Terrible Analogies

While watching an episode of Burn Notice on blu-ray last night a random, obtuse thought popped into my head, and before I could get the brain / mouth filter into gear I spouted the word “Sardines!”

“What was that?” Karin asked with a puzzled look in her eyes.

“Sardines. I’ve never tried sardines.” I couldn’t tell you why that particular thought had suddenly come to mind. Perhaps a long dormant, forgotten brain cell decided to spontaneously fire, projecting the thought of tinned fish into my frontal lobe. Or perhaps there’s a bit of subliminal advertising going on in the episodes of Burn Notice, with the good folks at Fox Television receiving a kickback from the sardine industry with each and every can of sardines sold.

Regardless of the origin, the idea had taken root, and I was bound and determined to try a can of sardines.  From that night forward, I would not feel complete as a human being until I had accomplished this task which was set out before me.

Thus, the great Monday Morning Sardine hunt began.  I jumped into the S2000 and jammed over to my local grocery store, where I found the object of my quest:

Running through the self checkout line, laughing maniacally and crazy-eyed, I swiped my check card and inputed my PIN number like only a man on a quixotic journey such as mine could.  Gripping my newly acquired tin of sardines, my knuckles turning white from my kung-fu grip, my butt hugging close to the ground as I rushed towards the sliding glass doors in hunched, lurching, crab-like motions.  Exiting the store I dove head first into my car (which I left running in the red zone by the front door), gunned the engine, and in a cloud of thick, acrid tire smoke made haste for home base.

Karin, confused by my singularly obsessive desire for canned fish, and having recused herself in the upstairs office to avoid any confrontations, heard me burst though the garage door and shrieked, “I think you need to calm down!!”…or something to that effect.  I couldn’t quite hear her, but that didn’t matter now, for my quest’s journey was about to bear fishy, fishy fruit.

Ahhhh, there it be, laddies.  Canned gold!  

Oddly enough, sardines taste an awful lot like tuna, only a bit more mellow.  The head and tails had been removed, but on my second fish I noticed that the spine was still in place. Oh, lucky day!:

The bones of these fish are so tender you don’t even notice them as you eat.  Very interesting.

And so, satiated for the moment, I made a mental note to pick up a few more cans during our next shopping excursion.  I can’t help shake the feeling that these would taste fantastic in a sandwich…

It’s amazing how poorly Californians react to bad weather.  If we get more than an eighth of an inch of rain we firmly believe the world is about to end; that we stand upon the precipice of painful inconvenience and total annihilation.  We’re unsure which direction in which to fall, often opting for the worse of the two as we blindly thrash and gnaw in the unfamiliar confines of our temporary misfortune.  

Take me for instance.  I awoke this morning at 5am for the sole purpose of getting into work at 6am just so I could leave early to avoid the afternoon traffic and predicted early evening squalls that would surely portend our certain doom.

Man, we’re a weak, reactionary lot, we Californians.

And as I write this, the end times have yet to befall our tiny corner of reality.  The rains have not carried us away to our ultimate reward.  Though a severe bout of fat rain and a bit of hail have managed to visit us, we’ve yet to see the thunderous hell storm that the news has been projecting and carefully nurturing in our tiny little brains these past few days.  I can’t tell you how used I feel.  Like a one night stand forced to endure the walk of shame down the dark, narrow hallway of some anonymous fraternity, mocked and scorned for fervently believing every sultry, filthy lie I had been told, my skin crawled with humility and remorse for unquestioningly swallowing their lies.

I don’t think I’d fare well in a state that had actual seasons.  Snow would definitely send me over the edge…

Karin bought me a bunch of bananas because they had this sticker adhered to their skins:

Ya know, it’s the fact that Karin thought I’d enjoy them because of the monkey sticker that made me smile.  She knows me too well.  It’s these simple things that make me realize I have the greatest wife in the world…

I’ve recently had the auspicious honor of being textually attacked by a spammer who was more than eager to hook me up with “VIP access to some of the hottest clubs in San Diego”. Apparently, this dubious company provides a service that caters to the partying, oversexed frat boy populace that revels in binge drinking, popped collars, faux hawks, trucker hats, and girls named “Bunnie”. I’m unsure how they got hold of my cell phone number, but for several weeks I was the proud recipient six daily text spams, each one encouraging me to contact them for “the hookup”…whatever that is.

Repeated attempts to get them to stop spamming me and to take me off their list went unanswered.  I hate feeling like a victim, so I took the only other action I could.  I contacted the FCC.

You see, in California we can “opt out” of telemarketing phone calls (which I always do).  Upon careful investigation, it appears that cell phone text messages fall into this category.  Unless one has a previous business relationship with a company, that company can not cold call you fishing for business.  Curious to see if I could get any traction with the FCC on this matter, I downloaded and filled out their 1088G Call or Message to Wireless Device Complaint form and mailed it off.

Two weeks later I received an envelope in the mail with this letter enclosed (click to enlarge):

Coincidentally, one week after getting this letter the spam miraculously ceased to darken my cell phone.  Hot damn.  I rarely get to see my tax dollars hard at work, much less accomplishing something worthwhile.   Color me impressed.

Of course this probably means I’ll never get to party with Biff and Candy in the Champagne Room, but given enough time and counseling I think I’ll be able to cope with such a loss…

The parents-in-law, who reside in Wisconsin, bought us a brand new Craftsman tool chest last week, sending us a note that we can pick it up at our local Sears.  Taken aback by this unexpected gift (for which I really can’t thank you enough), I took a few minutes to look up the dimensions of this massive hunk of hardware and, after running the numbers, convinced myself that it would fit in Karin’s car.

This past weekend we drove down to Sears, made our way to the ‘Pick-Up’ warehouse, and turned in our claim ticket.  A few minutes later two guys emerged pushing dollies with our new storage solution.  The smaller top box easily fit into our truck, but the larger bottom piece wouldn’t quite fit into the back seat even after removing it from the box.  We were stumped, unsure what our next move was going to be.  Then, quite unexpectedly,  I heard a voice behind me say, “How far away do you live?”

Turning around I saw a man in his 60′s standing in the bed of his Ford F-150, with what I assumed was his grandson standing alongside him.  ”We’re about ten minutes away,” I said.  ”Well, load it on up here.  I’ll be more than happy to follow you home,” he replied with a smile.  After a couple of minutes of chat to size the guy up to see where his intentions lied, we decided to take him up on his offer.  Sure enough, he followed us home, then shook our hands and refused any sort of payment.  We even tried to get his address to send him a Christmas card, but he said that wasn’t necessary.  ”Well then, I’ll pay it forward,” I told him.  With that and a final wave he drove away.

With this one unselfish act my faith in humanity has been restored.  Thanks to the kindness of one individual, I’ve been reassured that not everybody out there is in it strictly for themselves.  Thank you, kind stranger.