The OFFICIAL Unofficial Achewood Message Board
Trivial Pursuits => Wild Card => Topic started by: Bozack on February 06, 2006, 02:09:38 am
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Owning a subwoofer.
Playing a) Mexican banda music, or b) that ridiculous "The Birdman flies in ANY weather!" song, at 2 in the morning on a Wednesday.
Having some sort of fuck*ng track & field meet in your apartment, wherein people with giant, lead-filled shoes run up and down the length of your apartment. I swear to God, they were doing hurdles yesterday.
Have very loud, very, very short sex, punctuated by shouting in Spanish.
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We once lived in an apartment where we were positive that someone practiced bouncing a basketball in the bedroom right above ours. I still can't figure out what weird sexual fetish would have sounded like that, so I think it really was a basketball.
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I live above a go-cart shop. Yet, I've never heard a rip roaring go-cart either. I suppose there's always a time for firsts, but I think my floors must be pretty well insulated.
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Things you shouldn't do in a dorm:
Have a repeated afternoon ritual which involves a few of you holding a door shut while another bangs increasingly loudly on it and starts shouting "FUCK YOU, OPEN THE DOOR!" for upwards of twenty minutes.
This is all.
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Things you shouldn't do in a dorm:
Have a repeated afternoon ritual which involves a few of you holding a door shut while another bangs increasingly loudly on it and starts shouting "FUCK YOU, OPEN THE DOOR!" for upwards of twenty minutes.
This is all.
Did you live in my dorm?
I hope this is not a country-wide phenomenon.
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Another thing you shouldn't do is leave used heroin needles and peanut butter out for weeks.
When I lived in KC, there was a couple upstairs from me that fancied themselves "poets" in the sense that they couldn't really write prose so they fell back on ridiculousness. (This is not a jab at actual poets mind you, just delusional ones.)
Normally their peanut butter and heroin needles would not have mattered to me as it didn't really affected me except that it's really hard to keep roaches out of an apartment when they're all coming from upstairs where they can feast like kings. KINGS I TELL YOU.
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Q, your peanut butter roaches make me kinda queazy... :-\
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Q, your peanut butter roaches make me kinda queazy... :-\
You should've tried living there. You'd open the door to where the heater was and it was like watching an undulating sea of brown that quickly grew holes and evaporated into cracks in the wall. I spent most of my nights in terror of swallowing one of the little bastards.
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Thank you, Q, for adding to the ever growing image of nasty in my brain. :shudder: I am now going to be terrified of roaches attacking me with peanut butter in my sleep.
On a small side note, I once went to get in bed and found a spider as big as your head (or so it seemed) hiding in my covers. I made Alex kill it and then take the whole bed apart in case it had friends and family. Even after seeing that there were no more I was still afraid to get into the bed. For more nights than just that one.
True story.
The end.
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Once as I was sitting I saw something fuzzy a little in the corner of my eye and felt a tremble. I have unusually long eyelashes which ladies are always jealous of but I find a pain in the ass since they get all pressed down when I wear sunglasses.
I mention this only because it explains why I didn't notice what I found much sooner.
There was a spider right on my eyelash.
For some reason, the very idea of a spider on you is repellant but on your eye is all the more horrifying. When I pulled my hand back from my eyelashes and saw what I had caught I think I threw that thing hard enough to create a sonic boom. It was very unnerving, but I did not cry. The End.
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That is nothing to be ashamed of spiders are goddamned nasty. Eight legs, poison fangs, can walk on ceilings and walls, can shoot a material from their ass that serves as both a home and a weapon -- those are way too many powers for one animal.
The problem with my apartment building is the mentally ill family that lives on the bottom floor, and just take any package that is left in the entryway. I don't think they even know it's wrong; it's just like Christmas every day. Also we sometimes have millipedes the size of grapefruits; I swear these things could goddamn eat a ferris wheel.
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Oh...my...god...I think your story, Q, just gave me a mild heart attack. I WOULD have cried. And also refuse to be calmed for many an hour. Just traumatizing!
Also, I am already jealous of your eyelashes of which I cannot see.
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The problem with my apartment building is the mentally ill family that lives on the bottom floor, and just take any package that is left in the entryway. I don't think they even know it's wrong; it's just like Christmas every day. Also we sometimes have millipedes the size of grapefruits; I swear these things could goddamn eat a ferris wheel.
Damn, I don't think I can top that. Though the girl across the hall did write "JACK OFF" on my washer all because I asked her to please stop using it since she did so without asking and I was paying the utilities on it.
Until she washed it off whenever I heard her in the hallway I would yell out, "Man oh man I am jacking off in here so good, this is such a good jack off!" or "I wish I could get some things done but I can't stop jacking off!" or simply "WOOOO JACKIN' OFF!"
Does this make me Pat? I don't want to be Pat.
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That sounds a little more like Vlad, to me
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Actually I'm pretty sure Vlad would say, "The jackink off, is so delicious; is sood good."
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For some reason, the very idea of a spider on you is repellant but on your eye is all the more horrifying.
Do you know why you're afraid of spiders?
Evolution!
Until she washed it off whenever I heard her in the hallway I would yell out, "Man oh man I am jacking off in here so good, this is such a good jack off!" or "I wish I could get some things done but I can't stop jacking off!" or simply "WOOOO JACKIN' OFF!"
Does this make me Pat? I don't want to be Pat.
No, definitely not Pat. I'm pretty sure it makes you rad (and the "WOOOO JACKIN' OFF! is like that strip where the bots are mooning passersby). The bitch totally thought you would be shamed by letting the other residents know that you jack off, but little did she know that it's basically you're entire identity, and you aren't ashamed of it at all.
But really, that was certainly the best way to handle the situation.
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Do you know why you're afraid of spiders?
Evolution!
No, definitely not Pat. I'm pretty sure it makes you rad (and the "WOOOO JACKIN' OFF! is like that strip where the bots are mooning passersby). The bitch totally thought you would be shamed by letting the other residents know that you jack off, but little did she know that it's basically you're entire identity, and you aren't ashamed of it at all.
But really, that was certainly the best way to handle the situation.
Thank you miles, I know I can always count on you, my brother in Sick Fuckitude.
I actually kinda miss yelling it out, but in the end it worked. My washer is clear of permanent marker onanism accusations now!
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People in my dorm think it's the best idea to sing and shout with extremely voices while in the shower. I don't get it. These guys play basketball or sometimes football at 11:00 pm then apparently come back to the dorm for a refreshing circle jerk? Jocks are stereotypically speaking supposed to hate "gay" stuff. So why are they singing and giggling in the shower at 1:00 in the morning?! I live right across the hall from the bathroom too, so it's pretty much impossible to sleep.
Also, it seems your taste in music goes down as your speaker size preference increases and your common courtesy shrinks. The guys next door to me play really bad music with the bass cranked at all times of the day. It's horrible!! I can feel it and I've started to hum along with the bass line (which is the only part I can hear). Did I mention they only have about one or two CDs worth of music? It gets really redundant.
By the way, my dorm has "quiet hours" starting at 11:00pm. Yeah that helps...
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Actually I'm pretty sure Vlad would say, "The jackink off, is so delicious; is sood good."
Vlad doesn't need to jack off. He gets it whenever he wants.
You take. Take take take. You take.
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I don't think you would hear Vlad say anything at all.
There would only be the click of a gently closing door, and a single red rose on the washing machine.
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Actually I'm pretty sure Vlad would say, "The jackink off, is so delicious; is sood good."
Before or after he ate the soap?
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misterqueue, I hope that someone calls me a jackoff.
because I want to steal your joke.
Actually:
may I please use that, if someone calls me a jackoff? I could pay royalties...
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misterqueue, I hope that someone calls me a jackoff.
because I want to steal your joke.
Actually:
may I please use that, if someone calls me a jackoff? I could pay royalties...
You may, but you actually owe me 20 dollars just for using jackoff in your post. I have already registered this word. I would let it go but I need to protect my intellectual property; you understand.
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By $20 do you mean a tiny can?
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No of course not, that would be silly. Plus I don't want to incur any more wrath. SHHH
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Wow... all my neighbors are doing is dying.
The two couples across the hall from me in the condo were both elderly. In their 70's and 80's. The man right across the hall just died, the man next to him just got back from a scary stint in the hospital. Sara and I gave our phone numbers to both of them to call us if they needed help with anything - the one that just recently died once slipped in the parking lot because our GODDAMN CHEAP JERKOFF LAZYASS condo association decided to wait until ALL the leaves fell to call the groundskeeping service so that they'd only have to pay them once. It's kinda sad, the four(/three) of them are all super-nice old people that are really glad the young people across the hall are keeping an eye out for them, but really wish we didn't have to bother.
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Wow Golf, that sucks for them, but it sucks for you too. Now instead of nice, polite, considerate old people you'll most likely get obnoxious, loud, inconsiderate asshole young people for neighbors. Read the rest of this thread for proof. It's your future. Sorry, didn't mean to bring you down lke that.
I've never lived in an apartment, and I've only had a (non romantic) roommate once and that for only a short time. Whenever I read horror stories like this thread I thank my lucky stars I've never had to go that route. However, in two weeks i'll be moving to Utah and most likely i'll be moving into an apartment. The HR guy told me they are mostly garage apartments on individual houses and not apartment buildings. That sounds pretty good, I think i'll try to go that route. Oh yeah, that's one plus of Utah over Miami, the rent is dirt cheap. The per diem in Utah is like 200 dollars less than Miami, but the rent is easily 1000 less. That's money in the bank.
~Paul
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Yeah, I gotta say, the roommate thing just tends not to work out. Ironically, my ex-roommate (about whom some of you may remember some sturm and drang from just about two years ago now) is living on the floor above me; aside from her tendency to have EXTREMELY LOUD conversations with her suitemates in the stairwell about science fiction at all hours of the day, she's reasonably non-odious this year. Thank God.
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I'm glad I have no horrible roommate stories. Of course, I live with Alex mainly, which is pretty good. And I had one crazy roommate sophomore year, but she locked herself in her room most of the time and was, thus, not that much of a nuisance to society. Which was nice.
I did have to move dorms between semesters of my freshman year though. But it was because of the girl across the hall. Does that count? I still talk to, and remain great friends with, my roommates from that year. Hooray!
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...Ironically, my ex-roommate (about whom some of you may remember some sturm and drang from just about two years ago now)...
Among my German friends (not my friends that are German, but my friends with whom I have studied German) the term 'sturm and drang' has become a euphemism for sweaty and violent sex, especially when talking about the gay guy of the group and his on/off-again and slightly abusive boyfriend. So basically this sentence is hot.
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Among my German friends (not my friends that are German, but my friends with whom I have studied German) the term 'sturm and drang' has become a euphemism for sweaty and violent sex, especially when talking about the gay guy of the group and his on/off-again and slightly abusive boyfriend. So basically this sentence is hot.
Man. See, my Platonic sturm und drang also involved a gay guy, except in this case he was throwing a bottle at my door (which my then-roommate proceeded to forgive him for and bitch out me for getting upset about). And then, after my roommate moved out, he was writing weird, angry fat jokes on my whiteboard for the rest of the year. And yelling at me to SHUT THE FUCK UP every time I sang (at a reasonable volume) in my room. So really, the representative adjective here was less "gay" and more "psychotic," although both apply.
If I ever meet this man again, I'm killing him with my bare hands. Just so people know.
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Does Wagner usually accompany the "sturm und drang"?
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Man. See, my Platonic sturm und drang also involved a gay guy, except in this case he was throwing a bottle at my door (which my then-roommate proceeded to forgive him for and bitch out me for getting upset about). And then, after my roommate moved out, he was writing weird, angry fat jokes on my whiteboard for the rest of the year. And yelling at me to SHUT THE FUCK UP every time I sang (at a reasonable volume) in my room. So really, the representative adjective here was less "gay" and more "psychotic," although both apply.
If I ever meet this man again, I'm killing him with my bare hands. Just so people know.
What a completely crap dude. I imagine his voice cracked with emotion as he yelled at you. Sorry you had to deal with that and good luck spinning a beer through his head and/or ripping off his torso. Then again, he seems like the type whos brain might dissolve in it's own hopelessly wacky mind-juices.
I tend to be loud for recording and performing music. I do it at reasonable times or with consent sought from neighbors. I've been fortunate to have some understanding/not present roommates and neighbors. I wonder how they'll react to me yelling 'WOOOO JACKIN' OFF!' ? Misterqueue, that story truly inspired. I'll be sharing it with my friends as well as copping the phrase (do you take cheques, sir).
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I wonder how they'll react to me yelling 'WOOOO JACKIN' OFF!' ? Misterqueue, that story truly inspired. I'll be sharing it with my friends as well as copping the phrase (do you take cheques, sir).
You're quite welcome to it sir. Chequeues are just fine, as is Scotch.
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Oh my god. I just realized that I've never told anyone here the story of my downstairs neighbor in my first apartment. I can't believe that here, where I tell so many stories, that I've somehow managed to not tell it, because I tell it to everyone. It is the best of my stories, but it's usually told orally, so it's sort of interesting to write it down. Here we go.
Okay.
I was 21, and I had had enough of taking care of my mom. For those of you who don't know, my mom has mental health issues. Now my dad, who generally can't take my mom, but for whatever reason stays married to her, regularly took jobs outside the city so that he would leave while my mom would be left with me. I hated living at home and was definitely too young and too emotionally entangled to help the situation in anyway. It really sucked, it made me angry, etc. So I was genearally unhappy with my living situation, when magically, poof, I won a very large award for a play I had written - large enough that I could get my own place and live off of it for a year while attending university. Conveniently my dad's job as a principal at some remote school also ended, so he had come home, and my mom would not be alone. So I found a place. And with my usual style and moxie, I found a wonderful one-bedroom, with a nice eat in kitchen, hardwood floors, and these cool rounded arch doorways. I had the whole parking pad in the back to myself for my lovely refinished 1974 Comet. It was a house on a dead end street, in a questionable neighborhood, but walking distance from the university, so it fit really well. All utilities were included, which really helped with the budgeting. Also, because of the age of the house, it had an old biffy off the living room that had been converted to a curved-roofed walk-in closet thing-y, which was entirely painted a very dark brown and looked exactly like a cave. I called it my "man cave" as I indended on eventually setting up some bars and trapping a sex slave in there. People would just come over to see the cave, and I even had a cave party at one point.
Anyway, I found this lovely apartment, which was actually the second floor of a house. On the main floor lived a single man, who was a very polite, openly gay man, whose son visited him, but rarely stayed long. He was a quiet man, and also so painfully thin that he looked like he was made of sinew. (I mentioned in another thread, how to my amazement when I was moving in, he carried my fold-out sofa bed couch up my curved staircase by himself. I was amazed that a man so thin was so strong.) The house next door was an obvious drug house with dozens of guys coming in and out at all hours of the night, but I just ignored them, and they ignored me, and all was well.
So time went by, and my quiet upstairs neighbor and I lived our separate lives, nodding politely to each other, exchanging occasional pleasantries. I remember one day, that as I was putting my shoes on on my landing area (the only part of my apartment on the first floor), that I heard him softly weeping to himself. I felt sad for him, thought about knocking on his door, and then thought better of it. We only knew each other's first names, and I thought that I wouldn't want him knocking on my door if I was all blubbery.
Skip to a Saturday in summer. I'm getting ready to go over to my too-cool-for-life-friends' apartment. I always feel the pressure to be ultra hip when I hang with the gay boys, and these were my three gay-est friends. I was in my bathroom, which had a window over the back yard (where my lovely Comet was parked), but since it was summer, the tree in the backyard had grown lush green leaves, so all I could see when I looked out was the green canopy of the tree. I had the window opened, and it was a nice day. I was standing over the sink, fixing myself up, when I heard voices in the area below, directly where my car was parked. Young male voices:
"Get more on it."
"Shh! Quiet!"
"Go and watch to see if anyone's coming!"
"Is she home?
"I don't know."
"Hurry up!"
So I instantly think that the drug dealers next door are doing something to my car - stealing it, vandalizing it - something. I have a lot of thoughts all at once: it's my fault for choosing such a bad neighborhood. I wont have time to catch them in the act if I call the cops. I love my very cool car and don't want it vandalized. I have no idea what, but clearly they are doing something! I decide that I will casually go take a look, as though I have no idea that anything's going on. I realize that if they are indeed messing with my car, that I will need to see them doing it, then quickly get away. Conveniently I have my mountain bike on the inner landing. I grab my bike, put on my bike helmet (I remember thinking this will somehow protect me if I'm assaulted), and duck outside and around the corner. What I come face to face with is so outside of anything I could possibly prepair myself for that my brain actually stops working.
I turn the corner into the narrow passage way between my place and the drug house next door, and I come face to face with Diana Ross in full make-up and a sequined gown. Then I realize that, no, it is not Diana Ross, but a man dressed up to look like a glamorous woman. Then I realize that it is my quiet downstairs neighbor, dressed as a glamorous woman. We both stand staring at each other, unsure what to say.
I blurt out "I wish I looked that good in a dress." We continue to stand staring at each other befuddled in the tiny passage way between the two houses. I realize I too must look silly with my bike helmet on, and with my bike with me, there is no way for either of us to pass.
Then his friend, with a camera around his neck, comes tearing around the corner. Followed by a couple tarted-up shirtless man-sluts in short shorts. "We were just taking pictures because he's compeating in Ms. Club 200. We were posing on your car." (Club 200 is a local trashy gay bar)
Me: "Oh..."
My neighbor: "I'm sorry. I know we should have asked..."
Me: "Oh, no, don't worry about it. Take all the pictures you want."
Photographer: "Thanks."
Me: "Good luck. Let me know if you win!" And off I rode on my bike.
I went straight to my friends' apartment, peddling really hard because I couldn't wait to tell them what had just transpired. I get there all out of breath. I tell them the story. "I though my car was getting vandalized, but it was really just Diana Ross in drag!" My friends are totally too cool for this - they can't possibly be enthusiastic. One of them responds, dripping with ennui "You should have asked for a copy of the picture." I'm confused, because I'm so elated, but my friends are so disinterested. "Don't you get it? I thought my car was going to be destroyed, but it was my neighbor dressed as a women doing a photo shoot on my hood!" No one is excited about it but me. I've gone on to tell many other people this story, and unlike these guys, they too are amazed. I still love that this happened to me - it taught me an important lesson about what I expect and what might actually happen. Never be too pessimistic - you think the worst, but it could really just be a sequined drag queen.
From that point on, I never really saw much of my neighbor. I tried really hard to be kind to him when I saw him. He continued to be very quiet, but our paths crossed less and less. I heard him crying once or twice again after that. I heard him puking and coughing, but I didn't really think much of it. He got sick, and then he moved out, and two men who knew him only vaguely moved in. They invited me over for beer, and I got to see the place from the inside for the first time. The two of them were a couple and they had decorated the basement by nailing stuffed animals to every bare inch of the wall even though they had no children. It was creepy and I worried that they wanted to murder me down there, so I got out really quickly. Later one of the men decided to become a woman, and there was a lot of terrible fighting, police coming on domestic abuse charges several times, and some really scary drug-fueled middle-of-the-week all-night parties - all happening just below me. I moved out, and on my second to last day in the apartment, George, who had become Georgina, apologized to me for all the noise - it was too little too late.
Just last year, I read in the paper that my quiet downstairs neighbor died of AIDS after years as an advocate of the cause, and that his son had also died, less than a year before him. I was sad to hear it, and impressed to read about the rich interior life of this quiet neighbor who I knew so little about.
I could tell you lots of stories about other neighbors who were far more annoying, or whose sex-lives I had to experience directly, or about the girl who worked at the equine race track and the smell of manure that invaded everything, but this is really the best story I could tell in regard to apartment living. Because when you live in an apartment, the lives of your neighbors is always mysterious, and yet you get the odd little snapshots of other people's lives. It's very interesting.
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Thank you Mel for the wonderful story. As always you provide the best stories. I totally love your outlook. I too have had experiences that I thought were amazing, yet when I relate it to others they either just don't get it or are too cool to care. If I encountered a Diana Ross drag Queen posing on my car I would probably consider it the highlight of the week.
BTW, that must have been a cool car if Diana wanted to sit on it.
~Paul
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Never be too pessimistic - you think the worst, but it could really just be a sequined drag queen.
Words to live by. Thanks, Smells.
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If I encountered a Diana Ross drag Queen posing on my car I would probably consider it the highlight of the week.
And we'd get a picture!
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Did you start a Most Interesting Life Contest with Hemmingway or something? You're like a David Foster Wallace character. Non-standard family, odd yet entertaining shit beyond your control happening all around you, interesting nickname. If only you came with footnotes.
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Oh side_show! That was a fantastic story! :applauds insanely: I would have also loved that happening to me and instantly called everyone I knew to tell them the hilarity. And I don't know who these "friends" are, but they just can't be so crazy as to not appreciate a story like that! It's just to fabulous! FAB I SAY!
I just keep reading parts over and over again...it makes me giggle.
I want to take your "Never be too pessimistic - you think the worst, but it could really just be a sequined drag queen." quote and use it...cash or credit? ;)
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Once again, side_show, your story is a delight. I think I need to get a sticker reading "Never be too pessimistic - you think the worst, but it could really just be a sequined drag queen" and stick it on my mirror to help me through graduate school.
Also...
(I mentioned in another thread, how to my amazement when I was moving in, he carried my fold-out sofa bed couch up my curved staircase by himself. I was amazed that a man so thin was so strong.)
Man, it's always the thin guys, isn't it? When I was moving into my current dorm room, a friend of mine (and recent alumnus) was on campus to visit. This guy was a stereotypical nerd, with the general physique of a praying mantis... and then, without warning beyond "you need help with that?", he whips off his shirt, picks up my half-a-fridge, and gets the thing up the stairs on his own. I spent the entire time going "daamn" and "look, I can get one end of it, it's cool..." These days, I just sort of assume that stringy guys are probably secretly kung-fu masters trained at carrying many times their own body weight, although of course I'll take an end of the furniture if not specifically told not to.
* By which I mean one of those mini/micro-fridges that really isn't "mini" or "micro" anymore, in that you could pretty comfortably fit a Thanksgiving turkey in there and still be able to use the side shelves. It's not, like, a normal fridge comically cut in half or anything.
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Side Show, great story! Your worlds paint a picture like no other, have you considered a nickname change to slide show? I just wish more interesting and story worthy stuff happened to me. My life is so boring. Is it just me or have you been absent for some time? Seeing your avatar made me say "oh, damn it's side show. I haven't heard from her in a while."
Man, it's always the thin guys, isn't it? When I was moving into my current dorm room, a friend of mine (and recent alumnus) was on campus to visit. This guy was a stereotypical nerd, with the general physique of a praying mantis... and then, without warning beyond "you need help with that?", he whips off his shirt, picks up my half-a-fridge, and gets the thing up the stairs on his own. I spent the entire time going "daamn" and "look, I can get one end of it, it's cool..." These days, I just sort of assume that stringy guys are probably secretly kung-fu masters trained at carrying many times their own body weight, although of course I'll take an end of the furniture if not specifically told not to.
V you don't know how right you are. I'm only telling touamb this because there is love in the air so keep it hush hush. I am part of a secret group of especially skinny men called BOS (Beyond Ordinary Strength). I can't give out all the details but you pretty much hit the main point. We're really skinny, we don't come off as macho, most of us know kung-fu (although others train in demolition and weaponry) and we tend not to boast. We're there to help when help is needed most and there is no one else to turn to. You all probably know a member, but because of our secretiveness we don't help unless it's needed. Most of the time other people will step in to show off their might, hense the "tend not to boast" bit. We don't mind, if they want to do it that's cool. Yeah, it's an interesting life, but I'm not supposed to talk about it much, so don't go telling all your friends.
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Side show has been sick. Are you feeling better now Mel?
~Paul
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Gee all, thanks. It's very nice to hear words of kindness in my current state. It's really one of my favorite memories of my coming of age, and actually a pretty pivotal moment in my personal shaping as a human being. I grew to understand that that the begnine is the profound.
sunnystar - take the quote, I'd be honoured. Just remember me when you're handing out tiny sodas.
Cort - when it comes to life experience I started out early: with my family, I had to be an "adult" by the time I was 11, so that's why I've got such a long catalog. My life's not all the interesting, I've just built up the ability to be fascinated by the everyday, and to collect and store these stories in my head, but thank you.
Paul - The car was indeed a sweet ride. This is basically what it looked like. (http://www.nationwidepicturecars.com/vehicle.php?me793174) It was indeed orange, it did not have the spoiler on the hood, and did not have a white stripe. My Comet was named Bethel, and I loved to drive her. She was totaled due to undercarriage rust, but was totally refinished otherwise. My dad used to teach autobody repair, hence why I was in such wonderful shape. Now just imagine it with two man-whores in short-shorts and Diana Ross posing on it's hood. (Also, no I am still quite ill, and spent a good deal of the day yesterday either crying or trying not to cry because I'd been to the doctor and seen a look of fear in his eyes. I'm going in for a total head to toe on Friday morning, and I'm honestly pretty scared at this point, because I know something is wrong, and just don't know what.)
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Side Show your miniature text is worrying! Now you need to keep us (me at least) updated. We care. I hope all goes well for you at the doctor's office and that he finds a quick, simple, painless cure for your sickness.
P.S. Comets are very cool looking cars in my opinion, you are cool for owning one. Even if it wasn't a GT model.
Also, not that it matters, but that opening on the hood is a hood scoop not a spoiler.
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Oh Side_Show! Get yourself better! I do not like your current state of unknown illness, I banish it to the four winds with cheer!
Seriously, get better, I command it.
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because I'd been to the doctor and seen a look of fear in his eyes.
Fuck that. He'd suddenly remembered he'd forgotten his wife's birthday. Or he was trying not to fart. It had nothing to do with you. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
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Best hopes for your wellness, side_show. Take care.
Also, gorgeous car. I can see why Drag Diana Ross wanted to pose with it.
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I'm not sure exactly what you meant by "head to toe" but everybody should remember that self-referalls = bad idea. The doctor is all, "we can do the scan right here in my office so you won't have to make a separate appointment with a radiologist and take more time off work" and it sounds all nice and convenient until you realize that radiologists are separate from regular doctors for a reason.
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side_show, do not fear. I already gave you a tiny can the other day for something you posted that amused me. It was a secret can until now. But another to you for your magnificent story and quote sharing! Hooray to you!
And get better soon!
p/s/ Your car was most pretty. I am jealous. I want one.
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side_show... a wise woman once said: "Never be too pessimistic - you think the worst, but it could really just be a sequined drag queen."
I think these words can help you in your time of worry.
But really, I hope everything comes out alright.
I want to join the BOS. But how do I get to Beyond Ordinary Strength? I am skinny, but I do not have the above-ordinary strength. I am, in fact, BOS (below ordinary strength). Weightlifting? It's such an easy way out, I mean... really. Who lifts weights? Girls?
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Paul - The car was indeed a sweet ride. This is basically what it looked like. (http://www.nationwidepicturecars.com/vehicle.php?me793174) It was indeed orange, it did not have the spoiler on the hood, and did not have a white stripe. My Comet was named Bethel, and I loved to drive her.
Oh man I need to be in Houston at this very minute, because I have pictures that insist on being posted right here, right now.
It didn't register with me when you wrote "Mercury Comet", but after seeing the picture i realized that I spent a goodly portion of my youth in basically the exact same car. My best friend in High School Billy had a '75 Ford Maverick. Oh man the times we had in that old car. Billy and I went everywhere in that car when we were 16. Side Show, you've opened up a floodgate of memories. That car had an 8 track player and we listened to Queen News of the World and Styx Pieces of Eight over and over. Billy and I were so close, but I haven't seen him in probably 20 years. There was also Krista. Krista was my first girl and Billy was Krista's first guy. Of course that shows you where I stood in the pecking order, but I wanted to illustrate how close were back then. But they were both too fast for me. Billy thought himself a ladies man, he carried a comb in his back pocket. I thought he was cool too and he definitely scored on more women than I did. Krista was a total slut, she fucked half of Houston I do believe. She got knocked up by one guy, but was with another guy by the time the world knew she was pregnant and convinced him the baby was his. But that didn't last long of course. Did I mention she was 14? I became like a confidant to her (she lived right next door) and she would tell me about who she was dating. Even though I was constantly trying to fuck her (she often relented) I think she felt I was safe. Maybe 'cos I never got jealous. Or maybe she just liked me because I always had money for drugs. Anyway, whatever. Meanwhile Billy got married to his highschool sweetheart and they had three kids. Eventually Billy got a divorce and ironically after a few years of being the biggest slut on the north side Krista wound up back with Billy and they eventually got married. I used to party at their house from time to time, but I lost contact with them when I stopped taking drugs. I haven't heard anything about them in a very long time. The last time I saw them they had three more kids and they both looked like hell. They were both into heavy drugs (speed, heroin, coke, etc). I was taken aback at how terribly bad Krista looked, she was F.I.N.E. fine when she was young. And Billy looked just as bad. Most of his teeth were missing and those that remained were black and totally gross. The last I heard of them was a few years later when someone told me that Billy got busted at the Mexican border trying to smuggle narcotics into the country. I think it was weed, but I'm not sure. A week later Krista was also busted in the exact same manner. Thus endeth the saga of the Ford Maverick. I'm actually tempted to try and contact both of them right now, but I don't want to see them, especially Krista. It broke my heart to see her looking so bad. I always want to remember that fine little girl I used to know.
~Paul
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...wow, this is a pretty serious thread. I'm really glad I started it, even thought I basically just wanted to complain about my neighbors. A lot of really great stuff has come to light.
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Hi all. I just got in from San Antonio and the first thing I did was run to my photo albums and took a trip down memory lane. I thought I might share a few of these memories with you.
This first picture is, from left to right Krista, Billy, Holly, and Gaylynn (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Krista-Billy-Holly-Gaylynn_circa1978.jpg). I don't know what that is covering half of Billy's face. I tried to get it off, but I was just making it worse. Krista, Holly, and Gaylynn are sisters. I wrote about Gaylynn here (http://touamb.com/index.php/topic,542.msg8652.html#msg8652).
Here's another shot of Krista (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Krista_circa1979.jpg).
This (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Paul_circa1980.jpg) is a good picture of me.
In My Room (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Paul_circa1980_2.jpg).
This picture is Me with Lisa (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Paul-Lisa_circa1981.jpg) the first girl I loved. I helped her out of a bad situation. But unfortunately Puerto Rican girls = fuck*ng insane forevermore in my mind. I lost my letterman jacket to her, and i'm happy that's all I lost.
Here's is a shot of my first band (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Bobby-George-Paul_circa1980.jpg). We only played Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath covers and Johnny B. Goode. That's George turning up a bottle of Ancient Situation. George is an accomplished chef now. He still takes copious amounts of drugs though from what i've heard. Bobby, the guitar player, I haven't heard anything about in years, but If I had to guess I would say he's probably homeless now. The guy had a voracious appetite for drugs and virtually zero tolerance for them. And he's the type that would become 10' tall and bulletproof when he was loaded. He would always try to pick a fight with George only to get severly beat down. EVERYTIME!!! Last I heard from Bobby he was working in a shoe store at the mall, just like his Dad.
And lastly My Sister Annette (http://www.paulmcrae.com/images/Miscellany/Misc/75_MAVERICK/Hi_Annette_circa1981.jpg). Good luck convincing your kids you never took drugs. Yeah, good luck with that.
Sadly, I couldn't locate a picture of the 75 Maverick.
~Paul
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Wow, Paul, this is an awesome photo montage.
First off, it's really wonderful to see the progression of your 'stache - it's like a fine wine really, it's gotten better with age.
The pictures all have a really bittersweet quality to them, especially with the story you told. All of you look like serious bad-asses - like the kind of kids I would have been equal parts mystified and terrified by.
The photos remind me of equal parts Found Magazine and www.thesmokinggun.com (http://www.thesmokinggun.com) photo montage - it's art.
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Paul, magnificent. I love photos. That was fantastic! :applaudes you!:
Also, I agree with side show...I like the mustache progression. You've just kinda always had it and that's neat.
Also, I like your band picture. You remind me of someone, but I can't remember who...
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Definitely liked the photo collection.
In other news: The 70s Attack!