Road Flare + Rock Salt or Whatever = Chlorine Gas

It has come to my attention that my dear parents read this very blog. I know this because my dad is enamored with it. This I do not mind one bit, but it certainly strikes me as a turn of events I did not anticipate. So with that I’m posting for maybe the third time this little gem of a story. I like this one a lot. If someone asks me tell them a funny story I may very well lead with this. I figure I can post this without much fear because it isn’t like he can fire me or even ground me anymore and he might just appreciate the stupidity of his son. It also wouldn’t shock me if he already knew about this and has just never brought it up. Anyway, onwards!


Picture a warehouse with long orderly rows of shelves. On these shelves are pallets. The shelves reach skywards of up to 24 feet. It was my job, to go up and down these rows hour after hour, night after night; pulling product located on the pallets and send it to the stores. This process is called picking. Picking is boring work. By the second hour of a 10 hour shift you already have a good idea of where you’re going to be making stops in each of the aisles; the only thing that really changes is quantity.

There is a brief respite from the normal picking and that is if it is your turn to pick motor oil and the flame room. The “flame room” being short for flammable room. In this aptly named room is stored those little green propane tanks for Coleman and other portable stoves, spray paint, road flares, mace, anything, um, flammable. The flame room is a pretty brilliant little place because it is separated from the warehouse by a giant bay door and once inside, if one were so inclined, they can goof off out of the prying eye co-workers, or bosses, who, the boss of this shift, just also happened to be my dad.

Now the thing to really understand is that picking the oil and flame room is quick work. Anyone should be done by first break which would be great if they were allowed to go home, but neither I, nor anyone else was. Instead, as a reward for my fast and speedy work, I got stuck helping someone else in what was usually the absolute worst area to pick. This means that I usually did some minor dicking-off in the flame room so that at the very least I could get to first break before switching what I was picking.

This night, did I mention this is all during the graveyard shift? No? Well it was. I think people lose their minds a bit working graveyard. Anyway, this night I went for the gold in the All-Around Dicking-Off event. Towards the beginning of my shift I was in the flame room when what do I come in contact with? Some mace. Now being the non-violent, as in I’ll most likely never get maced, curious individual guy that I am I got to thinking, “how bad could this really hurt? Well can’t hurt to try” into the air I sprayed the mace and proceeded to walk into the aerosolized rape deterrent that hung at face level. Well it didn’t feel great, but not bad. Not bad? What the heck? Shouldn’t this really hurt? Well OK, round two, but this time with more! Well round two taught me a valuable lesson. Mace hurts, don’t get maced.

After recovering from the mace I left the flame room only to return 20 minutes later on what would be the final stop in the flame room for the night. It being the last stop meant that I had a little time to goof off before break. I’m not sure what possessed me to walk towards, and then ultimately pick up, the emergency roadside flare, but soon enough it was in my hand and I was turning it over reading the instructions. Seems simple enough, strike end on cap, put on road. OK, sure, but how hard is this striking? Well off the cap goes and I commence to with some tentative strikes of the end of the flare against the cap. Hmm, that’s not hard enough, what about a little harder? No? OK well what if a little old lady is in need of this flare, could she actually do this? Harder? Still nothing? And then, to my great surprise, really, yes, I was surprised, the flare lit.

Here I am in the flame room surrounded by flammable things, the boss’s kid, with a lit flare in my hand. Is there any good explanation for this should someone see me? Well I did what comes naturally, I ran. I ran in circles, I ran in lines, I ran in hopes that the movement of the air would somehow extinguish the flames like a person blowing on a birthday cake. This of course is flawed thinking. What about cutting off the oxygen supply, suffocation? I stepped on the flare. The only thing that accomplished was increasing the smell as the sole of my shoe began to melt. OK, OK, just think, there’s got to be something here. Yes, I see it a giant drum full of, what is that, rock salt? Whatever, I’m sure I can use that to extinguish the flame! In I plunge the flare and the flare, predictably, does not go out. Instead, The Flare + Rock Salt, or Whatever = Green Smoke, or in my severely freaked out little mind, chlorine gas. To be perfectly accurate the thought that ran trough my head at the time was “OH SHIT CHOLRINE GAS, I’M GONNA DIE!” All of this ate up about 6 minutes of time which I can assure you felt like a fucking eternity in my situation. Defeated I stood still, flare in hand, waiting for the thing to extinguish. In about two more minutes it did and I hastily left the flame room.

Thinking I’d made a clean escape I hear my name called and turn around to see a female co-worker, in her 50’s, not terribly bright but pleasant all the same, descending down the stairs from her work area which is actually on the roof of the flame room. She asks me if I smell anything burning. I look at her and with a straight face tell her I smell nothing out of the ordinary when simply nothing could be further from the truth. Her back is to the opening of the flame room and as she’s asking me about a burning smell there is smoke literally poring from the giant bay door. It is unmistakable and incredibly obvious that something was amiss. She looked at me and simply said “well, OK, but if you do smell something could you let me know?” I told her naturally I could do that and made haste to break.

Purgatory Dance Party

I Miss My Bike

I dislike the snow. When I say that people call me a crotchety old man. Well no, I mean, I don’t think my advanced mental age has anything to do with my dislike of snow. I dislike the snow because it disrupts, well, everything. And now that I’m not in school snow days don’t exist. I still have to go to work only it’s a pain to get to the place I’m forced to go only because I need money to pay for things I like such as rent, food, and toilet paper. But it extends beyond that here’s why I dislike the snow.

I will first concede that watching snow fall and how it settles over everything is sort of nice. That pristine snow blanket that covers the backyard or patio area, cars, the road before cars brave them, all of that is nice. What is not nice is when the snow gets driven on, sanded, graveled, and then turns a brownish grey. This I detest. It is not clean; it reminds me that the world around me is filthy. I don’t care for that reminder. After about 2 hours of beauty we are then subjected to days if not weeks of gross looking snow everywhere. That isn’t a fair trade at all.

Speaking of gravel I hate this stuff. Yeah, great, it helps cars gain traction but when the snow melts where does it all eventually get pushed to? My bike lanes. What was laid down to help cars safely drive in slippery conditions is now responsible for making my commutes more treacherous. What’s worse I can anticipate the gravel being in my bike lanes until April or later. Trust me on this, it sticks around forever.

The snow also means I can’t ride my bike. This will always upset me as I need that bike. In the coming week I’ll start to get really down on myself and my life. I’ll be stuck walking to work or taking the MAX and I’ll hate it. When I’m hating that I’ll think about other things I hate until I work myself up into some weird little funk. This funk will go away the moment I get on my bike but not a moment before that. I have no doubt that my mood being so tied into my bike is probably not a great thing, but then I can almost always ride my bike unless the roads are covered with ice. And I’ve been debating the bike riding vs. the not bike riding since Sunday at 9 in the morning. Riding my bike with its skinny little tires I know is a mistake. The two times I’ve tried to ride in the snow I’ve fall down. One of those times left me with a scar and I was almost hit by a bus. Snow and ice have bested me and I have accepted this. The other part of me thinks that riding might be okay if I just go slow and take my time. But then that type of riding doesn’t appeal to me. I like to fly. I dislike having to go at partial speed because I’m unsure if I can stop or make turns. If that’s the case I’ll use other means of transportation. But darn it I want to ride my bike so bad and not be bested by anything. I’d like nothing to stand in my way from doing what I want to do. I will now return this debate to its internal location from whence it came.

The snow makes us all act like idiots. Those that shouldn’t drive but think the can do and wreck their cars or just leave them stranded on the freeways. I’m always confused by those people. They just leave the cars after throwing their hands up and yelling “this course is impossible!” Do they then ask someone they know to pick them up at the next exit? Does that person then get stuck so then they call another friend or family member as they both wait to be saved? Is this some endless cycle that finally ends with some curmudgeon of a friend says “what, you’re all stranded? No I’m not going to come bail your asses out, you’re all a bunch of idiots, why would I reward this type of behavior?” It, the snow, makes people into panicked stricken morons, “I need chains!” “Someone please install these chains!” “What do you mean I need to know my tire size, chains are different?!?!” I know this and other tire related inquires and exclamations because I’m about to take a serious digression into a trip I had to make to Les Schwab.

It was bad enough I had to be at work today after treating Sunday night like a Friday night and staying out too late. I then got a call from my boss saying that one of our VP’s would like chains for his car. This was at 10:30. Upstairs I go to talk to the receptionist to find out where his car is. Naturally the car isn’t at work so I don’t know his tire size. I mull this over and decide to call our tire vendor to see if they can tell me the tire size. This was a brilliant course of action. With my tire size in hand I call the local Les Schwab. The line was busy. I tried again the line was busy. I tried about 5 more times and got the phone to ring. The phone then rang long enough that I began to wonder how many times a phone rings in a minute. Based on my findings your typical phone rings once every 6 seconds, or 10 times a minute. I heard probably 150 phone rings before someone finally picked up. Success they had the tire chains.

At 11:00 I was back in the elements wearing my many layers

The walk to Les Schwab isn’t an awful walk. I cross through the Pearl. I believe I’m one of the few people that actually likes the Pearl District. I like it because it is clean, no one asks me for change, and they have some shops that are cool and also some shops that give me pause and wonder why it exists. I then cross over the freeway into the Alphabet District which is not without its charms. For instance, on this day as I was working my way towards Les Schwab a man in only a sports coat, shirt, and pair of shorts crossed in front of me. The temperature outside was hovering around the mid 20’s at the time so the choice shorts seemed dubious. I was unable to tell if the man was homeless, or insane, or just one of those stalwart I-wear-shorts-year-round-and-fuck-the-weather-and-those-who-judge type of guys, or if this was merely all he had to wear today. I really hope he had something, anything, to change into because when I did my double take to look at the man, his path perpendicular to mine, and his backside now the side I could see, it was pretty clear he’d shit his pants. The brown stain was still a little moist looking and was of a light brown that made me think it was a ‘wet’ shit. By this time the man was clear across the street and on his way.

I finally arrived at Les Schwab and the line inside was large. I made a quick move to use the restroom and then stepped back into the waiting area and realized that the line was even longer than I thought. I got at the back and waited. Les Schwab is the kind of place that makes me dislike other people. For some reason a lot of people think their needs are more important or pressing then those around them so they throw a little fit to get their way. I’ve watched time and time again. I’ve waited in this Les Schwab for more hours than I can count and invariably there are assholes who think that they should get treated like the good people they think they are. Only I’d counter that by acting like an asshat and demanding service you’re not a good person. I’d get into an even longer description of this European asshole that was so worried he wouldn’t get what he wanted that he cut to the front of the line multiple times, slowed everything down as a result, and then got the chains that he wanted after only confusing everyone behind the counter. The mere fact that this behavior was rewarded with him essentially cutting in front of me and about 6 other people was nearly enough for me to yell “hey asshole, wait your fucking turn you fucktard, also your pants, jacket, and shoes suck.” No, I bit my tongue and watched him leave. I take solace in the fact that it was pretty evident that he didn’t know this tire size and seized a pair of chains that he thought might work. Here’s hoping he spent 75 bucks on chains that don’t work.

Cute girls receive way, way, way more help with tire chains than guys do.

I returned to work with the tire chains. I thought my time with Les Schwab was done but then we had the chains for the Tower Van break and I was back trekking there for the third time in as many work days. I really don’t want to go back until, at the earliest, March.

That and a few other reasons is why I dislike the snow. I live in Portland because the weather is temperate and I shouldn’t have to deal with this crap. It was pointed out to me that I live in Portland because I was born here and I’m not prone to moving. That person is probably right. If I were born in Michigan I’d still be there probably about 50 pounds heavier and a fan of football. If anything I really dodged a bullet there.

Cocking a snook.

New Mission!

I was going to post a long blog with my feelings about the snow and how much I hate it. Have no fear that post will see the light of day but the day is waning and I’m not about to stick around for another hour while I finish it up. Instead I offer up a new mission.

Mission: No more extraneous spending.
Without a lot of detail I, like most of my peers, live paycheck to paycheck. I hate this. I miss having a savings to speak of. I haven’t had one for some time and that makes me nervous pretty much all of the time. So with that said I’m suspending any unnecessary spending. I have a dollar amount I’d like in my savings this time next year. I will not reveal that number but if I achieve my goal I’ll be a happy camper. Yes, that may be boring, but again by posting here I’m now accountable to all of my 5 readers which I’ve found that if I’m held accountable for something I’m far more likely to see it through than if I’m not.


SPB: Shit and puke bad

Up and Atom!

Now that my yearly time off is over and I’m back at work it is time to reflect on my missions and update you my dear readers.

Mission: Complete Fallout 3
Check. I wrapped this up on Sunday at 4:28 p.m. While I don’t have the numbers directly in front of me I believe the total play time was either a shade over or under 70 hours. There were moments when I played this game that I actually fell asleep with controller in hand. When I did this I’d just turn the game off and slept on the couch for 4 hours before waking up, turning the game back on, and resuming my play. I did this two or three times. This is pretty much the highest compliment I can pay a game. One so engrossing I cannot conceive of a moment where I don’t want to play it. The game is not perfect. The ending, sigh, the ending is just so lack luster. The ending sequence is really underwhelming and it took me all of 30 minutes to complete and it didn’t even have a hint of hardness to it. The biggest problem is that the game is open ended so that I spent the better part of 50 hours doing anything but trying to save (or ruin) humanity. By the time I decided to just beat the game I had lost track of the plot and didn’t really care. Another problem is that the game does a very poor job of really explaining just how the government works in this game. When it, the government, finally does get involved it feels pretty tacked on and worthless. In all though I’m not going to get too disappointed in a game I clearly enjoyed so much I was willing to play it for 70 hours.

Mission: Read and finish 3 books, possible more.
Failed. Two things I had not anticipated on made this goal rough. The first being I was totally unprepared for Fallout 3 to take so much of my time. I really didn’t see that coming, I was anticipating 45-50 hours not 70. Second, I forgot how little I sleep on the weekends. Time off is one giant weekend to me so didn’t really sleep more than 5 hours a night. I popped out of bed, or off the couch, or out of the recliner no later than 9:30 everyday regardless of when I finally went to sleep. How this impacts the reading goal is quite simple. On most days I was pretty tired and could only manage to play Fallout 3 and stay awake. Within 30 minutes of reading I was quickly putting the book down and sleeping. I’d then wake up energized and craving some Fallout 3. It was a vicious cycle that did not lend itself to finishing books.

Mission: Stay at my “playing weight” of 140.5 pounds.
Failed, but within reason. The most recent weigh in on Saturday morning had me at 142.5. That came after a night of swilling beer and two weeks of inactivity. I also just happened to do a body composition test today. My body age is 22 in contrast of my actual age which is almost 27. In all, I’m sure in two weeks I’ll be back down to 140.5.

Mission: No heat.
Failed, blissfully. When I was a junior in college I lived in near squalor. The place I was renting had no central heating but rather two modest space heaters that really did nothing to warm the place. I had to keep one in the bathroom on a timer so that when I showered in the morning I didn’t freeze when exiting the shower. The other one I wheeled around to wherever I was sitting. Even with the heater I still found myself wearing two pairs of pants, a long sleeve shirt, a hoodie, two pairs of socks (one wool), and a blanket wrapped around me and I was still cold. At night I slept in all my clothes and under three blankets and still shivered. I told myself I’d never allow myself to be that cold again. Flash forward to day one of my time off as I sat on my couch in full long underwear, pants, long sleeve shirt, hoodie with the hood up, two pairs of socks, and I was still feeling cold. Luke came home and seeing me like this on day two under a blanket and he said “you know you can turn the heat on.” And I agreed instantly. The heat came out and all of a sudden I was happy and playful and looked forward to saying up all night rather than going to bed at 2 in the morning because I couldn’t deal with the cold anymore. Yeah, I’m a wimp, but I at least I was a comfy wimp.

Mission: Complete LittleBigPlanet, and get hooked into Valkyria Chronicles.
Failed. Maybe you haven’t picked up on how monopolizing of my time Fallout 3 was.

Mission: Clean garage, make much needed trip to Goodwill, do some pretty easy yet important bike maintenance.
Check.

Mission: Rip all my CD’s and make new Mp3’s.
Failed. It’s boring tedious work. I did get all the way to Dr. Octagon. So like less than third of my CD’s.

Mission: Take a shower at least every other day.
Check, surprisingly. It helped that even with the heat on I was still a little cold and taking a shower would warm me for about an hour. I also just felt like my day was a day if I showered. I only missed one day without a shower. I was pretty amazed by this.

And while I’m here yammering on about my time off missions I might as well update you all on two of my other missions posted back 11.13.08.

Mission: Don’t drink for 30 days.
Checkish. By my math I had a drink on day 29 and 23 hours. So what happened? A cute girl told me to get a drink. I’d do pretty much anything a cute girl tells me to do so long as it’s within reason. I did learn two key things from this mission. One, any fear I had that I had a drinking problem is now gone. Had I had a problem I would have actually found it difficult to not drink for 30 days. Instead I found it easy; it was like being in college when I abstained. I just wasn’t interested. There were no moments where I thought I wish I were drinking, or this would be better if I had a drink in my hand. That was a bit of a relief really. Two, it isn’t that Drunk Mark is a slob that doesn’t like to brush his teeth it’s that Tired Mark is the slob that forgoes the teeth brushing. I’ve found that after 2 in the morning if I’m tired and I just want to go to bed making that pit stop in the bathroom is just like trying to climbe biggest mountain. I did however like not drinking, it was cheaper, it saved me some empty carbs, and I didn’t over eat. If anything I’ll be drinking less from now on.

Mission: Finish Gravity’s Rainbow before January 1st.
Check. Wow, this book is incredible and well worth the near year it took me to finish. I didn’t understand everything I read, I didn’t follow the whole plot, and I certainly would need to read it at least two more times before I could feel like I ‘got’ the book, but I’ll certainly never forget it.


Rock, Robot Rock

"Dimebag" Darrell Abbot May He Rest In Peace

I’ve returned to work which means this spot will up updated much more frequently then what is was during my time off. I’ll be posting a blog tomorrow updating everyone on my time off missions and the other various missions I posted here last month. Today though sadly marks the four year anniversary of the murder of “Dimebag” Darrell Abbot during a concert in Columbus Ohio. He was shot to death while on stage by a clearly deranged individual. Dime, his brother Vinnie Paul, Rex Brown, and the Godly Phil Anselmo brought forth some of the greatest music ever recorded.

Pantera is without a doubt one of the best bands that ever existed and one of the main reasons this is so is because Dimebag was one of the best guitarist to ever wield the instrument. Listen to a Pantera track, any off them, his ability to both make a deep chunky riff that rattles the teeth and then switch to a high pitched flowing solo is something only to him. He’s fluid, it sounds like liquid metal when listening to him play music. The best basketball analogy I can give you is he’s like Scottie Pippen. He is fluid and graceful, but can chunk out some of the grittiest riffage known to man.

I just wanted to make note that on this day four years ago we lost a legend and that today is as good as any other to blast some Pantera.

I miss you Dime

Metallica Gig Report: Wherein Mark Fights Over A Beach Ball.

Road tripping with Theo is fun. A quick trip up to Seattle usually proves to be a good time. Making the trip in anticipation of seeing the greatest band ever is cause for celebration. We headed northward to see Metallica, and between the fun had on the road, and the concert itself I think both of us can agree it worth the 12 total hours we committed to the event.

Theo likes to drive fast. I like to ride fast. When a car blocks us from driving at the pace we like Theo get’s antsy and I get angry. In this case after we had passed the car that was the root of our slowing I had just finished eating a banana the peel was still grasped in my hand. What to do with such a thing? Well, what would Mario do (WWMD)? Mario would throw that peel behind him in an attempt to make Wario spin out wouldn’t he? Yes he would. Down the window goes and as I throw the banana peel high into the air the wind takes a hold of it lofting it behind us. Sadly we can neither confirm nor deny if the banana peel hit the target.

I’d also like to note here that Theo may say he ate bento but when he burps it will most certainly smell like he’s consumed multiple Slim Jims. I’d say roughly 9 based on the stink level.

There was a moment when we hit some bad traffic that panic arose within. I had to pee. My mind can tell my bladder “hey man, it’s cool, don’t freak out, the car is moving you’ll be out of this car and peeing in like 45 minutes you can hold it.” However, my mind cannot tell my bladder that in good faith if the car is not moving which it was not. It was totally feasible that if I exited the car and peed on the median I’d have plenty of time to catch up with the car based on the current flow of traffic. Still though, it was a dubious plan at best. Bladder shyness was a serious problem as a youth. It is certainly less so now, but the thought of getting a good flow going in front of a traffic jam seemed like a pretty tall order. But also, what harm is there in trying? I picked my spot, an under pass, and exited the car. Have you done this? Excited your car on I-5 during a traffic jam? It’s intimidating. I moseyed up to the median unbuttoned by fly and proceeded to try and pee. It was loud and cars were creeping around behind my back. This pretty much made my testacies ascend inside my body and I knew I had been bested. I caught back up with Theo’s car but only after oddly enough pantomiming like I had just peed and my mission was accomplished. I don’t even want to go into the psychology of trying to pretend like I peed for a bunch of strangers that may or may not have even noticed I had exited the car. The take home message here is I’m not ready for road side peeing on I-5 in a traffic jam.

Theo and I could potentially be a pretty potent Linkin Park karaoke duo.

I will say that Lamb of God sucks. Please do not buy their albums. They have the exact same drum beat to every single song, what’s worse, I can do probably do that very beat. I shouldn’t be able to claim that of a band that opens for Metallica and yet I can. I can air drum it which is, as you know, the exact same as actually being able to drum it physically.

I like t-shirt spotting at metal shows. I always see some good ones. This show did not disappoint. In fact this show had a shirt that sporting what may very be my new motto in life. Bear with me here. The shirt read in large white letters on a black “My balls your chin.” OK first we need a comma after balls and before your, and for politeness sakes perhaps a question mark at the end of the whole thing might be nice. Ideally the shirt would read “My balls, your chin?” This is puerile and that is why I like it. As for it being my motto. Well in that case the motto would be “my balls, your chin.” What that would convey would be I get what I want in life by demanding or earning it. It is also entirely possible I thought about this shirt far too much.

another shirt of note read “your retarded.” Which, come on, isn’t that like casting stones in a glass house if can’t even get the right “you’re” on the shirt?

There were two large dudes sitting to the right of us across the aisle. They were so large that one could not fit in his seat and opted to sit between the seats on the arm rest. This obviously made it pretty hard for his buddy who was huge in his own right to sit in the remaining one half of his seat. They did the most sensible thing which was to stand half way in the aisle. When security came down to ask them to sit the real hard ass looking dude made the security guard feel about an inch tall and was pretty much allowed to do as he pleased from then on out. We were pretty close to the barrier that separated the seats from the floor area. The barrier was guarded by security. In the case of our area it was a skinny kid. I looked at him for awhile as he sized up the big hard ass looking dude. His eyes very clearly said “man I hope this guy doesn’t try to get on the floor here I’m pretty sure there isn’t a lot I can do about that.”

The show itself was stellar as always. Yes they are old, but they can still play.

During one the breaks between songs the lights were up a bit and Mr. Kirk Hammett was on our side of the stage looking at the crowd. Theo made a movement and caught Kirk’s attention. It was clear for a split second we was looking right at us. What to do? Well naturally I gave really goofy wave because goofy waves are fairly metal. Then something astonishing happened, he returned the wave in a similarly goofy fashion. That’s right, me and Kirk, Kirk and I, we’re goofy waving buddies. If you like I can show the wave and you can bask in the knowledge that that very style of wave was returned by Kirk. I get to call him Kirk now that we’re goofy waving buddies.

I got hungry mid set right when The Day That Never Comes started. Luckily I planned for this turned to my jacket which stored a cut carrot. As I ate the carrot I made the mistake of inhaling right as a swallowed. This happens in about one in every twenty carrots I eat. I’m not sure how it happens but the result is wholly unpleasant. Little carrot bits make their way into my sinus rather than down my esophagus. I know this because I can feel them in there and a few times to combat the problem I’ve blown my nose and sure enough carrot bits came out. Well in this case I lacked a tissue so I had to go for the slightly messier procedure which involves coughing and hocking up some spit to try and clear out my sinuses. The reason this is problematic is that often when I cough or hork some snot the carrot bits escape from my mouth with little regard for their surroundings. I’m pretty sure the people in front of me have some carrot bits courteous of me in their hair. Then a little later I bit my tongue hard enough it still hurts as I type this. I guess I shouldn’t try and eat carrots at a Metallica concert, who knew?

With the show coming to a close I asked Theo to switch spots so I could be in the aisle. Having been to the Portland show a month earlier I knew that during Seek and Destroy black beach balls with “Metallica” printed on them would drop from the ceiling. I wanted one of these unspeakably bad. I was just out of range at the Portland show but in Seattle I was confident I could get one with just the right bounce. I was right as it turned out. I got my hands on a giant one but as I was collecting it some real asshat charged me and grabbed the ball in two hands to my one. I tightened my grip and it was, as they say, on. He pushed me, he pulled me, he pushed me some more. My grip much to my surprise held firm. He got mad, I got determined. He then shoved me into Theo, and then into the people in front of me. I still had this incredible iron grip that would not break. Then another guy got in on the action. The two them both pulled against me and yet my one hand still didn’t even weaken. I was kind of amazed at this point and also thinking to myself that it was absolutely absurd to be in a crazy fight over a cheap beach ball. At this point the tugging hit a frenzy and they two of them actually dove down the stairs on top of each other. It was here that I finally had my grip break. It took two grown men falling down and out of my reach for my grip to break. Security was soon on the scene. The dick who started the whole thing ran off with the ball with a giant gaping hole in the side which I’m assuming was where my hand had been. The other guy, bless him, jumped over the barrier and was caught by like 6 guards. Ah, but not all is lost. Lars kicked one of these sought after balls directly into Theo’s arms. Theo then, the graciously gent that he is, turned it over to me.

The ride home was rainy, and boring save for one wicked accident. A Franz truck somehow lost one of its trailers. The trailer was tipped over and bread had spilled clear across the grass median and into our lane with Theo promptly hitting a loaf of bread.

In all it was excellent time. My knees are bruised from the beach ball scuffle, Theo got a 44 dollar parking ticket, but really what’s a bruised knee and 44 dollars to King County for opportunity to see Metallica and fight over a black beach ball?


I want you in my tangerine dreams.