Are You Talking to Me??!

Yes, I know, it’s been forever since I’ve added a new entry to this blog! What else can I say except that I’ve been occupied? I’m also ashamed to say that there’s been a slight drought in regards to ‘idiot’ moments but I have a feeling that’ll even out soon enough. The saddest part is that I had an entry sort of in the works for the end of the winter season but unfortunately I never finished it. It simply doesn’t seem appropriate to post it now, especially since it’s around 84 degrees today and talk of non-working snow throwers hardly seems to be an appropriate topic.

I have been meaning for quite some time now to discuss one of the most unique attributes that makes living in the Twin Cities area interesting: the skyway system. Yes, both Minneapolis and St. Paul have their own skyway, and no, they don’t connect, and it would be one heck of a walk if they did! I worked in downtown St. Paul for almost exactly one year and got to know their skyway fairly well. The St. Paul skyway is bizarre with all variations of twists, unexpected turns, strange intersections, you name it. It took me quite some time to find my way around without a guide or a trail of bread crumbs.

I have since changed to working in downtown Minneapolis and I needed to basically start over, unlearn what I had learned, and then catch on to their own version of the skyway system. The two have little in common, Minneapolis’ version seeming more like a shopping mall with business after business lined up with mobs of shoppers and workers alike everywhere. St. Paul’s, on the other hand, seems more like something the 7 dwarves might have mistakenly mined in search of the mother lode, and to this day I’m still expecting to see Indiana Jones ride by in a mining car with Short Round by his side. I kid you not, if you get lost in the St. Paul skyway it’s completely possible that you might never be heard from again, or at the very least end up somewhere that you didn’t know existed. I had heard horror stories from some of the people that I used to work with in regard to their skyway journeys. Supposedly, somewhere in mid St. Paul, if you mistakenly take an elevator or two and exit on the incorrect floor, you’ll find yourself walking down a narrow, semi-dark hallway not unlike something out of the “Doom” video game. After walking for a decent amount of time, supposedly the hallway just ends…without any door or any reason to it. The lighting supposedly flickers and everything, and there’s also evidently a bizarre stench that defies words. Needless to say, I was always a bit paranoid whenever I had to get on/off a few elevators in unknown turf.

The Minneapolis skyway, however, has been an adventure unto itself, pretty much like no other. I park in a parking lot that’s several blocks away from work and therefore my daily walk in and out covers several blocks of both street and skyway area. The walk is almost always entertaining.

I have since discovered that I must give off some sort of look of authority or knowledge since people always seem to stop me, of all people, for directions. This has happened most of my life, to be honest, such as in department stores and such. It never ceases to astound me when a Wal-Mart customer walks up to me and asks, “Do you work here? I’m looking for…” It’s about that time that I start reevaluating my wardrobe. Does it really look like I’m wearing a blue vest with a smiley face on the pocket?! I kid you not, it’s happened so many times that I’ve lost count. I’ve even had people so convinced that I worked there even after I told them that I didn’t that they simply continue on with their question, saying something like, “Yeah, whatever. So, anyway, can you tell me where the is?” I simply don’t get it.

When it comes to directions, though, the irony is that I almost always give people the wrong instructions. I don’t do this on purpose, mind you. I think I’m basically so thrown off that someone is asking me for directions that I get nervous, start fumbling through my brain like a drunken Pomeranian, and then simply blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, without thinking it through, of course.

For example, one day a few months back a gentleman in a business suit approached me in a mild panic. “Do you know the skyway well?! How do I get to this building?!” he asked frantically while pointing at an address on a piece of paper. “I need to get there right away! I’m late!” If only he had been holding an old fashioned time piece in his hand, he could have posed as the white rabbit from Disney’s version of “Alice in Wonderland”. Now that I think of it there was a mild resemblance.

Sensing the urgency that was oozing from the man in the suit, naturally my mind started to fail me and I began in mid-sentence. “Oh, er, you should go that way, no this way…” returning the volley and sounding more like Tweedle Dee/Tweedle Dum.

I stopped and took a breath, just about the time the guy started showing a mild look of panic, thinking that perhaps I was more clueless than he. I wasn’t exactly sure where he was trying to go but I knew the addresses and streets nearby. In less than 5 seconds worth of time I formulated my game plan. “Okay, here’s what you want to do,” I said calmly, sounding in complete control and terribly knowledgeable. I quickly shared my thoughts on how he could get to his destination in the least amount of time. He thanked me graciously and made his way down the hallway confidently and appearing to feel lucky that he had bumped into someone with such knowledge.

Basically, I had advised him to exit the skyway and take the street level instead, thinking it would make it easier for him to find the necessary address listed on the outside of the building. The problem, though, was that as soon as he was out of sight I realized that I did indeed know the business and address he was looking for and it was only reachable via the skyway! Couple this with the fact that it was about 10 degrees outside at the time and, well, I started to panic and feel bad. For a second I thought that maybe I should run after him, this time looking more like the caterpillar in “Alice…”, once he sends her on her way, with all 10+ arms and legs waving in the air frantically, “Little girl! Wait! Come back! I have something to tell you!!” Yeah, you guessed it, I simply let it go and continued on my way to work. (Sigh) Perhaps I do deserve to one day end up in that St. Paul dead end corridor with the flickering light and the unmentionable stench.

Last week started interestingly. Again, I walk this route every single day to and from work. I was walking in my usual pace, cutting across a parking lot, and was about to merge onto the sidewalk just inches in front of three elderly people walking casually. As I merged, somehow I tripped over my own feet and almost literally fell onto the elderly people. I distinctly heard one of them utter an “oh my” as I did what I could to look cool in my best “I meant to do that” sort of attitude. Two blocks down, for an encore, I did it again. It was obviously going to be one of those weeks.

The true highlight of the Minneapolis skyway, though, are the many individuals that talk to themselves in a rather schizophrenic manner, basically about anything from conspiracy theories to current events. My personal favorite is the man with the blue bag, a guy in his early to mid 40’s who always has this large blue bag slung over his shoulder. I first encountered him late one evening after dining with some friends. My friends and I had parked our vehicles in parking lots on opposite sides of the restaurant and so I found myself nonchalantly walking alone in the skyway towards my parking garage. As I walked, I could see this guy (Mr. Blue Bag) rounding the corner off in the distance and walking in my general direction. I didn’t think anything of it since he looked harmless enough, or at least he did from a distance. We slowly inched our way closer to one another, with him still heading in my direction and not making any sounds or showing much sign of life. Instead, he looked like he might be deep in thought or perhaps contemplating why he preferred the blue bag over some other color that might better match his outfit. Still approaching and probably about 20 yards in front of me, he suddenly came to life, raised his arms up into the air, and started screaming at the top of his lungs, “I’ll kill him!! Aaarrrgh!!” After saying this, he immediately went back to showing no signs of life, not entirely unlike the Warner Bros. frog after signing “…hello my baby, hello my honey…grrrrribit…”

Upon hearing his outburst and particularly noting the “kill” part of it, I started to get nervous. However, we were walking in a narrow area where it would look really strange and obvious if I suddenly stopped and turned around, not to mention that he would now be behind me and headed in the same direction. No, it seemed best that I just continue going forward and act like I didn’t hear anything, which is what I did. 5 yards away…4…3…2…1…and then he passed me. For a moment I thought, whew, that was mildly scary! Just as I thought that, as luck would have it, the guy turned around and was now following only a few feet behind me! Help!!!

At this point I’m not sure what to do and so I do the only thing I can think of…speed up. Thankfully, I quickly pulled away from him and in a matter of a few minutes he’s out of sight, although I’m sure if anyone was watching they were probably wondering why I was power walking while looking like a scared chicken that’s mistakenly gotten out of the coop.

Two days later, while out walking on a break from work, I ran into the blue bag guy again, and this time he let out a strange yell as if he was in protest to some invisible force. I couldn’t help but wonder: is it me? Do I set this guy off or something? He seemed pretty mellow always until he caught sight of me. Luckily, we continued walking in opposite directions and I didn’t think much more of it although I couldn’t help but wonder what protest he was indeed protesting.

Once again feeling relieved to be away from the guy with the blue bag, from there I entered the government building and just as I passed the escalator, a large mob of, ironically, protestors were riding up it with picket signs, chanting something that I couldn’t make out, and getting angrier by the second. I continued to walk forward but worriedly looked behind me. From an onlooker’s point of view it probably looked like I was at the head of the mob since right behind me and still continuing to come up the escalator was a massive protest with some people yelling through bullhorns. Security was running over to where I was and it looked quite like the scene out of Charlie Chaplin’s “Modern Times” where he just happens to be waving a dropped piece of white linen after rounding a corner, unknowingly placing him at the very front of an anti-war protest. Chaplin’s character got mistakenly arrested shortly after; having seen this film, again, I tried to put as much distance between myself and the protestors as I could and as quickly as possible.

On a different day, I approached a guy wearing a long trench coat who was standing by himself in the middle of a parking structure. As I approached, his eyes darted around madly, and he whispered albeit loudly into his jacket as if talking to his pocket, “…and then everything will be perfect.” “Will it?” he answered himself. “Yes…ssssh…someone’s coming. Maybe he won’t notice us.” I walked past him as casually as I could, his eyes all the while squirrelly and darting around like mad but still trying to act nonchalant and such. As soon as I was about 20 feet away from him I heard him say, “Excellent. He didn’t notice us. Now, what I was saying was…”

Two days ago, again on my way into work, a gentleman holding a map of the area stopped me on the street corner. “Excuse me sir,” he said, “can you help me find the Guthrie Theater?” I had just been there only a few days prior and so I quickly pointed out where he was on the map, where the Guthrie was, and what the best route would be to get there. On the way out of work the very next day and at that same precise spot, a lady asked me if I knew where Hubert’s Bar and Grill was. I explained that I wasn’t positive but I was pretty sure of where it was located, and more or less pointed in the general vicinity of it. A few moments later, after getting in my car and driving towards my freeway entrance to head towards my house, I passed Hubert’s and low and behold there was the lady getting ready to cross the street towards it.

As I drove past in my car I smiled to myself and could hardly believe it. I somehow had managed to give two different people accurate directions within 2 days. Perhaps there’s hope for me yet. Of course, I thought all of this as I talked to my pocket.

I Can't Understand You...

Understanding others has never been one of my high points in life. I’m pretty good at communicating my thoughts, mind you, in fact I might even be a bit too proficient at it, but when it comes to interpreting just normal conversation from others it can get a bit interesting.

Some claim that I have “creative hearing” and perhaps they’re correct. It’s not really that unusual in regular conversation, for instance, if someone were to say “I’m having friends over for dinner”, for me to then reply curiously, “You’re salving your end this winter?!” Maybe I just really secretly wish that someone would tell me something unusual like that they were planning on salving their end this winter, I’m not sure. Regardless, this is precisely the kind of thing that I hear on a frequent basis.

Sometimes I’m just a bit out of the loop and my creative visual mind runs away with me. For example, I was setting up a date not too long ago with someone of which I’d never met before in person. While speaking on the phone, we agreed to meet at this so-called “jazz” festival (although they seemed to be playing everything but). I’m pretty easy to recognize even if you’ve never met me in person before but I was immediately a bit nervous about picking her out of a crowd of who knows how many people. She reassured me, though, that she would be pretty easy to spot: “I’ll pretty much be the only single mom in her early thirties, pushing around a 2 year old in a stroller, with a blue tooth.”

Momentary silence formed on my end of the phone. A blue tooth? Panic instantly started creeping inside of me. Does this woman have some sort of birth defect? Being the outrageously visual person that I am naturally, I immediately imagined a half walrus/half woman with one strikingly long blue tooth dangling out of the side of her mouth, perhaps chomping on a recently caught fish. Or, I’ve heard of people getting gold teeth…is this some new fad that I have yet to hear about, especially since I’m pretty out of fads for the most part anyway? For a few seconds I strongly considered weaseling out of the date, scanning my brain for some sort of viable excuse. I couldn’t ask her what she meant, of course, because what if she really did have a blue tooth hanging out of her mouth! No, it was best to keep quiet and simply suppress it.

The date was the following evening and so there I was walking around the jazz festival, truly not sure of who I was looking for since I didn’t understand what was meant by the “blue tooth” reference, my only true hint of picking her out of the crowd. I walked the complex a couple times, basically keeping my options open for just about anyone that mildly fit the description, and then luckily she found me. It was then that I noticed the strange looking mobile phone device hanging off of her ear, something I had never seen before. Ah, the “blue tooth”… If I was more techy perhaps these confusing moments wouldn’t happen to me? Yeah, you’re right, I’d probably a find a way anyhow.

It’s not always me with the understanding issue, though. My latest adventure was at a local Caribou Coffee establishment located in the Minneapolis skyway close to where I work. I had received a $10 gift card from my boss for Christmas and I was simply trying to use it up, having only $1.70 left on the card.

I ventured into the skyway towards one of the 500 Caribou Coffee’s within 3 minutes walking distance. I kid you not; there are so many mini coffee houses in the downtown skyway that you’d think they’re secretly breeding like rabbits after hours. Upon walking in to the closest one I could find, no one was in line, and in fact both the establishment and the staff looked pretty relaxed, like they could use a customer walking in who wants to use up his Caribou card. I took this as a sign. I walked up to the counter and a young semi-hip mildly flamboyant guy, probably around age 23, took my order.

I handed him my Caribou card which he promptly swiped through the card reader. A receipt quickly emerged and he seemed a bit frazzled, like perhaps it was his first day or something similar. He started handing me the receipt but stopped in mid-reach, pulling the receipt back to read it himself. After grimacing and reading it over, he said, “Oh, it looks like you owe another $2.35.” I expected this so no big deal, and I handed him my Visa card for the remainder. He then swiped that card through the card reader and just as I thought everything was cool total confusion seemed to reign.

The clerk kept waiting patiently at the printer, sort of like a doctor expecting a patient to give birth at any moment to twins or triplets, but nothing ever came out. Puzzled, he started hitting random buttons on the register, definitely the technical thing to do, mind you, and then sighed loudly, then hit a few more buttons, then sighed loudly again, and then finally whined out loud to no one in particular, “Heeeey, this thing isn’t woooorking…” He glanced over at a young girl, I’m assuming perhaps the manager although she looked about 13 years old, and she completely ignored him. Mind you, she was standing only about 4 feet from him but she ignored him just the same…

The clerk stood there, shocked by the ignoring, and whined again in a much louder voice, “Heeeey, something’s wrong with this thiiiing.” Again, she totally ignored him, or at least pretended to considering the fact that I think half the place could pick up his whine loud and clear. He decided to try a different approach. “Maaaary, how do I make this thiiiing print?”

Mary finally took notice and wandered over. In a slightly disgusted voice, she asked, “What are you trying to do exactly?”

The clerk, mildly talking with his hands, said, “Well, this guy placed his order and swiped his Caribou card through the machine…”

Mary cut him off, looking at me accusingly. “He did what?” I wasn’t sure how I got pulled into this but I gently shook my head back and forth, trying desperately to convey the message that I didn’t touch his machine.

“He paid with a Caribou card, and he swiped it through the machine…” The clerk paused momentarily, and then corrected himself, “Um, well, I mean I swiped the card through…”

Mary, clearly very impatient, didn’t care to hear the rest. “When that happens just hit this button, push this, and hit this button.” Even before the clerk could even possibly bark any sort of protest, she walked away again leaving him still without any receipt or any clue.

A moment later, he whined again, “Maaaarrrryyy, it’s still not working.”

Rolling her eyes, Mary returned. “What now?” I would have thought that she would have learned that this was evidently the wrong question to ask but clearly Mary wasn’t catching on.

The clerk began again. “This guy swiped his card through the machine…” A slight pause occurred, and then he said, “…well, no, I swiped the card through the machine, but then the receipt didn’t come out…” This story was starting to sound familiar. Once again, Mary attempted to show him what to do but the clerk was wising up. “No, you see, he swiped his Caribou card through the machine…” A slight pause and then “…well, no, I swiped his card through, but then there was still a balance of $2.35.”

Mary finally got it. “Oh! Okay, so what happened then?”

“Well, then he swiped his Visa card through the machine…” Another slight pause occurred, and then, “…well, no, I swiped his card through, but the receipt never came out.”

I’m not entirely sure how many times we went through this loop of him insisting that I swiped my card(s) through his machine but it was more than any normal human being should be subjected to. In the end, as you probably already guessed, the clerk missed some button in between swiping the cards and my Visa card never even really registered in the machine, hence the non-existence of my receipt. He then asked, “Can I see your card again?” and I could only think to myself, “Oh cr*p, not again! Please let it go through…please!!!”

As I turned around to leave, I noticed that the once vacant Caribou establishment now had a long line forming out the door. A friend of mine had been waiting for me during the transaction and as I walked up looking quite frazzled he asked, “What the heck was taking so long? Your coffee has been sitting on the counter for like 5 minutes.”

I smiled slightly and said, “Well, you see, I swiped the card through the machine…er, I mean, he swiped the card through…”

Ironically, I’m sort of craving a coffee from Caribou as I write this. I’m not sure I’m feeling that brave, though. Maybe I should consider getting cash out of the ATM first. It just might be worth the extra effort.

Please, Please, Leave Your Bags at the Door

I love the Midwest. For example, I saw a man in his late 40’s this morning dancing at the gas station while he was filling up his car’s tank. It was about 30 degrees outside which isn’t really that bad but the wind was whipping pretty well, making it feel much colder than it truly was. Regardless, the guy had his car door open with his radio gently emitting the sound of 60’s R&B, and there he was doing a little happy shuffle as his gas tank diligently accepted more and more gasoline.

That’s Minnesota for you. What’s not to love?! Just for the record, that word in the title is pronounced bag, as in the first syllable of bagel. That’s a little bit of Minnesota speak for you non-Minnesotan’s. Some people find that accent annoying but, you guessed it, I find it kind of cute. Yes, I’m a bit weird but you probably already guessed that.

And then there’s Phoenix…

I recently took a trip back to Phoenix. It was to be the first time since I left in 2004 that I would be visiting the city where I resided for 20 long years of my life, from 1984 to 2004, the years I commonly refer to these days as the “sweating years” since that’s about all I did there anyhow. I admit that I was slightly nervous about going back, seeing the places that I used to frequent, and visiting with old friends of mine that I once would see on a daily basis while roaming the hallways at work. I wasn’t sure what kind of emotional turmoil if might set off inside of my psyche or what other strange effect it might have on me. After looking at the weather forecast, I was also slightly afraid of, well, sweating.

Now, Phoenix isn’t a bad place, really. It’s all in what makes you tick, what your preferences are, and so on. The common link to all Phoenix residents is that they pretty much 100% don’t like weather that’s under 60 degrees and they have no issue whatsoever with eternal sunshine every single day of the year, except for the 3 or 4 days that it drizzles for an hour (and believe it or not they complain that it’s not sunny…go figure). Practically everything in the city is brand new as well, and a building that was constructed in the 60’s is considered “old” and a relic. It’s a great place for sports, golfing, partying, and outdoorsy things that don’t require water or vegetation (hiking, mountain biking, etc.). The downside is that there’s very little history to the city, a major lack of culture and artistic expression, and close to nothing to see in historic architecture. If the above description appeals to your preferences then more than likely you’d love it; if it makes you cringe, I’d advise staying put. I personally like a lot of variety in weather since I get bored easily and due to my chemical makeup I sweat whenever it’s over 70 degrees outside. I know, you didn’t need that visual…sorry. I also get horrid headaches from sunlight due to having very sensitive eyes and such, and so I’m sure you can imagine how much I enjoyed Phoenix for those 20 years just in regards to the weather alone. I personally live for winter and the seasons in general, and I’m beginning to suspect more and more that I’m part polar bear rather than Italian. Coupled with my love of the arts and culture, I felt rather, pardon the pun, stranded in the desert for 20 years. Again, it’s all about what you’re into and there’s no real right or wrong, just personal preference.

Anyhow, back to my point… I had scheduled my first trip back to Phoenix during the weekend of December 16th and I wasn’t sure what awaited me. To make things more complicated, I joined a band back in September and our first show was only days after returning. Being the freak that I am I usually practice heavily on the weekends and mildly during the week but due to my schedule I’d have little time before the performance to practice at all. I couldn’t help but wonder if not playing for 5 days straight would be a severe mistake.

The motto of my trip was simple: don’t get sick! It’s December, after all, and all sorts of cold and flu strains are flying through the air like mosquitoes in mid-summer. I have a personal history of picking up some sort of illness from flying and considering the time of year, where I was going, etc., the odds were clearly against me of remaining sick free. I already had a fairly bad cold all during my time off at Thanksgiving and so yet another bout of illness really didn’t sound too attractive. Again, with the band’s first show only days later, I truly couldn’t afford it.

Then again, what is a guy to do? Flying is like being trapped with 100 or so strangers shoved in a closet and at least 20% of them don’t a) cover their mouths when they sneeze or cough, b) are already ill and are extremely eager to share it with you, or c) they’ve already touched everything in the plane on prior flights and who knows what germs are lying awaiting your presence before you even board. Quite frankly have you ever seen anyone disinfecting the inside of the plane? I haven’t, and I’m fairly convinced that the person would be wearing a radiation suit in order to do it.

My story really begins after it begins, though, or perhaps more appropriately it began before it began. It was Jerry Seinfeld’s fault, that’s all I can say. Okay, let me start at the beginning… A few days before leaving, I had noticed that Jerry Seinfeld was planning a stop in Minneapolis and the tickets just so happened to go on sale at 10am on December 15th…and my plane was scheduled to take off at 11:15am. I tried desperately to get the password for the Wednesday presale but I got it an hour into the sale and the best seats were already taken. Like a dope, I thought that perhaps they hadn’t opened up the entire floor and that Friday’s sale would still give me a great shot at good seats. My plan was to be logged onto Ticketmaster exactly at 10am, to get everything done by 10:15am, and run out the door and drive like mad to the airport. I figured I should be able to get there by 10:45am, no problem, and that still gives me a half hour to get to the gate. I don’t fly that often and I’m new to flying Northwest Airlines and I chose to ignore the “check-in online 24 hours in advance” email since I had to check-in luggage anyhow and there seemed no real point in it. It was a good plan, eh?

Like most of my plans, there were a few flaws. As usual, Ticketmaster and I have a love/hate relationship (see “The Ballad of the Tom Waits’ Ticket”), and of course it ended up that they did indeed open up all the seats during the presale, meaning that my selection on Friday was even worse than before. Frustrated, I tried to simply buy any ol’ seat and then my Ticketmaster password didn’t work. A few more minutes of fighting with my computer and I noticed it was already 10:15am. Abandon plan! I shut everything off, grabbed my luggage, and literally ran out the door. Minutes later I was bumbling down the highway at an absurd speed.

Parking at MSP is pretty simple, although it costs a fortune, and I even got a good spot close to the terminal. I walked very fast up to the check-in counter, waited a minute or two for the people in front of me, and then attempted to check-in. “ERROR!!! PLEASE SEE ATTENDANT!” the computer flashed on the screen. Uh oh. The attendant slowly made her way over to me, asked me a couple questions, typed a few keystrokes, and then said accusingly, “Well sir, it’s less than 30 minutes to your flight.”

I looked at her stupidly. “And? So what?”

“Well,” she said, “Northwest’s policy is that you have to be checked in prior to 30 minutes before your flight. You’ll have to wait for the next flight.”

My mouth slowly started to hang open more and more, probably making a very attractive looking home for insects or lightly colored moss. “You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head. I looked down at my watch and it was now precisely 10:48am. “But it’s been like 3 minutes…and I’ve been standing here at least 3 minutes…”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” she replied, and again looked accusingly. “That’s why we offer online check-in.” Ah, that freakin’ online check-in!

“But I had to check-in bags so what’s the point of online check-in?” I asked.

She grimaced. “It’s so you can board the plane.”

“But then what about my bag?” I thought I had her on this one.

I’ve learned that airline employees have an excuse for everything. “It would have caught the next flight.” Nice to know that my luggage doesn’t need to fly standby, i.e. they treat our luggage better than us, the real people who pay the money.

Arguing seemed futile except for raising my blood pressure and so I gave up the battle. Oooh, I was ticked, let me tell you, and I think I was even growling to myself in the corner, scaring a young couple sitting not far from me. And so, no Jerry Seinfeld tickets AND no plane ticket. This trip truly wasn’t beginning correctly.

I ended up being on standby and didn’t actually escape MSP until the 5:10pm flight. I barely made that one, only getting on since the guy that was actually called at the last minute for the standby seat had only moments before walked away thinking it was fruitless.

Have you ever seen the movie “The Out of Towners”? I’m referring to the original Jack Lemmon version, of course, but probably either will do. I clearly was having an Out of Towner’s (OOT) trip so far and it was about to get even better. My hotel for the evening had a 4pm MST cancellation policy and since I wouldn’t know until after 5pm CST if I got on the plane (if I didn’t get on the 5:10pm flight I was planning on just leaving the next morning), well, I had called and cancelled my room for that night, just to be safe. I had explained my entire predicament to the hotel clerk, how I wouldn’t know if I needed the room and such until after the cutoff, sort of hoping that she’d have some sort of sympathy or plan for me. Instead, she said, “Um, okay, er…what do you need again?” I swear my cats listen to me closer than other humans! Instead of retelling my predicament I simply cancelled my room for that night. I did ask, however, if they had many rooms available and the clerk stated they had “tons of them”. I felt mildly reassured, even though she hadn’t heard a word I said only moments prior.

Okay, so it’s now 5:15pm and I did get on the plane, of course, most likely because I had cancelled my hotel room and fate could have some fun with me. It was only then that I realized that I hadn’t eaten since 8am that morning and we wouldn’t be landing in Phoenix until 8pm! Almost instantly the shakes began. I figured I’d get the flight attendant to give me a few extra bags of peanuts, which leads us to OOT moment #2: NWA doesn’t hand out any free snacks anymore and instead they sell a snack bag for $2, a snack box for $5, and so on. I opened my wallet and I had exactly $1 and no change. I meant to go to the bank before I left but I talked myself out of it, saying “why do I need cash when I have credit cards?” Just like Jack Lemmon who shrugs off the stewardess’ attempts at giving he and his wife coffee and a snack since they intended on having a big dinner that evening, I had to sit and listen to others around me crunching, munching, and making other various noises while my only nourishment would be a cup of ice with Coca-Cola in it.

By the time the plane landed I was simply ravenous with hunger. My first order of business after disembarking was to call my sister and let her know that I had actually arrived. I had called the hotel from MSP by using my credit card at a pay phone but Phoenix doesn’t have that option on their phones. I searched the airport for someone that would change my one lonely dollar into quarters and stopped at one of the airport stores. The clerk told me that I had to buy something in order to get the change. I replied that if she had something for less than 50 cents I’d be happy to since I only had a dollar and needed at least 2 quarters left over. She looked at me oddly and instead just opened the register and gave me the dollar in change.

I called my sister, made the plan to meet at Café Lalibela (still the greatest Ethiopian restaurant I have ever encountered) and we met there shortly after. I arrived first and was about to fall over from hunger so I ordered some soup and promptly gulped it down as if I had walked to Phoenix without any food or water rather than flown. Once my sister and her husband arrived, I only then remembered to call the hotel and get my room back. I borrowed her phone and called.

“Hi,” I said, “I had a reservation that I cancelled earlier because I thought I might not get on the plane but in the end I’m here and need the room.”

The clerk, a different person from the call earlier, responded arrogantly, “Oh, we don’t have any rooms. We’re all filled up.” Yep, I didn’t see that one coming. So much for “we’ve got tons of rooms”. With that, I ended up sleeping on my sister’s couch that evening.

The next day I learned that practically every single person that lived in Phoenix was sick with something. It didn’t really matter where I went, who I was around, etc. Maybe I was just super-sensitive to it since I so much didn’t want to get ill, I’m not sure. Regardless, at least 60% of the people that I had hoped to see while in Phoenix ended up canceling since they were ill. I was surrounded by sickness but I stood my ground just the same.

That evening, I checked into my hotel finally (a day late, mind you) and hoped to get a good night’s rest. I was comfy, the temperature in the room was just right, and all seemed perfect…until 3:30am when I was woken up by the room directly next to me who decided to throw a party. Yes, no kidding, an all out party, drinking, talking loudly while looking over the balcony, and so on. I couldn’t believe it. I called the front desk and was ready to scream. The last words I heard before the party broke up was “Hey! Have you ever p*ssed off a balcony before???” This could only happen to me, I tell you.

The rest of the weekend was fairly normal and it wasn’t until the following night, of course, that I finally got to sleep a bit although I had to get up kind of early the next morning for my flight back home. I met a friend for breakfast and then headed over to Sky Harbor Airport for my departure flight. I was careful to make sure that I checked in online this time, just in case. I was sure that this flight would be better than the one out to Phoenix. I truly felt I had all my bases covered. I’ll give you one guess as to what happened next…

We’re finally allowed to board the plane and my seat is located towards the back of the plane. I have the window seat and there’s a young man, probably about age 25, already sitting in the middle seat. I tell him that I have the window seat, more or less asking him to get up so that I can sit down, and he just sort of sits there for a moment or two looking a little panicked and confused. Does he not know what I mean? I wasn’t sure if I should clarify or not. Finally, looking more panicked than before, he does get up and allows me access to my seat. I sit down, buckle up, and breathe a sigh of relief since I’m on board and ready to go home.

Meanwhile, the guy next to me is beginning to make me a bit uneasy. He looks truly nervous, or worried, or something like that. I start thinking about the film “United 93” and how the terrorists acted before they took over the plane and this guy next to me is sort of in that zone. I’m not sure what I should do. Should I notify the flight attendant? If I do, what do I say? “This guy next to me is acting weird!” Er, no, I think not. I’m sitting at the window seat so clearly I can’t get out easily, plus people were still boarding the plane. I was trapped.

It’s then that I look closer and notice that he’s got a big wad of cotton strapped on the back of his left hand, you know, like as if he had an IV in there a little while ago. On his right arm I see a hospital band, most likely with his name on it. I kind of look at his face again and now I’m thinking he’s suicidal, or maybe he’s escaped or something. Oh my god, he IS a terrorist! Help!!!

It’s then that he suddenly looks really nervous, opens up one of those plastic coated bags, and proceeds to vomit. Bleeeeeuuu!!! Then, he vomits again. And again. And again. The vomit seems to continue for minutes, the bag quickly filling up with liquid, and afterwards, even though he’s done, he’s doing that thing that we all do but don’t discuss, more or less spitting out wads of food that got stuck in his teeth on the way back up. All the while, I am forced to sit there through this ordeal, trying not to scream or vomit myself, trapped in my window seat in pure horror. And so he’s not a terrorist and he’s not suicidal…he’s freakin’ ill and I’m trapped next to him for the next 3 hours until we arrive back in Minneapolis! Being a partial germ-a-phobe combined with not wanting to get sick I nearly had a coronary just thinking about it.

My favorite part, though, was that the flight attendant walked by moments later. The guy motioned to his bag of sickness and pleaded, “Can you please take this and dispose of it, and then please get me another?”

The flight attendant clearly connected the dots in her head and then said, “I can’t take it right now. Just hold onto it.” She then walked away.

Are you out of your mind?! It was then that I was really ready to scream. The guy looked stunned, sort of like the flight attendant just told him that we were in a submarine under water and not in a plane at all, and ended up just sitting there, clearly looking around for where he’d puke next. Luckily, the attendant returned with a new bag as well as a large plastic garbage bag. “Just put them all in there and I’ll collect it when the flight’s over.”

Yes, that’s right, folks, I, um, we, had to fly with the barf bag for 3 hours as if it had paid for a ticket and was the fourth passenger in our row. The person with the aisle seat arrived shortly after and was none the wiser. Meanwhile, I decided to glue my mouth shut as much as possible and avoid touching anything in the near vicinity for fear of getting whatever “it” was that he had. I knew I was doomed but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The aisle guy, though, enjoyed his flight, completely clueless that we were all going to be deathly ill by the time we arrived and not realizing that he was sharing his seat with a ¾ filled bag of compressed food and stomach acid.

We landed finally at MSP and as soon as we left the plane I stayed as far away from my former seat mate as possible. Inside I felt truly sorry for him for he clearly wasn’t feeling well and surely must have been embarrassed. Still, I had a show to do in 4 days and I had to think of myself.

Everything seemed fine for the rest of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Thursday night, however, less than 24 hours to the performance, I awoke at around 3:30am to having horrible stomach pain, a headache, and dripping in a cold sweat. I was sure I was going to throw up on stage that night and it seemed to be my destiny, my worst nightmare realized.

Well, I didn’t, and the show actually went quite well even though I felt less than 100%. I took any meds I could find and made it through the night just fine. The next day, though, I was literally crawling around my house with beyond belief stomach and headache pains.

The good news is that I never did vomit. I guess I won after all, or sort of. I was ill the entire week of Christmas and considering I was ill the weekend of Thanksgiving I was clearly on a roll.

I can only think that Phoenix attacked back in one form or another. Cities don’t like to lose one of their lifer’s and clearly Phoenix was ticked at me.

I still can’t believe that we had to share the flight home with the “bag”. I think the next time I fly Northwest Airlines, just for the fun of it, I’m going to bring a used bedpan along as the fourth passenger in our row.

And, oh yes, I’ll make sure I check-in the bedpan online 24 hours in advance.

The Ballad of the Tom Waits Ticket – Part 2

Continued from Part 1…

That night, as one could probably imagine, after the harrowing feat of trying for a month and a half to get the perfect ticket to see Tom Waits and narrowly succeeding only a few hours before needing to get on the plane for Ohio, I could not sleep. Excitement had overtaken me, or quite possibly total madness. I didn’t even care if the show was going to be any good at this point; it was simply now about actually going there, doing this beyond insane activity, and so on.

I think I slept about 2 hours. I’m normally a very late riser but I needed to catch a rather early flight which meant awakening at around 5am.

I got ready, threw some clothes in a small suitcase, and headed off towards the airport. I had no idea what kind of mess awaited me there due to the recent change in flight regulations. Surprisingly, once I stepped into the check-in area, I was a little shocked to see what I’d consider business as usual and no bizarre lines forming at the security counter at all.

I picked up an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich and sipped on something from Caribou Coffee as I waited for my flight to arrive. The wait passed quickly, nothing unusual happened, and soon I was off to the Cleveland, OH, airport.

I must explain at this point that I had been to Cleveland just a month or so prior for work purposes. Since I didn’t know the area that well I decided to book the same hotel that I had previously stayed at in North Olmsted, a decent hotel that unfortunately had some sort of contract with the Sleep Number Bed system and had them in select rooms (repeat after me…never buy a Sleep Number Bed…never…). The strangest part was that I needed to return to Cleveland the very next week for work once again, and, as you guessed, I would be staying at the same hotel. A feeling of déjà vu was bound to erupt sooner or later.

When I had come out for work in June I was in a mild debate with the management since they for some odd reason insisted that I take a taxi around the area and would not allow me to rent a car. Having traveled many times before with a different company, this made close to no sense at all to me, and not being the taxi type it made my downright uncomfortable. The only reason for this I could get was “rental cars cost too much money”. On this trip out and it having nothing to do with work, I of course needed to rent a car since I’d be driving from North Olmsted down to Akron and then back to Cleveland. I was shocked to see that the rental car rate was exactly $13 per day. It was then I realized just how cheap my company was, or was it simply a power thing? Who knows... Either way, I no longer work for them so it doesn’t really matter anymore but I know they’re not doing the greatest financially and I’m sure it’s due to all those rental cars in the past.

I checked into the hotel and was horrified to find that I was given one of the rooms with a Sleep Number Bed. I admit I was skeptical, especially since I’ve had a top of the line Sealy for the past decade and literally swear by it, but I promised myself that I’d remain open minded. After pushing the buttons, trying different settings, etc., my mind promptly closed. The thing was completely idiotic and I wanted to change rooms but it didn’t seem worth pursuing.

I managed to sleep about an hour and then the alarm went off. I showered, got ready, ate some dinner, and headed off to the Akron Civic Theater for the evening’s festivities. Akron is only about an hour away but the speed of travel is rather slow throughout Ohio so it seemed to take longer than I was used to. The map I was using was slightly bizarre in its’ directions and I took at least 2 wrong turns, one time landing me in a rather interesting part of town. Upon correcting my path, though, I found myself in the general vicinity of the theater and due to some sort of street fair I had to park a few blocks away. My initial thought was that the street fair was in conjunction with the Tom Waits show, a sort of rejoicing in the street, if you will. Of course, only I would do something like that and I soon discovered that it was merely a coincidence.

There was a line already forming out of the theater but it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. I also had figured that there would be tons of people looking for tickets or begging to be your “buddy” if you had an extra one, but quite honestly there wasn’t much of a commotion at all. Maybe it was because it was Akron? I have no idea. I know that when I was in line in L.A. in 1999 it was close to total chaos, and there were people acting strange all around me in line. This line was almost exactly the opposite and if I didn’t know better I would have thought I was waiting to see Tony Bennett or someone similar.

I listened to a few conversations around me in line and was completely appalled. There were people who were asking each other things like “when did Waits’ last put out an album” or “yeah, I always kind of liked that…what’s it called…um, ‘Frank’s Wilder Days’ album or something like that”. These people got tickets? A lot of them didn’t seem worthy. They didn’t even know the name of his last album for cryin’ out loud! It was like I was surrounded by my nightmare anti-fan crowd, and considering how tough it was to get a ticket it simply didn’t seem right. I even heard someone’s date ask, “Who are we here to see? Who is this guy? What kind of music does he play?” I just about had a coronary. I decided to do the only safe thing - tune everyone out.

The big question in my mind, of course, was my two ticket purchase mishap. I had never received a confirmation from the second ticket (the good seat) so I was slightly paranoid. I was completely ready to start a fight if for some reason they tried to stick me with row X after all this. To my relief, though, everything worked just fine.

I entered the lobby and nearly fainted. The Akron Civic Theater lobby is simply to die for and it’ll take your breath away. No words can describe it except maybe Fantasyland in Disneyland meets Phoenix’s Orpheum Theater. Wow.

And now to finally see the seat that I was given… I walked into the theater, a gorgeous palace, of course, and could barely believe I was there after all that effort. I made my way down the aisle to the very very front. I found that my seat really wasn’t in row 4 – it was row 2, and there was my folding chair. Sure, I was sitting off to the side but I was literally about 4 feet from the stage with Wait’s being only about 8 feet away. Ah, payoff.

The gentleman next to me started up a conversation that would continue right up until Waits’ took the stage. He was a very interesting man, probably in his early 50’s, and was there with his son who was around 22. He told me how he had seen Waits’ in ’78, and then in ’83, and then again in ’85. You can probably imagine how green with envy I was. We discussed all sorts of different shows we had seen, places we had traveled to, etc. He was a true fanatic, not unlike myself, and I was grateful to not be sitting next to one of those “who are we seeing again” people.

We then got into a conversation about films, mainly films that Waits’ had starred in or composed music for. This led to talking about Jim Jarmusch, the director who had most recently done “Broken Flowers”, and as if on cue the guy next to me looks over my shoulder and says, “Speaking of which, there’s Jim Jarmusch now!” I turned my head around and sure enough, standing directly in front of me and talking to the usher was Jim Jarmusch and wife/girlfriend/friend. They kept looking sort of in my direction, as if they were expecting their seats to be right where I was sitting. Could it be that there was some sort of mistake and I ended up getting one of their seats? After discussing it a few times, the usher led them towards the middle area of the theater, not far away from row X where I would have originally sat. I got a better seat than Jim Jarmusch – go figure!

The show started about 35 minutes late. Ironically it was only about half as good as the performance that I had seen back in ’99 but for some reason that didn’t even really matter to me anymore. I was simply happy to be there. If you’re curious about the setlist there’s a different blog dedicated to that where you can get all the details. He played songs from various albums, of course, and the one’s I was most pleased to hear were “Postcard from a Hooker in Minneapolis”, “Tom Traubert’s Blues”, and “God’s Away on Business” which was without a doubt the best song he played that night. He simply looked so insane while singing it…it was priceless. Overall, the feel and style of this set and backup band was completely different from the ’99 tour, this one taking on a more bluesy lounge singer sort of appeal rather that the bizarre insane “Get Behind the Mule” Tour which seemed to showcase the more strange side of Waits’ and his music.

I had read on blogs that Waits’ had been forgetting his lyrics throughout the tour. In the middle of the song “Dead and Lovely”, he repeated a line that reads “…were never broken.” Somehow he said that line three times throughout the song by mistake, and instead of being embarrassed Waits’ laughed gruffly and adlibbed: “(heh) 3 times broken…now that’s really broken.” Of course, random people yelled out things like “I love you, Tom” and he would simply respond with a noise that was not unlike something a pig with a bellyache would make followed by a sarcastic “I love you too, man”.

In the middle of the performance, there was some sort of mild ruckus coming from around the area where I was supposed to sit. I later found out the next day that a fight had broken out in Row Z, directly behind the seat that I held in Row X. Make of that what you will.

At about 10pm I started getting edgy, knowing that I had an hour plus ride up to Cleveland. How was Tom precisely going to do this: literally run out of this show and head straight up there? It seemed absurd and yet that was evidently the plan. The Akron show ended at around 10:15pm and on my way out of the auditorium I heard almost everyone comment that they were going to the House of Blues show as well. This was going to be quite a trick.

I ran out to my car and got onto the freeway as quickly as I could but it took awhile since I was parked so far away. By then, the freeways were rather full and whereas there wasn’t exactly a traffic jam we still were moving slowly. I felt like I was with a caravan slowly making our way up the freeway to Cleveland on a quest for more Tom Waits.

I had joked with some friends a few weeks prior how it would be amusing to be following the tour bus up the freeway to the House of Blues. As I approached downtown Cleveland and again didn’t know where I was going, I noticed that I was now traveling only a couple cars behind the tour bus indeed! I decided to follow the tour bus since they should know where they’re going, right? We exited the freeway and I was lost but I just kept following the bus. Then, it turned in a direction that seemed to go against my map and so I chickened out and went in the direction that I thought I should be heading. Perhaps it wasn’t Waits’ tour bus, you know? I could just imagine me following some high school band’s bus into Pennsylvania, convinced that I was following Tom Waits’. I made a couple turns and voila, there was the bus again. It evidently was his bus; it was just that there was more than one way to get there. I again followed the bus and it lead me directly to the House of Blues where I immediately let out a “oh my freakin’ hell…” kind of statement when I saw the line wrapped around the building.

I parked in the first lot I could find. I quickly ran over and started following the line, trying to find the end of it. Every time I thought I was getting closer to finding the end I was let down to see that it turned in a different direction and simply continued on. The line in total wrapped around half of the entire block of buildings in the shape of an ‘E’ missing the middle line. It didn’t look like all the people in line could possibly even fit in the House of Blues! Worse yet, they were still coming long after I got in line. It was now 11:15pm and the show was supposed to start at midnight. It didn’t seem possible that we’d all get in by then.

Well, I called it right…at midnight we had barely moved. I was standing next to these 2 guys who were probably barely drinking age. The one guy was okay but the other was either a) completely drunk, b) high, c) had been sniffing something that wasn’t meant to be sniffed, d) all of the above, or e) was just an all around strange kid. Every time he spoke it was like listening to a record being slowed down and then sped up again in mid-sentence. I normally just smiled and nodded, not having understood a single word he said.

The line inched at a snail’s pace. I finally got inside the building at about 1:05am. The place was already mobbed and everyone was squeezing there way in. The show began at 1:15am and the place went nuts. It was hard to see but I had a semi-decent view for most of it. Believe it or not he played almost a completely different set except for only one song…amazing. The highlight of the set was “November” off of “The Black Rider”, and at the part where the drums come in and Waits’ sings, “…with my hair slicked back, with carrion shellac, and the blood from a pheasant and the bone from a hare…” he then paused, grunted, and said, “(grunt)…that was good, let’s do that again.” And so they did: “With my hair slicked back, with carrion shellac...”

The only song that bombed all evening was “The Circus”, the other spoken weird tune ala “What’s He Building in There?” It was the first time that I heard the crowd talking over the band. Otherwise, it was a good set with a completely different feel since it was in a small club and they ended up doing a couple cover tunes as well. Like before, some woman yelled out, “I love you, Tom,” and he simply responded with “Eeeeaaaaahhh” while wearing a sarcastic grin.

Shockingly, as gruff as he sings, Waits’ voice held up all night and showed no real signs of dying out, even after 4+ hours of singing. The show ended at 3:20am, a definite record for being the latest running performance that I had ever seen. As much as neither performance would make the list as some of the greatest performances that I’d ever seen nor would they come even close to comparing to his show back in ’99, it was definitely a most bizarre and yet interesting experience. Dare I say it was worth the trip.

Keep in mind that I had barely slept the night before and I had been up since 5am. Needless to say, the drive back to the hotel was interesting. I climbed into the Sleep Number Bed at 4am exactly and passed out until my alarm went off at 9am. I had the great foresight to book a 10:30am flight...hurray for me.

I dropped off my rental car and waited in the airport for my flight. It was nearly deserted, as in no one in sight. I ate another icky breakfast sandwich and sipped coffee that this time tasted like it had literally been excreted from a Caribou rather than from the popular chain.

Upon getting home, I collapsed from exhaustion, with a slight smile on my face. Against the odds and even against the pocketbook, I had achieved what I had set out to do…and I learned a lot of new words from the Ticketmaster site in the process.

I shudder to think what will happen the next time Tom Waits’ decides to perform live…

The Ballad of the Tom Waits Ticket – Part 1

(This is a 2 part entry about my struggle to see Tom Waits on his most recent tour of the South and Midwest. If these entries don’t clearly display why I should be committed, wearing a straight-jacket in a white padded room, I don’t know what would. This entry is rather long winded so depending upon your interests you might want to skim over it or possibly skip ahead.)


I love Tom Waits; I hate Tom Waits. No, no, I loooovvvveeee Tom Waits. No, definitely not, I hate Tom Waits.

Tom Waits is a god of music. Nope, Tom Waits is a total bastard. The verdict is in: the piano has not been drinking after all, and it is in fact me.

Waits’ wrote “…misery’s the river of the world…” and perhaps it is. I’m not entirely sure that I disagree with that statement wholeheartedly, but “misery” is definitely the river of getting yourself a decent ticket to one of his shows. Now that I think about it, calling it misery is putting it lightly.

I think I totally lost it the week of August 6th. I don’t know if you could call it a nervous breakdown or anything but I assuredly lost it, perhaps mentally, and at the very least ticket wise, twice to be precise.

Let me start at the beginning. Most of my friends would tell you that I’m one of the most concert or show going people they’ve ever met. I’m a true diehard when it comes to music and I treat it closer to a religious experience than anything resembling entertainment. I’ve seen so many live shows that most people would faint at the sheer number and I’m known for traveling out of state to see performances. I should also add that I’m a bit of a show snob, and after seeing so many performances I’m usually only interested in getting a seat in the first 10-15 rows of the main floor. If this can’t be accomplished for some reason, I won’t attend.

Obviously, some artists mean a lot more to me than others, especially these days after seeing almost everyone I’ve ever wanted to see. Enter Tom Waits, someone that I’ve listened to and put into the musical “god” category for nearly 2 decades now. I first stumbled upon Waits’ back in 1987 during an episode of I.R.S.’ “The Cutting Edge”, I.R.S. being a spin-off record label from the Warner Music Group whose video show aired weekly for awhile. I was waiting one evening to see a homemade video of R.E.M. singing some songs in someone’s house and, of course, due to their popularity they were pushed to the very end of the show. What popped up in the meantime was the video “Blow Wind Blow” by Tom Waits, someone I had never heard of let alone actually heard. My initial thought was, “Who the heck is this guy?” After listening and watching for about one whole minute I also came to the conclusion that he was completely insane. The song “Blow Wind Blow” resembles an old carnival or vaudeville styled tune from the ‘20’s that went wrong somewhere, with Waits sitting on a chair with a large female marionette that’s supposedly singing the song by his command. At the end of the video, Waits’ keels over and the marionette pulls out her hand from inside his back, her hand all the while dripping in blood. It was one of the most terrifying things I’d seen AND heard up until that point and I had no idea what to make of it. I never thought in a million years I’d ever listen to the guy.

About a year and a half later, however, I suddenly had the strange overwhelming urge to buy the album and give it a chance. I was mesmerized, blown away, and completely enchanted. I’d never heard anything like it before and never have since. Ever since that day I’ve been a mega fan. I bought every album that came out as well as older work and couldn’t get enough of the guy. I finally got to see him live in 1999 in Los Angeles, CA, at the Wiltern Theater. I had a 3rd row center ticket, directly behind James Spader, of all people. The show is still in my top 3 of all time and considering the amount of shows I’ve seen that’s saying an enormous amount. I’ve always said that if I ever had the chance to see him again I’d go to any length to do so. I didn’t realize I’d go insane in the process, though.

It should also be stated that Waits’ does not perform live very often. His last tour was in ’99, and I don’t believe he played another show until 2004. In that year I think he played only one show in the US in support of his latest album “Real Gone” which had just been released days earlier.

You can therefore imagine the excitement when I received word out of the blue that he was going on a mini tour hitting Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, and also one show in Chicago at the Auditorium Theatre. This was the biggest news for Waits’ fans in years and was sure to be a sellout within a matter of minutes.

Residing in Minnesota, the only reasonable distance for me to travel was to the Chicago performance. I therefore focused all of my attention on getting a ticket for this. My plan was simple: I only need one ticket so it should be relatively painless since I figured most people purchase in pairs. All I’d have to do is be one of the first people in the Ticketmaster queue and I should do fine. Ah, if only life was this easy…

A couple things to note: first, the promoters of this tour had put a two ticket limit per household for all ticket sales and if you didn’t follow this rule your order was subject to being cancelled. No biggie, I’m only one person, at least physically speaking. The tricky part though was that all sales for “premium” seats, meaning anything I’d want, were available via will call only, and only the person who actually purchased the seat(s) could pick it up the day of the show. This was in order to prevent scalping, Ebay sales, etc.

Now, let me recap what happened in ’99. I was living in Phoenix trying to get a ticket for one of the three L.A. performances, mind you, and I had this bright idea that I should go to Tower Records in person, talk to the clerk a few minutes beforehand, and convince him to be the first person to pull the tickets from their Ticketmaster system. At that time, I thought my plan was quite flawless considering I’d be the only person in Phoenix pulling a ticket for an L.A. show at that exact moment and I’d therefore be first in line. The internet was sort of new to me back then so I didn’t understand that buying tickets in that manner was probably more sensible. Anyhow, I got to Tower about 5 minutes before the sale began, I talked to the guy behind the counter, and he slowly made his way over to the Ticketmaster desk. I didn’t want to be pushy but I began pleading with him and trying to explain the sense of urgency here, how important it was to me, how I expected tickets to sell out very quickly, and he still moved pretty slowly regardless. I began to get a little nervous and couldn’t help but glance at my watch every 30 seconds or so. He finally got to the Ticketmaster computer and nonchalantly asked me once again, “Ok, what did you need a ticket for?” “Tom Waits”, I said rather impatiently, “at the Wiltern Theater, in L.A.” He grimaced and said, “Never heard of ‘em”, as if his stamp of approval meant anything at all to me. I thought to myself, “Good! Now just pull the freakin’ tickets, will ya? And hurry!”

Still obsessed with looking at my watch, I noticed that there was only about a minute to go before the tickets were opened up for sale and yet the guy was still taking his sweet time. I was beyond nervous now, starting to sweat, and suddenly needed to use the bathroom for no apparent reason. The clerk hit some buttons and then asked, “Oh yeah, here it is. How many tickets do you need?” I told him the number again and thought “thank goodness”, believing that we had made it just in time. Upon looking at my watch I realized that tickets were now definitely on sale, and I felt reasonably safe in thinking that he was pulling them for me. My dream was shattered when he suddenly yelled out across the floor, “Hey Bob, this thing isn’t working! What’s goin’ on?” I nearly fainted. The next 10 minutes were spent with these two guys trying to get their Ticketmaster computer to work and of course I knew that the show was probably completely sold out by then. In a sheer panic, I persuaded the guy to let me into the backroom so I could call Ticketmaster directly over the phone. I had to wait through all the various menu’s, etc., and by the time I talked to a shadow of a human being, of course all that was left were individual seats 3 rows from the very back of the balcony. I think I cried.

In the end, I was beyond lucky by finding someone that had bought two tickets from a scalper when she only needed one (ticket agencies usually sell all tickets in pairs). She advertised in the Sunday L.A. paper and stated she just wanted what she paid for the ticket and that the first caller would be the victor. By some stroke of luck I was the first caller, or perhaps it was my pleading on her answering machine that won her over. Either way, it all worked out in the end and was worth every single cent and ounce of energy.

Still, you’d think this would have been a tip off to me that tickets on this go round could also somehow get messed up. Needless to say, I didn’t get the tip and pure hell arose.

This time I thought I had it all planned out perfectly. Tickets went on sale for the Chicago show on Saturday, July 15th. I decided I’d go into work that day and use their high speed connection since I only have dial-up currently at home (I know, I know…don’t say it!). I got there 30 minutes early, opened up my Ticketmaster windows, relaxed, tried to maintain my composure, and patiently awaited the beginning of the sale. Nothing could possibly go wrong…except that I’m an idiot.

Usually, Ticketmaster lets tickets trickle out a little at a time, in other words the first released tickets are normally not the best available. You kind of have to work it, keep pulling tickets until you land upon what you think you should be getting. Also, in all of my years of pulling tickets over the internet, Ticketmaster has never been on time for anything. If it says tickets go on sale at noon, they’ll assuredly open up around 12:06pm.

And so, it’s 11:59am. I occasionally refresh the page and nothing looks different. I’m not expecting anything to change for another 2-4 minutes. I hit refresh a couple more times rather calmly and then notice that very little changed on the page but indeed something did in fact change that I hadn’t previously noticed. Holy crap, they opened the tickets at 11:59am! In a blind panic I utilize my 100 wpm typing speed and get into the queue via 5-6 opened windows. I’ve never in my life seen Ticketmaster so jammed, so much so that the “searching for tickets” page remains on my screens for about 1-2 minutes before any results come back. I’m beyond nervous and scared to see what tickets the system chooses for me. To my horror, they’re all seats in the balcony, and not even very good seats, for that matter. It’s only then that I look closer and realize that the front page had 2 options, one for “standard seating” and one for “premium”. The whole thing happened so fast that I hadn’t realized this and simply chose the first option available, which, you guessed it, would normally have been the most expensive offering but of course, with my luck, not this time. I mistakenly chose “standard seating”, hence the balcony selections, and by the time I figured it out all the tickets were sold out. Again, I was ready to cry. Déjà vu!

To make matters even worse, Chicago was the last show to go on sale and so there weren’t even any other on-sale options if I wanted them at that point. And, of course, there wasn’t an option of buying from a ticket broker this time around due to the anti-scalping policies. I did look on Ebay and I’ve had enough issues in the past that I don’t trust the “send me the money up front and I’ll meet you at the venue” situation. It just sounded way too risky to me, considering the drive and all. There was only one option…to hope that Ticketmaster would release some decent seats closer to the actual show date that were reserved for VIP’s that for some reason, at the last moment, couldn’t make the show. This is pretty standard practice and almost every performance has some seats that get opened up later on; the trick is to be online at the precise moment that the seats are opened up.

And so begins the insanity. The show was three weeks away from the on sale date and I looked every single day, every moment I remembered, for a ticket to the Chicago show. I became completely obsessed with getting a decent ticket for this performance and it quickly completely consumed me. The week of the show arrived and I knew I had to look every chance I got. I kid you not, I hit the Ticketmaster site more times than McDonald’s Big Mac’s have been sold. I’ve now seen every single “word verification” (when you search for tickets on their site, you have to type in a word that’s displayed in order to proceed) that they have on their site, all the way from “fungian” to “unlaid” to “myopsis”. I’ve seen the “Sorry, no tickets match your request” page more times that I ever should have in my entire life. I’m still having nightmares about it, in fact.

Two days before the Chicago show I’m in a total panic. No tickets have opened up at all up until now, most likely due to Chicago being a higher profile city. I’ve seen great seats open up for Louisville, Memphis, etc. but I pass them up truly believing that I’ll get a seat for the Chicago show. The day of the show arrives and I’m beyond nervous. I didn’t sleep well that night due to having nightmares of getting a bad ticket. The plan is to literally get a ticket and run out the door, quickly driving down to Chicago from Minneapolis (it’s about a 5-6 hour ride). I obviously have to leave by about 1pm in order to make it.

10am…nothing. 10:30am…nothing. 11:00am…still nothing. 11:30am…more nothing, and I’m really getting worried. 11:45am…tickets pop up! Alas, they’re in the back of the venue, not what I want. I keep searching and a couple more come up but still not what I’m looking for. Suddenly, a weird one pops up, I think located in the box level of the venue but I’m not entirely sure. This would work! I hit “seating map” and the page clears. Oh shit! I didn’t HIT seating map, I hit “search again” out of sheer force of habit! I frantically try to pull up this seat again and unbelievably a few minutes later I do. This time I do hit “seating map” to see where it’s located specifically and the page doesn’t come up. I’m confused by this but still concerned that the seat isn’t where I think it is, and I want confirmation before I actually purchase it and get on the road. I try to access the Chicago Auditorium website but it won’t come up either. What’s going on? None of my internet windows work except the one that’s holding the ticket, and I have only 3 minutes before the ticket automatically gets put back in the queue for someone else to purchase. I’m confused, panicked, and truly don’t know what to do. I’m on the last page before I actually purchase the ticket and for some stupid reason think that maybe I reached the threshold for open windows or refreshes on Ticketmaster’s site. I close out of all of my windows, restart my computer, and sure enough…the internet connection had broken, hence the windows not opening up. What are the odds of the internet connection breaking at that exact moment of success? In near hysterics, I decide to drive to the nearest alternative internet connection. I speed down the highway, login, and proceed to sit at the computer for the next 4 hours trying to get a ticket. Nothing at all comes up. To add insult to injury, I finally get to look at the seating map and the ticket that I did have reserved momentarily in the box section of the auditorium would have indeed been fine if I had only been able to confirm the location. Sigh. Somehow this seems like poetic justice in some cruel way, and evidently some other lucky bastard got to enjoy my seat that night, the one that I should have just clicked one more time and it would have been mine. My luck had run out. The ballad of the Tom Waits ticket was over.

Or was it? After being thoroughly depressed about what had happened, I spent the next 12 hours trying to adjust to the fact that I wasn’t going to see Waits’ perform this time around. I had almost completely accepted this fact when the most bizarre announcement was posted on a blog: Waits’ would play one more show at midnight at the Cleveland House of Blues, ironically the same night as the Akron show! At first I completely doubted this and thought someone was playing a joke on me. Could this be? Waits’ doesn’t play club shows and hasn’t for years. Are you serious? 2 shows in one night? Indeed, it was serious, and so the madness began again, just as I had accepted not going. My new idea was to go to both the Akron and the HOB show on the same night. It seemed like insanity, would cost me a fortune…but who cares! The plan was simple: as long as I could get a ticket to the HOB show, I would then spend night and day on the Ticketmaster site trying to get a seat to the Akron performance. This sounds insane to any normal person; for me, though, this was totally logical and sensible, and a challenge I couldn’t resist.

I figured I’d fly out to Ohio, and just as I had decided to do this the London thwarted airline terrorist threat was announced. The news states that flights are grounded, new security guidelines are in place, the lines through security are hours long, etc. Clearly someone doesn’t want me to go to this show!

I top my own madness with yet another crazy idea…I could drive to Akron! Heck, it’s only a 10 hour ride one way! It would depend upon when I actually got a ticket for the Akron show, of course, but it is a possibility.

The tickets for the HOB show went on sale the next day and I easily got a general admission ticket, probably because no one was aware that they went on sale due to the short notice. And now only one task left…to get a ticket to the Akron show, and a decent ticket is really what I want. And so, the madness continues, and I search, and I search, and my last ditch effort is to spend all day Saturday (the shows being the very next day) looking for one decent ticket. My plan is that upon getting one I’m out the door and on the road (sound familiar?).

10:00am…nothing. 11:00am…nothing. 12:00pm…nothing. 1:00pm…nothing. 2:00pm…nothing. 3:00pm…nothing. Evidently no tickets were going to be released and perhaps I underestimated the popularity of this last show of the tour. I give up. I call it quits. I have failed yet again. It’s time to drink heavily. I’m totally depressed.

Just then, at 3:45pm, some tickets finally open up. They’re in Row X of the main floor, a bit further back than I wanted, but something is better than nothing and perhaps this is livable. I think on it awhile and finally decide to purchase the ticket. I can’t believe it…I’m going to see Waits, after all of this! I’ve never spent so many hours on any show in my entire life and I certainly hope I never have to again!

It’s too late to drive now and I’m already tired. I book my airfare which costs close to most people’s rent payment, hoping for the best at the airport with the increased security and all. I’m ready to expect anything, such as my flight being cancelled, myself sitting in the airport knowing that I actually do have tickets to both shows but can’t go due to the airport shuffle, or something like that.

I’m still not really pleased about the Row X seat, and so for some odd reason I decide to look one last time for a ticket at 4:15pm. I can legitimately buy 2 tickets for the show, remember, but no more than that. I tell myself before I hit search that I’m only going to look one more time and then after that I need to walk away. I shake on it (with myself). I hit “search”…and 4th row Main Floor comes up. It is located way off to the side but still…I swear I heard angels singing. I’m beaming, and I decide to hit “seat map” just to verify where the seat’s located…and I hit “search again” AGAIN out of force of habit! I scream, starting to yell every obscenity I know out loud at my computer! I can’t believe I had the very thing that I had just spent 200+ hours looking for and like a total idiot lost it again! I start trying to pull it up again frantically, still swearing, but it’s not coming up.

6 minutes later, by some miracle, as if the gods decided that they had played enough cruel jokes on me, the 4th row seat comes up again. Clearly someone else had pulled the ticket and decided against it. This time I do actually buy it. Believe it or not, 200+ hours later, after hours and hours of lost sleep, hysteria, and total madness, as President Bush would say: “Mission accomplished”.

As unlikely and insane as it is, I’m unbelievably off to Ohio.



To Be Continued…

“Big Sale Last Week”…Why Advertise?

“Head On…apply directly to the forehead! Head On…apply directly to the forehead! Head On…apply directly to the forehead!!!”

Yeah, I don’t get it either. This is a commercial that I see frequently for a product called (you guessed it) “Head On”. I’m not entirely sure but I think it’s for headache pain. It’s such a successful commercial campaign that I walk away not even knowing what the heck the product is used for. Go figure.

Still, I now walk around town and at random intervals a message surges through my brain waves like an emergency call: “Head On…apply directly to the forehead!!!” Now that’s what I call advertising power.

For example, I was just in Madison, WI, last weekend over 4th of July. I checked into a Super 8 Motel and noticed that the guy behind the desk had something stuck all over his hair. At first I thought that perhaps someone threw up on him but that didn’t seem quite right. Looking closer I could only guess that he shoved his head into a pile of lint, or perhaps he got into a fist fight with a rabid Dyson vacuum and evidently lost. In hindsight I should have asked, “Excuse me, sir, but what have you got all over your doo and what in heaven’s name were you doing?” I’m sure the answer would have been worth the asking. Instead, what does pulse through my head upon looking at him is: “Head On…apply directly to the forehead!” although I think this guy took the application a bit further than expected. On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know what it is in his hair. Ick.

Speaking of advertising, down the road from the hotel in Madison I saw the most insane, asinine, and hypocritical thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes and hopefully it’s not a trend. Are you ready for this? “Pizza Hut Italian Bistro”. No kidding, that’s what the sign said. It was an old style red roofed Pizza Hut with the added text “Italian Bistro” on the sign. Italian? Bistro??? Are these words that have ANY association whatsoever with the so called product that Pizza Hut sells? Someone clearly either a) was playing a practical joke, b) wanted to see if anyone at all ever looked at the sign (the first suggestion was to instead hang up “Ominous Shithole” but there were possible legal implications), or c) offered brownies with an added extra special ingredient to the owners of the establishment, causing them to first run around the neighborhood wearing nothing but a strategically placed bunch of Hostess products and suffer from delusions that their product actually has it’s roots in the Italian culture. No matter how you slice it (ha…a bit of pizza humor there), this is just wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s bad enough that Olive Garden was chosen “Best Italian Restaurant” in Phoenix for multiple years in a row but this just defies all taste and sensibility. Next thing you know Taco Bell will be a “Mexican Fusion Café”.

This leads me into my obsession with the Quizno’s cup. Yes, that’s right, here in Woodbury, standing on a street corner in the middle of suburbia is a larger than life size Quizno’s cup, you know, one of those grand ideas that a business owner gets to try and generate new business. Basically, he pays some young sap $5 an hour to stand outside in a large rubber suit mimicking a giant version of a Coca-Cola on the rocks while waving at the passing cars who clearly don’t give a damn one way or the other. Now, last time I checked Quizno’s was famous for their sandwiches so I’m not sure how the cup plays into it. I guess it didn’t seem politically correct to have a 10 foot ham on rye waving instead. Still, I have to admit that it’s better than the Santa Claus in Phoenix that stood outside in the middle of summer in east Mesa pointing towards the jewelry store. If you ask me he’s where they got the idea for the film “Bad Santa”. I wouldn’t sit on his lap if you paid me a million dollars.

I don’t like the Quizno’s cup. I’m not sure why but something about him makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I’m intimidated by large oversized soft drinks, I don’t know. I want to approach him, ask him if he’s ever applied anything directly to his forehead, and then run like heck, leaving him puzzled beyond belief. Or, I want to tip him a bit in order to see if I can hear the sound of fake ice cubes inside. Basically, I just want to mess with him. I know, how mean, right? Then again, he’s posing as an 8 ft. tall cup that’s not only waving at passersby but also dancing in the process, doing this interesting little spin that by rights and weight proportions should knock him on his arse in a matter of moments. Given that, still he spins and stays right side up. Damn, I don’t like the Quizno’s cup.

As a distraction, I just recently decided to take the leap and buy my first bicycle after not owning one for approximately 16 years. I live right in between two lakes and figured with all the paths running around the neighborhood that it was time to get out and explore. Also, after living in Phoenix, AZ, for 21 years, I realized that I had completely grown accustomed to never leaving the house due to the heat of the largest oven in the entire universe beating down upon me, otherwise known as the desert sun. It was time to attempt to break this habit. Thank the heavens for the simple invention called clouds.

The old saying goes that “it’s like riding a bicycle…you never forget how to do it.” For some reason, whenever I hear this phrase I can only think that it’s about having sex. I know, Freud would have a field day with this but so be it. I’m sure I’d puzzle him even more with the ink blot test, being the only poor sap that claims to see a large multicolored crab wearing a suit and sunglasses when it’s clearly a picture of an anxiety prone badger’s uterus.

I was shocked to see that I indeed hadn’t forgotten how to ride a bike although for a split second there clearly was panic on my part. I began exploring my neighborhood for the first time ever, riding the various paths and such that encircle the lake and stretch throughout the neighborhood in every direction possible. I found that more people walk the paths than ride them, and it wasn’t long before a couple not paying attention caused me to miss the path altogether and land in the trees, the couple looking at me in an unsure manner on whether they should laugh or perhaps call the authorities.

I also learned an interesting trick. Let’s say for some reason you’re short on cash and you’re skimping on food for a month. Never fear! Not wanting to eat Ramen noodle every day, if you own a bike, simply ride it quickly through the trees and your mouth will promptly fill up with every bug imaginable. One even flew up my nose and caused me to sneeze like an allergic in a feather factory. I sort of imagined that when I finally got to use a tissue that the bug would simply come flying out as if it was the most natural and efficient means of transport to come along yet. Worse yet, what if I met someone and started talking to them on the bike trail and it came flying out at random? I’m sure it’s a great way to meet women, let me tell ya. They don’t call me Mr. Charm for nothing.

I’ve since concocted a brilliant idea: I’m going to ride my bike over to the shopping center, and then nonchalantly with full force run smack into the Quizno’s cup. It would be worthy of a stunt from an episode of Jackass only I’d be doing the neighborhood a big favor. With a bit of luck perhaps after hitting him and being knocked over myself a bug might fly out of my left nostril. Can you think of anything more perfect than this? Anyone got a video camera???

But seriously, I’d never do anything to harm someone, let alone an 8 ft. tall Quizno’s cup. Heck, the guy’s got to be in pain enough wearing a large suit of rubber in the 85 degree heat with moderate humidity. If I was the Quizno’s cup I’d probably pass out within an hour, and kids in the backseat of something like a Dodge Caravan passing by would suddenly cry out, “Daddy!!! The Quizno’s cup just rolled into the street!” Due to the shape and size of the outfit I’d probably roll unconscious from heat exhaustion down the road and end up in the Mississippi River. With that being said, peace to you, Mr. Quizno’s cup. Long may you spin.

The moral of the story is that there’s clearly some highly interesting advertising tactics in our society these days. Some of these are brilliant while others need their originators to be beaten to a pulp with a steel plated super-sized Twinkie.

And, of course, when you’re giving them the beating they so richly deserve, don’t forget to apply it directly to the forehead.

If You Beep at Me Again I'm Going to Kill You...

“Do you want me to beat you?”

I’m sure you can imagine the puzzled look on my face along with the complete lack of knowing how to respond.

The lady shuffled slightly, looking agitated, and then repeated more sternly, “Do you want me to beat you?”

What exactly is the correct response to this sort of question? I guess if we were in an adult toy shop or something similar it might be expected, but not in a (choke) bowling alley. To make it even more disturbing, it was the lady that hands out the bowling shoes asking this, completely out of the blue, and I had absolutely no clue what exactly she meant by this. I was scared to ask for I might end up with a demonstration. The scariest part was that she did sort of resemble the steakhouse waitress towards the end of “Sideways” so the way I was interpreting this comment seemed rather viable.

Not everyone wants to beat me, though, thankfully. Some prefer to just make me completely insane: enter the phone company.

A couple months ago I awoke shortly after going to sleep to a horridly annoying beeping sound. I put it off for quite some time since it only beeped about once every five minutes and I was terribly tired. Eventually the beep would win and I would become annoyed enough to wake up just to the extent of being annoyed at the fact that I was waking up. Hopefully you followed that sentence since I don’t think I could possibly write it again.

Ever since working nightshift for two and half years a decade ago I simply can’t wake up without getting a good seven hours worth of sleep, and if I attempt to I almost immediately have a pounding headache. My head hurt more than normal since not only was I tired but annoyed on top of it. I quickly traced the beep to my security system in the house, one panel being in my bedroom. The interesting part is that I don’t pay for a security service so I’m not even sure what the system does, what its’ point is, etc., and quite frankly I’d turn it off if only I could find a switch labeled “power”.

It also didn’t take long for me to remember that I had previously heard this annoying beeping noise coming from the security system the day I moved in. Upon inquiring about it the previous owner had explained that whenever the phone line went down that the system would beep to alert you to the issue and the only solution she was aware of was to “hit random buttons until it stops”. Very techy remedy, isn’t it? Either way, it was all I had to go on.

And so at 1:30am I start pressing random buttons like I was instructed. After a few pushes the system gives a different pitched “beep!” I assume that this means it’ll shut its’ trap now. I then promptly go back to sleep.

Probably about one hour later the beeping returns and I start the whole process all over again, the slowly being annoyed enough to awaken just enough to be annoyed, and so on. I hit the “random buttons” again and the system gives me that “beep!” like it understands the task at hand. This time, however, I’m doubting the system and I’m thinking it just might be a liar. I also decide to pursue further and pick up the phone; sure enough there isn’t a dial tone. Surprise, surprise!

I return to my bed and nearly pass out from annoyance and sleep exhaustion. 30 minutes later the beeping begins again almost as if it’s taunting me, sort of like an older sibling pulling away your favorite toy every time you grab for it. Now I’m ticked and push the buttons on the system rather hard. The system still gives the obligatory “beep!’. Yeah, right! You just don’t get it, do you?!

I have no idea how many times I did this that night but somehow I eventually got to sleep peacefully. In the morning the phone line was still down and it wasn’t until I returned that evening from work that I first heard it come back on.

The next day I had a ticket to see a show downtown so I ended up getting home rather late. I was dead tired, or maybe dog tired…I get those two confused. I’m really much more of a cat person but I’ve never heard of anyone being “cat tired” so I’m not sure if that applies or not. Either way, I think I actually fell asleep as my body was in mid-air heading towards landing on the mattress.

Two hours later, I hear the blasted beeping again. It doesn’t take long to awaken me this time and I promptly yell out, “Oh no, not this sh*t again!!!” I slam my hand against the security panel and grumble as I return back to my bed. The system says “beep!” as if it’s trying to give me a sense of comfort. I can almost imagine it muttering in an evil robotic voice: “Yes, that’s right, relax, fall asleep, get comfortable. I won’t interrupt you…hah, hah! Sucker!!!”

I decide I’m not going to play this game again. I’m too freakin’ tired, I’m not in the mood, and furthermore if I have to press those buttons one more time I think I’m going to slam my head through the wall trying to press them. No, instead, get a screwdriver and figure out how the heck to turn the power off to this thing.

I remove the screws and pull the panel off the wall, half expecting a power switch (yeah, I know, don’t say it). My only option is to pull 1 – 4 random colored wires out of the unit and hope that it doesn’t have a battery backup. I don’t like the idea of leaving unprotected wires in my wall, however, and none of the wire nuts that I have will catch on these thin wires. I ultimately have no choice but to leave the wires dangling. Also, just for good measure, I decided to check the phone and sure enough it was out again. What’s with this city? It wasn’t even raining any more at the time so does the slightest wind blow the lines down? Odd.

I get back into bed but now I can’t sleep because I’m paranoid that the house is going to catch on fire from the bare wires in the wall. Eventually, though, I pass out and I’m still alive when I awake in the morning. I reconnected the wires and put everything back as it was before heading off to work.

A couple days of silent nights go by and I forget all about the beeping entirely. Then, one weekend night, once again somewhere around 3:00am, it’s happening again. At this point I decide that I’ve had enough and I need to investigate further.

I had now deduced the following: a) the phone line is always down approximately 18 hours before coming back online, b) it usually happens in the middle of the night, and c) I do believe that it happens always after a rain storm. Hmm…it’s clearly time to call the phone company, at least to figure out if it’s just my house having the issue or if the entire city’s being beeped at.

I call the phone company from work the next day. After navigating through countless pointless menu’s that never even hint at the possibility of a human being answering the phone, I finally just persistently hit ‘0’. The automated voice says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your request.” I again hit ‘0’: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your request.” After repeating this multiple times it gives up and transfers me to an actual human being.

A middle aged sounding lady answers the phone and she already sounds annoyed before I even say anything. We go through the usual 20 questions about my name, address, mother’s maiden name, shoe size, underwear preference, etc. and finally get to the real business. “Can you tell me if you’re having any issues in my city recently?” I ask. “My phone line keeps going down and I’m trying to figure out if it’s just me or if everyone’s having a similar problem.”

“I have no idea, sir,” the lady says.

“You don’t keep records or have any log of repairs?”

“No, sir, we don’t keep track of that information.”

I’m slightly shocked. “So, you’re saying that when you repair fallen lines, you don’t keep any sort of record of that?”

“We simply don’t track that information, sir.”

Clearly a different tactic was needed. “Well, then how do I figure out if it’s just my phone line or if others are having the same problem?”

The lady paused. “You need to call us when you’re line is down and we can tell you.”

Now I’m confused. “You want me to call you when the phone’s not working, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, you need to call us at that time.”

Is it just me or does this make absolutely no sense? “But ma’am, the phone line is down.”

“Exactly, sir, that’s why you need to call us at that time.” She seemed satisfied by this but it still sounded like pure insanity to me.

“How can I call you if I don’t have a phone line???”

At this point, the operator changed the approach. “Sir, what happens when you call yourself? Do you get a busy signal or does the phone ring?”

I did a phone double take. “I don’t know, ma’am, I don’t normally make a habit of calling myself, not to mention the fact that I can’t since I don’t have a phone line.”

She sighed heavily. “Here’s what you want to do: next time the line goes down, get a single line phone and plug it directly into the jack that’s on the side of your house. If you get a dial tone there but you don’t get one in your house it’s your line only. If there’s no dial tone there call us at that time so we can diagnose it.”

So, allow me to reiterate: basically, if I don’t get a dial tone at the main jack I’m supposed to call the phone company, however, I won’t have a dial tone to make the phone call. Do you see how this works? This was apparently the best advice I was going to receive and so I thanked her for making me feel completely off my rocker and hung up the phone.

A few days later, the phone line went down once again and, against my better judgment, I decided to do what the lady had advised. I grabbed a phone and made my way to the front door. There was but one minor problem…it was raining outside. I wasn’t exactly sure if I should continue but after some debate I thought, screw it, let’s get this over with. And so, there I am, standing in muddy grass by the side of my house in the pouring rain, holding a phone in my right hand and listening for a dial tone. Of course, my neighbors are driving by on the street and I can see their puzzled faces staring at me in complete confusion, most likely saying to one another, “Man, that new guy’s a weirdo!”

Low and behold, I did get a dial tone. Luckily I wasn’t holding a metal rod in my other hand or wearing a metal helmet, posing as the perfect lightning rod. That would be just my luck, of course…just as I figure out that I have a dial tone I’m struck by lightning.

A couple days later, a man wearing a big floppy hat exactly like the one worn by the guy that put his friend’s foot through the woodchipper at the end of “Fargo” fixed the line issue in about 5 minutes. All that lost sleep for 5 minutes worth of work. Sigh. At least I got to see an actual human being wearing one of those hats. And here I thought it was just an exaggeration!

In summary, when given the choice between being beaten by the bowling alley lady or driven insane by the mad beeping of the security system which I’m sure was incahoots with the phone company, I’m not precisely sure which is worse.

In the meantime, I’ve got to get myself one of those hats. Beep!