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For whatever reason I pick up a copy of The Sex Lives of Cannibals , an in(un?)aptly -named book/travelogue about a guy who gets restless and takes off to a remote island because it sounds so romantic and it is so not. It's pretty damn funny for a non-fiction book. Especially after reading A Million Little Pieces, a not so funny look at recovering from substance abuse.
ANYWAY it turns out this guy, the author, lives in Sacramento and the local Borders has signed copies of it, and since I wasn't paying attention or, as usual, I learn things in the wrong order, I bought an unsigned copy.
Sex Lives Link to Amazon
Million Little Pieces Link to Amazon
November is NaNoWriMo and it is almost over. The goal of this event/organization is in the form of a national collective objective in which each participating individual attempts to write 50,000 words in one month. I don't know how people do it, but thousands do. I just recently surpassed 50,000 words (current exact word count is 54,688) on my novel and I started it in September of 2003.
Specifically, the Eureka, CA Police Department. They sent me a Notice of Parking Violation. Their records show that I have failed to respond to a parking ticket that was issued to me and my Red Volkswagen Jetta on August 26 of this year. Apparently the car was parked more than 18 inches from the curb of some street in Eureka. And boy am I in trouble. The amount due on this violation has climbed to a staggering $53.00. I'd better pay up, or else I may face garnishment of my wages and seizure of my property.
There's just one thing. I do not own a Red Volkswagen Jetta and have not been north of Sacramento since a volleyball reunion over 8 years ago. Now that would have put me in Eureka (Humboldt State being a few miles north of it), but it would have me parking there sometime during the Clinton Administration. It is this Humboldt connection that is throwing me off as I try to solve the mystery about why they are sending this to me. Or to my parents house. Or to an address that is not quite my parents address, but somehow still manages to make it to their mailbox. The DMV has my latest address and my parents house is not it.
Then I notice the license plate number. It looks familiar. Oh yeah, my Toyota truck (which was stolen over 10 years ago) had that license plate. But wouldn't the DMV know that too? I guess they are just reaching out to anybody to pay this damn fine. Like collection agencies going after a dead guy's family members to cover their outstanding debts.
I wonder what other stolen license-plate-related mischeivous doings I have to look forward to hearing about.
Our garage is too small. The houses across the street (a different developer) have wide enough garages (8 panels wide for 2 cars). Ours is only 7 panels wide. We can barely squeeze in 2 cars, and my passengers have no room to get out once inside the garage. So it is with great care and ease that I slowly back out of the garage.
I was rushing around Thanksgiving morning because we had to leave in five minutes to pick up my parents and drive to Vallejo (an hour away in good traffic) when I spoke to the neighbor next door who suddenly wanted me to come over and pick up a cake that she had baked for us. She said it was still in the oven, but we could take one that she had baked earlier that was not as fresh (the definition of which was that it had come out of the oven well over 4 hours before). Personally, I thought that was plenty fresh. "Well come over and get it," she says.
I walk over and pick it up with and try to chit chat a little to be friendly - "Oh this is my sister, she's in from Vegas and this is my brother and we're going over to my aunt's house down the street."
"Nice to meet all of you and wow, this cake looks wonderful, but I gotta go, we have to pick up my parents. Thanks so much. Happy Thankgiving." Actually, I do like these people and wished I could have stayed a little longer, but I really was in a hurry and beginning to stress out about it.
I rush out and open the hatch to my car and put the cake in and run into the house to grab the salad for the Thanksgiving dinner and the Harry Potter book for my niece and put that in the back as well. MrMudPuppy disappears into the house to lock up and grab whatever.
I jump in the car and start it up and my cell phone rings. It's my sister asking me when I'm leaving and am I picking up our parents. I'm trying to carry on a conversation with her while slowly backing out of the garage taking care not to scrape the side of the car against the wall.
And everything happens at once. My sister is saying something. The CD player is playing something. Ron is yelling something and I hear a noise. A noise like scraping. I step on the brake and MrMudPuppy is standing in front of my car with a horrified look on his face because I have left the back hatch open and it has scraped the top of the garage door frame.
Harper's Index of Vehicle Info:
Current damage estimate: $1,100
Number of hours driver spent finding ways to blame Blockbuster Online for this Debacle: 3
Holiday of damage: Thanksgiving
Holiday of previous damage on previous Lexus: Driver's birthday
It goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that I am living proof of how dangerous it is to drive and talk on the cell phone at the same time. I have become that which I loathe and denegrate on a daily basis.
Now, all of my cars have been either damaged, totalled, or stolen only once each (with the exception of my Toyota truck which was stolen twice within a span of 24 hours). I'm hoping this means that the new car got it out of its system and it's good to go for the rest of its life. Or mine. Whichever ends first.
Oftentimes, words are bandied about in the media without the speaker or the listener knowing what the hell they are talking about.
Case in point: What the hell is a pandemic?
Well, a pandemic is an epidemic that has become global.
What the hell is an epidemic?
It's just a widespread disease that affects many individuals in a population.
My suggestions to avoid catching this Avian flu that's flying around:
1. Do not participate in any Hands Across America events.
2. Die soon, but do not reincarnate as a bird.
3. If you must attend church, make it a Catholic one. Preferably pre-Vatican II, as they frown on hand-holding.
A typical early morning in my Los Angeles condo. CNN Headline News is blaring out of my bedroom TV, currently my only TV, while I blow-dry my hair, a normal preparation activity preceding my daily 5 minute commute to work. As I'm blowing the last bit of my hair - POOF! My TV dies. Only this time it's all black. No horizontal line. But it's not just the TV. It's everything of power that has halted. My hair dryer. The lights. The clock. All off.
A quick check down the hall reveals it's an isolated area. A-HA! This will just require a quick flip of the breaker switch upstairs.
Wrong. Flip, flip, flip. Nothing. Still no power in the bedroom and bathroom.
So, one curse word, one phone call, three hours, and forty-five dollars later, Eugene from AM-PM Electrical has replaced my circuit breaker.
The question is...how did those bastards at Blockbuster Online gain access to my circuit breaker box?
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