A coworker was having a bad day yesterday (actually she was having a bad past couple of weeks), so I did what any normal person would do and offered to take her out for ice cream. She hesitantly accepted (I'm not sure the cause of hesitation but rest assured, it didn't bother me).
So, after work she got in her car and me in mine and I followed her to the designated gelato shop (she's too good for the run of the mill ice cream (read "high maintenance")). When we arrived in the parking lot and got out of our cars she was on her cell phone which proved confusing when we realized the gelato shop was closed and we needed to discuss where to go next.
Undeterred, she motioned for me to follow her as we both got into our respective rides. We traveled up the street a couple of blocks until she starting waving and pointing hysterically as she drifted into the left turn lane. It was then that I saw the reason for her excitement. A small sign at the entrance of the parking lot read, "Custom Made Ice-Cream" and if that doesn't get you excited then you better check your pulse.
So, into Ice-Pan we go wondering exactly what qualifies their ice-cream as "custom." I casually stroll up to the counter and politely ask the high school girls, "What exactly makes your ice-cream custom?" Their answer was practically incomprehensible. It was a jumbled mess of pauses, giggles, incorrect inflections, and blank stares (read "they seemed to be on drugs"). Surprisingly, however, I was able to gather the vital information about this amazing establishment:
Step 1: Pick a flavor of ice cream (they have many...but not 31).
Step 2: Pick your milk (whole, low fat, skim, soy)
Step 3: Pick your mix-ins (stuff they crush and mix into your ice cream...hence the name)
Step 4: Pick your toppings (stuff they put on top of your ice cream...hence the name)
Step 5: Pick your size (they have 2...shouldn't be too difficult to decide)
Once the order has been placed, the magic happens. The stoned workers mix up your custom ice cream mix and turn on the magically ice pans. Once the mix is properly blended the master steps in to turn your dream into a reality. He is a quiet, polite man who graciously takes the mixtures of cream and sugar and spreads them evenly over the ice pans. Almost instantly ice cream starts to form. He starts to scrap and fold the thin layer into a thicker layer and eventually into a soft scoop. The scoop then gets flattened and your mix-ins are crushed and ... mixed in. The glorious hunk of creamy flavor is then gathered into a modestly sized cup and topped with your ... toppings. The entire process is then finished with a warm smile from the master himself as he hands over his creation. That's when you are granted permission to eat your new found ice cream.
We were both thoroughly enjoying our ice cream. I think I finished mine in record time and sat there waiting for my friend to finish hers. Good company, good conversation, and great ice cream were quickly interrupted when she discovered a long blond hair as a bonus mix in. She sat there disgusted and dumbfounded and I probably mirrored that same expression. Eventually, of course, she presented the "hairy" evidence to the high schoolers on drugs and they, of course, made her a new one. When she held the second sundae in her hand I couldn't help but feel amazingly jealous. She went home that night half disgusted and half excited about the bonus ice cream. I went home that night trying to figure out how I might score a bonus scoop next time I go to Ice Pan.
Til Next Time
P.S. I returned to Ice Pan the next night...I did not figure out a way to get a free scoop.
States: 27
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I went to get gelato.
It was closed.
I went to Ice Pan
They make frozen magic there.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Abbreviations ...Or Abbr.
If you enjoy pop culture then you probably have an impression of what Southern California (So. Cal to the locals) is like. There is the glitz and the glamor of Hollywood, the beautiful beaches with beautiful people, and the super violent crime of South Central. While some of this may be true, the one thing that I've noticed more than anything about So. Cal is that people here love to abbreviate.
Some of these abbreviations are warranted. For example, Pacific Coast Highway is a mouthful and I could see how saying "PCH" could streamline a conversation. Plus, PCH has a nice ring to it. It almost begs to be said. The same can not be said about "BH," which is the common abbreviation of Beverly Hills. To me it just seems ridiculous. Beverly Hills itself has a better more inviting sound than the sluggish "BH." In this "LOL, OMG" world in which we now live, I'd put money that those shortcuts originated here in Los Angeles county.
I didn't surprise me then when I took a field trip to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and I saw that it was shortened to LACMA. What did surprise me was the common practice of not only using the acronym of the museum but that the acronym was then pronounced as a word (i.e. Lack-Ma). Furthermore, the new Broad Comtempory Art Museum on the LACMA campus is shortened to BCAM and then pronounced "Bee-Cam." Why not "The Broad?" That's got a good ring to it.
All I'm saying is, "PICK A SIDE PEOPLE!"
If you make an acronym try to stick to it as an acronym (unless it actually makes a word that has relevance to its subject (i.e. D.A.R.E. or M.A.D.D). If you can't stick to the acronym, try shortening it to a word or two that gets the idea across. I'm all about efficiency, but I also enjoy crisp clear communication...call me old fashioned.
Perhaps I'm making too much of this but its my refusal to use such shortcuts that make it quite obvious that I am not in "the know."
TNT
Post Script: In honor of this entries subject matter, I took the opportunity to keep it short.
States: 26
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
So. Cal. people like to abbreviate.
I don't really like to abbreviate.
Sometimes they pronounce the abbreviations as words.
Pick a side people!
Some of these abbreviations are warranted. For example, Pacific Coast Highway is a mouthful and I could see how saying "PCH" could streamline a conversation. Plus, PCH has a nice ring to it. It almost begs to be said. The same can not be said about "BH," which is the common abbreviation of Beverly Hills. To me it just seems ridiculous. Beverly Hills itself has a better more inviting sound than the sluggish "BH." In this "LOL, OMG" world in which we now live, I'd put money that those shortcuts originated here in Los Angeles county.
I didn't surprise me then when I took a field trip to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and I saw that it was shortened to LACMA. What did surprise me was the common practice of not only using the acronym of the museum but that the acronym was then pronounced as a word (i.e. Lack-Ma). Furthermore, the new Broad Comtempory Art Museum on the LACMA campus is shortened to BCAM and then pronounced "Bee-Cam." Why not "The Broad?" That's got a good ring to it.
All I'm saying is, "PICK A SIDE PEOPLE!"
If you make an acronym try to stick to it as an acronym (unless it actually makes a word that has relevance to its subject (i.e. D.A.R.E. or M.A.D.D). If you can't stick to the acronym, try shortening it to a word or two that gets the idea across. I'm all about efficiency, but I also enjoy crisp clear communication...call me old fashioned.
Perhaps I'm making too much of this but its my refusal to use such shortcuts that make it quite obvious that I am not in "the know."
TNT
Post Script: In honor of this entries subject matter, I took the opportunity to keep it short.
States: 26
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
So. Cal. people like to abbreviate.
I don't really like to abbreviate.
Sometimes they pronounce the abbreviations as words.
Pick a side people!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Surprise!...Someone Gave Me Something!
First, let me say this: I told myself when I started this blog that I would never blog about blogging. As you can tell for the previous sentence, I am breaking that rule. No, I'm not going to rant about blogs, bloggers, or blog readers. No, I'm not going to say I've run out of things to write about. No, I'm not going to do either of those things. All I'm going to do is acknowledge that I've fallen a bit behind on the blog this past week. I have no excuses. I have let you down, dear reader. I am sorry. Please forgive me and continue to read in the future. I like when you read my blog. I makes me feel interesting and sometimes cool (only sometimes). I will do my darnedest to never let this web log fall behind again. That being said, I have a quick story to share:
Not too long ago I returned home from work, took my shoes and pants off, turned on the TV, and plopped on the couch. Almost immediately I realized I had to run to the store (for what, I can not remember). So, I slowly rose from the cushions, put my shoes and pants back on (not necessarily in that order) and drove out into the Californian unknown.
My experience at the store was uneventful so I won't bore you with those details. Something interesting did happen upon my return home, so I will bore you with those details.
By this time in the evening the sun was well on its way to setting. I believe the correct term for such times is "dusk." The streets were dark and full of shadows but as I pulled into my parking lot I noticed a beaming white object hanging on my door.
As I parked my car I realized that it was a plastic grocery bag not unlike the ones sitting in my trunk. I put my car in park and removed the keys. I sat there wondering who could have placed this mystery bag on my door in the 20 minutes I had been gone and further more, what was in it? A mystery indeed.
I popped my trunk, slowly exited my vehicle, and cautiously grabbed the 4 plastic grocery bags containing my recent purchases. As I drew closer to the mystery bag my heart raced. The white plastic mocked my every step begging me to come closer. As I reached my door I didn't blow up. I consider that a small victory, but my palms began to sweat as I inched my right hand towards it. I grabbed one of its two handles and slid it off of my door handle. I pulled the bag wide open and hesitantly peered inside. To my amazement I found 4 items all belonging to a recognizable set. This bag, that someone felt compelled to leave on my doorstep held 3 dry erase markers and a corresponding dry erase eraser. I considered this a major victory. Now I need to by a dry erase board and I'll be set.
Til Next Time
P.S. I went to another Hollywood party this past weekend. I scared plenty with my dancing.
States: 26
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I'm sorry for not writing.
I took off my shoes and pants.
I ran errands.
Someone left a mystery package on my door.
I didn't blow up.
Not too long ago I returned home from work, took my shoes and pants off, turned on the TV, and plopped on the couch. Almost immediately I realized I had to run to the store (for what, I can not remember). So, I slowly rose from the cushions, put my shoes and pants back on (not necessarily in that order) and drove out into the Californian unknown.
My experience at the store was uneventful so I won't bore you with those details. Something interesting did happen upon my return home, so I will bore you with those details.
By this time in the evening the sun was well on its way to setting. I believe the correct term for such times is "dusk." The streets were dark and full of shadows but as I pulled into my parking lot I noticed a beaming white object hanging on my door.
As I parked my car I realized that it was a plastic grocery bag not unlike the ones sitting in my trunk. I put my car in park and removed the keys. I sat there wondering who could have placed this mystery bag on my door in the 20 minutes I had been gone and further more, what was in it? A mystery indeed.
I popped my trunk, slowly exited my vehicle, and cautiously grabbed the 4 plastic grocery bags containing my recent purchases. As I drew closer to the mystery bag my heart raced. The white plastic mocked my every step begging me to come closer. As I reached my door I didn't blow up. I consider that a small victory, but my palms began to sweat as I inched my right hand towards it. I grabbed one of its two handles and slid it off of my door handle. I pulled the bag wide open and hesitantly peered inside. To my amazement I found 4 items all belonging to a recognizable set. This bag, that someone felt compelled to leave on my doorstep held 3 dry erase markers and a corresponding dry erase eraser. I considered this a major victory. Now I need to by a dry erase board and I'll be set.
Til Next Time
P.S. I went to another Hollywood party this past weekend. I scared plenty with my dancing.
States: 26
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I'm sorry for not writing.
I took off my shoes and pants.
I ran errands.
Someone left a mystery package on my door.
I didn't blow up.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Don't Believe Everything You Read...Unless it is a Clearly Posted Warning
This past weekend a couple of friends came to visit from Chicago. They flew in on Thursday night and left on Sunday afternoon which gave us practically 3 days for activities. It might be interesting to you then that my favorite part of the weekend involved a shady novelty store along the "Walk of Fame" and a certain loose rodent.
I'm not sure exactly what this store sold but it is a safe bet that it was 1 of 3 things: electronics, vintage clothing, or drag queen attire (at least that's what I took it to be). I do know, however, that there was a squirrel inside this particular store. Why? Because on the door there was a sign held on by a solitary piece of scotch tape with the following written in black marker:
"Squirrel in store!"
Notice the exclamation point. This store owner was not only telling/warning you about the loose squirrel in their store, they were screaming it from the mountain tops!
This sign on the door is where my knowledge of the subject stops, but it raises a few questions for me. First, was this a prank? If so, was it the owner of this store that put up the sign or was it the owner of the store across the street that tried to dissuade patrons from that store into their own? Secondly, if it wasn't a prank, why not call animal control or make some other attempt to let the animal free (i.e. trail of popcorn)? Lastly, at what point do you give up trying to get the squirrel out of your store and say, "Eh, just put a sign up," as to try and limit liability when somebody contracts rabies while searching for that perfect vintage jacket? These questions and countless others go unanswered.
Regardless, we didn't enter the store, but one of my friends did mention the possibility that it could be a caged squirrel on exhibit and the sign was to attract costumers not detract costumers. Yes, that is certainly a possibility but I have to imagine that if you can afford a squirrel exhibit, you can afford a better sign to advertise such things.
Til Next Time
P.S. Happy Cinco De Mayo! I had taquitos for lunch.
States: 26
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I had visitors from Chicago.
There was a squirrel in a store.
A sign told me so.
I don't know why.
I'm not sure exactly what this store sold but it is a safe bet that it was 1 of 3 things: electronics, vintage clothing, or drag queen attire (at least that's what I took it to be). I do know, however, that there was a squirrel inside this particular store. Why? Because on the door there was a sign held on by a solitary piece of scotch tape with the following written in black marker:
"Squirrel in store!"
Notice the exclamation point. This store owner was not only telling/warning you about the loose squirrel in their store, they were screaming it from the mountain tops!
This sign on the door is where my knowledge of the subject stops, but it raises a few questions for me. First, was this a prank? If so, was it the owner of this store that put up the sign or was it the owner of the store across the street that tried to dissuade patrons from that store into their own? Secondly, if it wasn't a prank, why not call animal control or make some other attempt to let the animal free (i.e. trail of popcorn)? Lastly, at what point do you give up trying to get the squirrel out of your store and say, "Eh, just put a sign up," as to try and limit liability when somebody contracts rabies while searching for that perfect vintage jacket? These questions and countless others go unanswered.
Regardless, we didn't enter the store, but one of my friends did mention the possibility that it could be a caged squirrel on exhibit and the sign was to attract costumers not detract costumers. Yes, that is certainly a possibility but I have to imagine that if you can afford a squirrel exhibit, you can afford a better sign to advertise such things.
Til Next Time
P.S. Happy Cinco De Mayo! I had taquitos for lunch.
States: 26
Countries: 8
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I had visitors from Chicago.
There was a squirrel in a store.
A sign told me so.
I don't know why.
Monday, April 28, 2008
K-Clubbin'...It's the Hip Thing to do in K-Town!
I have a friend at work, a fellow engineer, who happens to be Korean. He was the guy who braved the elements of mild weather to help find me a suitable surf board. This past Saturday, he drove down to my place and we went surfing.
After an exhausting afternoon he made the following offer:
"Do you want to go to Korea Town for some Korean Bar-B-Q?"
It goes without saying that I accepted the offer and soon we were grilling "all you can eat meat" at our table. After an hour of constant eating in Korea Town (K-Town to the locals) we paid the tab and were on our way.
As we were driving my friend pointed at a club looking place and said, "That's a Korean club." So I asked a seemingly ignorant question, "What's so Korean about it?" Little did I know that Korean Clubbing (K-Clubbin' to the locals) is actually a very different club scene.
Now, I'm no clubbing expert (I don't know if I've officially ever been to one actually) but here's what I would do in a normal situation: I would go to the club, I would get drunk, I would make a fool of myself, maybe talk to a couple of girls and therefore scare them away, I would go home (not necessarily in that order). Seems like a pleasant evening.
Here's what would happen if I went K-Clubbin': I would first make reservations for the appropriate number in my party, I would then go to the club with a group of dudes (most likely Korean), we would order a couple of bottles of liquor (probably whiskey), and if we felt so inclined we would ask to be "booked."
Booked? Yes, "booked." Let me elaborate, in a K-Club, there are normally tables of dudes and tables of girls and these tables are mixed amongst each other. The wait staff at these establishments are assigned to a number of dude tables as well as some girl tables. So, if I were to say, "Excuse me fine sir, I would like to get booked," the waiter would then consult his log of tables of girls who have also agreed to get booked. The waiter would then talk to one of these girls, bring her over to me, and introduce her. She would then sit down for some friendly conversation and I am then obligated to give her some of the alcohol that me and my dude friends bought earlier. Let me take this opportunity to clarify something: these girls are just girls that are also attending the club that night. They are not in anyway hired, like some of you may be thinking.
Anyway, it's at this point that the K-Club experience and the normal club experience would probably converge for me. I'm sure I would say something that would scare her off and I'd probably have a good laugh at it, and that's all good. It's ok though because I'm K-Clubbin'. All I need to do if just flag down the waiter again and inform him politely, "I'd like to get booked...again."
Now, I haven't been K-Clubbin' yet, so this is all word of mouth but I need to see for myself how this system works. Who knew social situations could be so structured.
So, I ask you dear readers, "Who wants to get booked?"
Til Next Time
P.S. Do you watch the television series "Weeds?" Me neither, but I've heard of it and I've heard it's funny. Regardless, they were filming an episode on my jogging route this evening. Again, however, I regretfully report that I didn't not see any celebrities.
States: 26
Countries: 7
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Korean barbecue.
Clubbing in Korea town is called K-Clubbin'.
If you go K-Clubbin' you can elect to get booked.
Who wants to get booked?
After an exhausting afternoon he made the following offer:
"Do you want to go to Korea Town for some Korean Bar-B-Q?"
It goes without saying that I accepted the offer and soon we were grilling "all you can eat meat" at our table. After an hour of constant eating in Korea Town (K-Town to the locals) we paid the tab and were on our way.
As we were driving my friend pointed at a club looking place and said, "That's a Korean club." So I asked a seemingly ignorant question, "What's so Korean about it?" Little did I know that Korean Clubbing (K-Clubbin' to the locals) is actually a very different club scene.
Now, I'm no clubbing expert (I don't know if I've officially ever been to one actually) but here's what I would do in a normal situation: I would go to the club, I would get drunk, I would make a fool of myself, maybe talk to a couple of girls and therefore scare them away, I would go home (not necessarily in that order). Seems like a pleasant evening.
Here's what would happen if I went K-Clubbin': I would first make reservations for the appropriate number in my party, I would then go to the club with a group of dudes (most likely Korean), we would order a couple of bottles of liquor (probably whiskey), and if we felt so inclined we would ask to be "booked."
Booked? Yes, "booked." Let me elaborate, in a K-Club, there are normally tables of dudes and tables of girls and these tables are mixed amongst each other. The wait staff at these establishments are assigned to a number of dude tables as well as some girl tables. So, if I were to say, "Excuse me fine sir, I would like to get booked," the waiter would then consult his log of tables of girls who have also agreed to get booked. The waiter would then talk to one of these girls, bring her over to me, and introduce her. She would then sit down for some friendly conversation and I am then obligated to give her some of the alcohol that me and my dude friends bought earlier. Let me take this opportunity to clarify something: these girls are just girls that are also attending the club that night. They are not in anyway hired, like some of you may be thinking.
Anyway, it's at this point that the K-Club experience and the normal club experience would probably converge for me. I'm sure I would say something that would scare her off and I'd probably have a good laugh at it, and that's all good. It's ok though because I'm K-Clubbin'. All I need to do if just flag down the waiter again and inform him politely, "I'd like to get booked...again."
Now, I haven't been K-Clubbin' yet, so this is all word of mouth but I need to see for myself how this system works. Who knew social situations could be so structured.
So, I ask you dear readers, "Who wants to get booked?"
Til Next Time
P.S. Do you watch the television series "Weeds?" Me neither, but I've heard of it and I've heard it's funny. Regardless, they were filming an episode on my jogging route this evening. Again, however, I regretfully report that I didn't not see any celebrities.
States: 26
Countries: 7
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Korean barbecue.
Clubbing in Korea town is called K-Clubbin'.
If you go K-Clubbin' you can elect to get booked.
Who wants to get booked?
Friday, April 25, 2008
What Makes a Strong House? ... A Healthy Foundation of Course
So, it's been four weeks and you may be wondering, "Are you getting better at volleyball?" The answer, regrettably is a resounding, "No."
Remember how I told you that the intermediate class seemed less intermediate and more, how do you say...athletically incompetent? Well, since then the intermediate class has been split into two smaller classes: Intermediate and Intermediate Beginner. Being the modest and humble person that I am, I choose to group myself with the intermediate beginners where I was promised, "more instruction on the fundamentals."
Let me paint a picture of what the intermediate beginner class looks like: Picture 15-20 people standing on the beach with volleyballs in their hands. The instructor explains the next activity in a moderately to crystal clear manner. The majority of the students respond with blank looks and annoying questions. The instructor, growing increasingly frustrated, says, "Alright, let's just give it a shot."
What happens next can best be described by visualizing a handful of bouncy balls being dropped on the pavement. Can you see it? The bouncy balls are bouncing every which way...they have scattered in every direction. That's exactly what happens every Thursday night in the intermediate beginner class. The instructor says, "Go!" and volleyballs scatter in every direction. It's rather unproductive.
It's ok though, they're nice people. They just need a little more instruction on the fundamentals...me included.
Til Next Time
P.S. I found a place down the street from me that claims to sell Chicago Style Hot Dogs. I haven't tried it yet, but by the looks of it they are missing half of the ingredients. They do, however, claim to use Vienna Beef Hot Dogs and that goes a very very long way.
States: 26
Countries: 7
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
It's been 4 weeks of volleyball.
I'm not getting any better.
Picture a handful of bouncy balls.
We need more instruction on fundamentals.
Remember how I told you that the intermediate class seemed less intermediate and more, how do you say...athletically incompetent? Well, since then the intermediate class has been split into two smaller classes: Intermediate and Intermediate Beginner. Being the modest and humble person that I am, I choose to group myself with the intermediate beginners where I was promised, "more instruction on the fundamentals."
Let me paint a picture of what the intermediate beginner class looks like: Picture 15-20 people standing on the beach with volleyballs in their hands. The instructor explains the next activity in a moderately to crystal clear manner. The majority of the students respond with blank looks and annoying questions. The instructor, growing increasingly frustrated, says, "Alright, let's just give it a shot."
What happens next can best be described by visualizing a handful of bouncy balls being dropped on the pavement. Can you see it? The bouncy balls are bouncing every which way...they have scattered in every direction. That's exactly what happens every Thursday night in the intermediate beginner class. The instructor says, "Go!" and volleyballs scatter in every direction. It's rather unproductive.
It's ok though, they're nice people. They just need a little more instruction on the fundamentals...me included.
Til Next Time
P.S. I found a place down the street from me that claims to sell Chicago Style Hot Dogs. I haven't tried it yet, but by the looks of it they are missing half of the ingredients. They do, however, claim to use Vienna Beef Hot Dogs and that goes a very very long way.
States: 26
Countries: 7
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
It's been 4 weeks of volleyball.
I'm not getting any better.
Picture a handful of bouncy balls.
We need more instruction on fundamentals.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Stop Bugging Me...Said the Annoyed Cockroach
As I may have mentioned before, my apartment is owned and operated by a church. My apartment building resides quite obediently in the dunce's corner of said church's parking lot. There is at least one pro to this situation: lots of parking, but there are certainly cons as well: lots of local parking on drunken nights (Thurs.-Sat.).
One con that may not coming instantly to mind is this: there are always people around my apartment in the mornings. These people aren't residents of the apartment building like some of you might be thinking, they are just people who for one reason or another decided to park in the church's parking lot. Take the construction workers across the street for instance, they all gather 'round their trucks and drink their morning coffee and love to make a lot of noise (mostly in Spanish). Take the little old lady cleaning up the parking lot, she is doing a good deed (surely as a volunteer since she wasn't wearing a bright orange jumpsuit) yet she seems very upset and quite surly. Perhaps that's because of the young punks that are skating on the other end of the parking lot, shouldn't they be in school by now? Stupid punks.
So you get the idea: there is a wide variety of people that I see in the mornings. This morning, though, I was a bit taken aback by what I emerged to see. Just as I opened my door to leave for the morning I came face to face with an exterminator. Yep, a real honest to goodness exterminator. I said a "Good Morning," he reciprocated and as I got into my car I thought to myself, "Ah, the good church is taking precautions." You see, the exterminator was hard at work spraying the exterior of the building and that made me feel good...a landlord that cares. But that thought quickly faded and was replaced with, "What could have happened here to make an exterminator necessary?"
So my ride to work this morning (which was longer than usual, mind you) was filled with thoughts of gigantic ants and intergalactic roaches. I pictured huge space slugs sliming over all of my things and eating all that is made of paper. The spiders that scurried about in my head weren't really spiders. You see, normal spiders have eight legs, mine had 15 and were the size of small eco-friendly hybrid automobiles. The kind of nightmarish visuals that I conjured up this morning only belong in movies and the amazon (especially movies about the amazon). It was a hellish morning commute indeed.
Then, as I got a grip on reality, I flipped to the other side again thinking, "Regardless of what the infestation is or was, the good church has hired a helping hand. That's a positive thing." But, I couldn't help but think, "Good thing I live by a church because only god's exterminator would have a chance against the devil bugs that live under my apartment. Those horned creeps are tough and in a battle between holy bug spray and evil bugs, evil is bound to win. Evil just has too many legs."
But, at least they're fighting the good fight.
Til Next Time
P.S. Yes, I went surfing again this weekend. I'm not bleeding (at least not any more than I already was) and I did stand up on my board. Staying up, however, is a different thing.
States: 26
Countries: 6
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I live in a church parking lot.
The devil has sent his bug army.
Evil has too many legs
The church is fighting a good fight.
One con that may not coming instantly to mind is this: there are always people around my apartment in the mornings. These people aren't residents of the apartment building like some of you might be thinking, they are just people who for one reason or another decided to park in the church's parking lot. Take the construction workers across the street for instance, they all gather 'round their trucks and drink their morning coffee and love to make a lot of noise (mostly in Spanish). Take the little old lady cleaning up the parking lot, she is doing a good deed (surely as a volunteer since she wasn't wearing a bright orange jumpsuit) yet she seems very upset and quite surly. Perhaps that's because of the young punks that are skating on the other end of the parking lot, shouldn't they be in school by now? Stupid punks.
So you get the idea: there is a wide variety of people that I see in the mornings. This morning, though, I was a bit taken aback by what I emerged to see. Just as I opened my door to leave for the morning I came face to face with an exterminator. Yep, a real honest to goodness exterminator. I said a "Good Morning," he reciprocated and as I got into my car I thought to myself, "Ah, the good church is taking precautions." You see, the exterminator was hard at work spraying the exterior of the building and that made me feel good...a landlord that cares. But that thought quickly faded and was replaced with, "What could have happened here to make an exterminator necessary?"
So my ride to work this morning (which was longer than usual, mind you) was filled with thoughts of gigantic ants and intergalactic roaches. I pictured huge space slugs sliming over all of my things and eating all that is made of paper. The spiders that scurried about in my head weren't really spiders. You see, normal spiders have eight legs, mine had 15 and were the size of small eco-friendly hybrid automobiles. The kind of nightmarish visuals that I conjured up this morning only belong in movies and the amazon (especially movies about the amazon). It was a hellish morning commute indeed.
Then, as I got a grip on reality, I flipped to the other side again thinking, "Regardless of what the infestation is or was, the good church has hired a helping hand. That's a positive thing." But, I couldn't help but think, "Good thing I live by a church because only god's exterminator would have a chance against the devil bugs that live under my apartment. Those horned creeps are tough and in a battle between holy bug spray and evil bugs, evil is bound to win. Evil just has too many legs."
But, at least they're fighting the good fight.
Til Next Time
P.S. Yes, I went surfing again this weekend. I'm not bleeding (at least not any more than I already was) and I did stand up on my board. Staying up, however, is a different thing.
States: 26
Countries: 6
This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I live in a church parking lot.
The devil has sent his bug army.
Evil has too many legs
The church is fighting a good fight.
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