that fell to the sidewalk and the kid reached instead for my shirt tail. He wiped his hands on the back of my Utley jersey.

People have asked me why I didn't freak out on the dad, and I'll tell you. He did everything he could without making a scene. He reprimanded in a low voice, told the boy he was acting like a monster, asked him to behave better, and told him he was in big trouble if he didn't straighten up and fly right. We were mashed together in a crowd, what else was the guy supposed to do. I like kids, I understand how difficult it is to appease a kid who's on a tear, and it didn't seem fair to rake the dad over the coals when he was doing the best he could under the circumstances.

What was he going to do, smack the kid across the ass in front of everybody? Make it worse? I wanted to, but it seemed the logical thing to breathe and let it go. This kid was hardly the most obnoxious in our area of the crowd, which was made up primarily of positively wasted kids and adults, screaming Let's go, Phillies! at the tops of their lungs, and pushing and shoving.

About the Let's go, Phillies. They already went, what are you talking about. Where else do you want them to go? The Cosmic Series? Spring training in Clearwater? Wait a few months, they'll get on planes. The bizarre tense of that cheer annoyed me more than the doughnut kid.

The crowd started going ballistic, so it seemed the team should be approaching. Not so. There were several false starts before anybody showed up on our section of the route. First past was the Phanatic, covering his eyes and bending backwards in disbelief. He was dancing and waving and kissing everyone within reach. Then Governor Rendell. I got a quick glimpse of the top of his comb-over and he was gone. Two double-decker buses rolled up, not filled with players, rather the press. Lame. And then came the players.

By this point, a woman about 5'8 decided to take a stranger up on his offer and got up onto his shoulders effectively blocking the view of me and everyone behind her. I made a remark about being blinded by a giant shearling-clad ass, and a dad with a tiny girl aboard his shoulders kindly maneuvered me in front of them. I saw a Chris Coste-shaped blur and a brown stripe I took to be Ryan Howard. The giant ass became dislodged from its neckrest and started to fall. With arms flailing to find something solid for support, I got my neck wrenched to the right as that assclown grabbed a fistful of my hair to steady herself.

For a 2.3 mile half-run, 40 minute wait, Krispy Kremed shirt tails and a sprained neck, that's what I got to see. The Phanatic, the top of Rendell's head, possibly Coste and Howard, and half a dozen kids throwing up and pissing on the Radian building.

Suffice to say, I went home to sleep.

Jenny texted me later to ask if I was up for a Vincent Price marathon at Rog's. I was not. The nap helped, but I was too crabby to be around other people. But if you know Rog, you know he won't let you sit home and mope, it's not in his nature. So in response to my negative text response, I got a buzz on the door a few minutes later.

And I have to say, there really is no better cure for a bad mood than Vincent Price. The raised eyebrow, weirdly sultry and effeminate voice and gesticulations. I laughed for hours. And when I fell asleep for the night, I dreamt of candelabras filled with dripping red candles and ridiculously foppy midnight blue great coats and top hats. And I woke up laughing.

Harder, when I was informed Chase Utley dropped the F bomb on live television.

I love the Phillies.

Walking the Walk

2008-11-01T13:08:00.002-04:00

Our buddy, Brendan, owns the Memphis Taproom and according to Roger wasn't taking any anti-Phils talk in his house.

Some ignorant loudmouth girl yelled, You suck! when Chase Utley struck out in game 5 and Brendan announced that anybody talking shit about our team is getting kicked out.

My buddy, Johanna, told off a loudmouth at the South Philly Tap Room for doing the same thing. With the added zinger that by tearing down our team he had effectively turned off any woman who might've given him a second look.

People cheered.

You don't dis our team on our turf. And if you're a local doing the talking, you're a complete loser.

Thank You, Rays!

2008-10-29T22:32:00.003-04:00

You guys are rockstars. Joe Maddon, awesome.

You played your hearts out, through ridiculous weather, awful calls and no doubt, some seriously rude jeering.

There's no honor in a victory over an unworthy opponent, and you couldn't be more worthy. You had a killer season and a wicked postseason.

Congratulations on a season well managed and beautifully played.

Thank you for giving my hometown team, the Phils, the opportunity to become true champions.

Baseball Fan Etiquette

2008-10-29T11:26:00.004-04:00

My beloved Phils are in the World Series. I'm excited almost beyond description. I'm losing sleep, my appetite and what's left of my looks, but I support our boys with every ounce of strength I can still muster.

So I feel the need to set the record straight on a few things. Namely, how not to be an asshole fan. A topic in which an embarrassingly high number of people desperately need a solid schooling.

Monday night Joe and I went to dinner near his place, at this upscale-Italian joint turned mellower-bar/restaurant with a fireman theme as one of the new partners is a retired fireman from North Jersey. Super nice guys -- they came over to say hello and point out the highlights of the menu choices, before asking us to sample the new cheesecake.

I'm psyched for a nice bloody sirloin to power me up for the game which we were intending to watch at home, on the couch under blankets, far from the increasingly weird weather and road conditions. The bar server drops a plump steak in front of me, but by this point, I have to reset my brain manually to enjoyment mode because I'm furious over the previous five minutes sandwiched between warm handshakes from the owners and my plate hitting the bar.

Soon as we'd sat down, the few guys on the other side of the elbow started talking not so much to us, as just loudly and to whoever cared to listen and respond. Foolishly, I got caught up when I took my sweater off revealing my red Rollins 11 shirt.

Oh, so you're a Phillies fan...

I'll spare you the verbatim retell and give you the gist: Phillies fans are the worst. Filth-adelphia is a terrible city. Did I mention Phillies fans are the worst.

This, from a Red Sox fan. Some jackass salty dog old guy who thinks the number of games you attend is the barometer for the validity of your fandom. I said I'm poor, and I have to split my annual sporting expenses between the Phils and the Flyers. I was trying to be ironic, but judging by his response, he didn't get it. He proceeded to tell us how he goes to two Sox games a season, which is a 5 1/2 hour drive each way.

Wow. Here I thought Sox fans lived in, y'know, Boston.

Regardless, yes, we are all monumentally impressed that you get in a car and drive to a field, watch a game, and drive back home. That's truly amazing. It's almost like that thing people do when they get in a car, drive to work, work, then drive home again. What's that called? Commuting?

Big fucking deal, I guess is my point. Get on a plane, then maybe you'll have a story worth a listen. As it stands, you've hardly set yourself apart from the crowd other than needing attention for a totally mundane activity -- no disrespect to the Sox, they're worth the drive.

Is it age? Maybe it's because I'm 36, and while I don't claim to know the secrets of the universe I think I've lived long enough, read enough newspapers and kept my finger on the pulse of the world long enough to formulate an opinion and defend it. And here is one place where Joe and I differ. He doesn't see the point in arguing simple matters. I respect that, and if the situation had originated with me, I would have pedalled the learning curve.

But, I'm not standing by smiling politely while assholes talk shit about the city in which I live, the teams I love and the fans of whom I am one. Go fuck yourself, in no uncertain terms. Seriously, 55ish years old and you think it's appropriate to insult somebody's hometown to her face? If I were a guy, would anyone have blinked if I shoved him off his barstool?

I called him out. Told him I live in Philly, so he's insulting my hometown. I work in Philly, so he's insulting the place that gives me a job so I can afford a rare piece of beef. And that "I" am a Phillies fan, so saying Phillies fans are the worst is a direct insult of me and my friends and my family.

He told me I didn't understand what he said. Clearly. I'm not very literate and I don't comprehend the sentence, "Phillies fans, they are the worst." That is confusing to me. I feel like Phil Hartman's cro-mag attorney pleading, "I'm just a caveman..."

Grammatically, the word "they" in this usage is a collective pronoun. "They" doesn't make exceptions, it means all Phillies fans. But let's leave the style guide out of it, take it at face value. I'm wearing a Phils tshirt and a Phils hat and I showed up at a bar to watch a Phils game. Say "Phils fans are the worst," and explain to me how I shouldn't take offense. Then explain to me how the reverse would go over in a bar outside Fenway.

Joe does this incredibly sweet thing to diffuse me when he sees my ire getting hot. He squeezes my hand. Not a death grip or anything, just a gentle reminder that we're together and should be enjoying ourselves. And by all accounts, he is correct. I shouldn't waste time on jerkoffs. Sad, lonely ignorant jerkoffs miles away from their home teams who got beaten in the American League pennant race.

That said, Adam emailed me this little snippet about Ben Zobrist's parents claiming Phillies fans were harassing their baby, or a baby who had been brought to the game in their family group.

People, come on. Yelling at a baby? That's dumber than calling Evan Longoria "Eva" -- which was played out the first time the joke was made when he joined the majors -- and rude on an almost unquantifiable level. He or she is a baby, an infant, a living creature who doesn't know where the hell he is, what he's doing there, or why his parents would lug him to an open-air stadium at night in 30-degree temperatures in unprotected seating that regularly gets pelted with foul balls hit over 100 miles per hour.

It's not the kid's fault, show some class. We do have that, here, in Philadelphia. Why it's reserved for certain occasions and not a daily occurrence across the board, I can't say. But I wholly support the concept.

So, enough with the booing already. Christ, that's obnoxious. It's fine to boo a bad call, and you should boo a pitcher who hits one of our guys. Other than those two or some unforeseen off-the-hook circumstance -- or anything involving Manny Ramirez -- you don't boo the other team, what the hell is wrong with you. THEY are in the World Series, too. It wasn't a buy-in, give them quiet respect and quit wiring them up. Think about it, what happens when you're up to the plate in town league softball and the other bench boos? You whack a line drive at the pitcher's nuts, right?

Same principle. Anger gets the blood pumping. Let the other team self-destruct. Concentrate on being positive for our team. If you need to scream and yell the entire game, then say good stuff about our guys. Tell Jimmy "good eye" when shops a few pitches instead of swinging at the first one down the pike and popping it up just outside the infield. Make sure Ryan Howard can hear you at the plate saying that you know he can wail one and send the RISPs home. Inform Chase Utley that you, too, love Tastykakes. It feels good, it gives hope. It's your job as a fan to do everything you can to let our guys know you are stoked at how hard they've played all season and how hard they're trying to bring that kickass trophy back to Philadelphia.

'Cause if you don't, you prove all those shithead barflies right. And that's just pathetic.