Terrible Analogies

I got home from work surprisingly early yesterday.  So early in fact that I thought that I’d swing by the local gym to squeeze in a quick workout.  Bad idea.

Seems that everyone tries to fit in a quick gym session after work.  There wasn’t a parking spot in sight.  Cars were slowly trawling the lot looking for a free parking stall.  People were even parking in the lower lot reserved for a Walgreens, a pet supply store, and a funky business that sells what looks like artificial limbs and custom auto parts.  I wish I could tell you more about this particular store, but their “closed” sign is always up and the lights are always off.  If I didn’t know any better I’d think that this particular establishment was a front for some other nefarious, underhanded business we’re not meant to know about, and nor should we ask.

I wonder if gyms have a limit to the amount of memberships they’re allowed to sell, or do they continue to sell memberships even though it’s painfully evident that they simply can not accommodate everyone?

Perhaps I’m just bitter that Lost has run its course and I’m just looking for any outlet to use as an excuse to whine and moan?  Could I be in mourning for my favorite show?  Just…just ignore me for today until I get my head straight.

While driving home today a man on the freeway with a neatly coiffed grey beard and white-collar Modena shirt and tie cut across two lanes of traffic directly in front of me, sped up to catch up to somebody in the slow lane, and flipped him the bird.  Mr. Angry Professional guy then slammed on the brakes of his beige Lexus and came to a full stop on the freeway.  As I passed this genetic defect I saw him flipping off the people who were now skidding to a stop behind him.

I’m unsure what was up with this guy.  Was he taking out his pent-up office aggression on anybody unfortunate enough to be within his direct vicinity?  Did he have a bad boardroom meeting?  Did somebody steal his reserved parking spot?  Was his pb&j pilfered from the break room refrigerator?  Whatever the case I decided that, because I had the baby in my car, I was going to just steer clear of this enraged individual.

And that’s how my work day ended, nearly getting into a high speed car accident with an infuriated Kenny Rogers.

Moron.

I’ve often heard that most people who bought a home in a residential area that comes attached with a required Home Owners Association do not like their HOA.  When I’m asked how I feel about HOAs, I often reply that I see them as a necessary evil.  HOAs prevent Joe Dirtbag from leaving non-working cars in his driveway, they keep the noise level down to an acceptable level, and generally hire a landscaping service to keep the outside area clean and well tended.

And then there’s my HOA, which only seems to want to take my money and not provide the services they promise.  If you’ve read this blog long enough you’re familiar with my neighbor who’s the head of the HOA, but is the worst offender of the rules.

Prime example:  A shared fence has been broken for over a month.  This past weekend the hole in the fence mysteriously became a bit wider.  Apparently I’m the only one stuck up enough to want to see this corrected.  Call me vain for wanting to live in a clean neighborhood, but this is an ugly sight to anybody’s standards.

And so, it’s off to the main HOA office tomorrow with this photograph to ask why our Glorious Leader hasn’t brought this to anybody’s attention.  I hate to think that I’m being a prick or anything, but this is an eyesore that makes the neighborhood look like a dump.

I not overreacting, am I?  I mean, if your backyard fence had this gaping hole in it, you’d fix it…right?

I drove over to the local mall during lunch today, and as soon as I hit the parking lot I knew I had made a terrible mistake. As expected the traffic in the parking lot was bad, but that anticipated nightmare was compounded by the ingeniously positioned four-way stop near the entrance that, for whatever reason, people simply can not handle. When encountering such an obstacle it seems as if most people lose their minds and find it impossible to properly negotiate their way through.

Once past the intersection I had to find a parking spot. Thinking I’d be smart, I headed to the usually deserted upper deck of the parking structure, but was disheartened to discover that I wasn’t the only one taking this tact. It was so crowded that even the handi-capable people were parking up here and slowly ambling their way down the steep arterial decline that spills them to heart the mall.

Twenty minutes later I finally succeeded in locating a spot between a BMW with a fraternity sticker on the rear window, and what appeard to be a monster truck jacked up on steroids with mud flaps emblazoned with silhouettes of naked angel & devil women (what’s up with these anyway? Why do I see them all over nowadays?).

What happened next, as far as I can recall, was a blurry haze of frenzied shoppers, aggressive kiosk owners, dirty/greasy smells from the food court, overpriced crap far out of my budget, people standing in the middle of the aisles talking on their cell phones (are you idiots not aware of your surroundings?), hastily thrown together pop-up stores, cat calendars, near-subliminal advertising passively seeping through the overhead speakers, faded holiday decorations recycled from years past hanging in storefront windows, and an aching feeling in my bones that I’m simply being taking for another overhyped holiday joyride ride again.

And it seems, for yet another year, that I’m complaining about this.  Pitiful…

Forgive me…I just had to vent.  I think I’ll crack open a beer and settle down to a viewing of Inglorious Basterds.  That should cheer me up and set me right.

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…