Monthly Archives: June 2011

A waitress. . .

. . .was good, not great, far from outstanding. Just good. But I could tell she thought she was exemplary. There’s a fine line between self-delusion and unctuous pandering. Sadly, she was straddling both.

Near the end she bounds up and says,

“Who pampers you?”

“Thankfully, nobody yet.”

A Phone Question

I have more than my share of stupid phone conversations. It can’t be just because I answer phones. I know people who have bright, stimulating conversations on the phone daily. I’m just not that fortunate.

I also get more than my share of phone conversations where people seem to believe I am empowered with psychic ability. Or at least to divine answers with the least amount of information possible.

This next conversation contains both.

I answer the phone and am greeted with this sentence out of the box.

“Is this the company I used a couple of years ago?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you look it up?”

“If you give me your name.”

“Elizabeth Dumass.”

“Hold please.” I roll over to the computer. Open the file that contains all past customers and look for a Dumass. I close the file and go back to the task as hand.

“I’m sorry, Dumass, you’ve never been a customer of ours.”

“Oh. Do you know what company I used?”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

Asked someone who’d been barking at me for the past few minutes. I’d already told them I had no interest in continuing or, more to the point, beginning a conversation with them.

“You look like someone I never want to speak to again.”

“Who’s that?”


A male. . .

. . .walked up to a female within ear shot, told her he played around and asked if she’d be interested. The female was aghast and expressed that emotion. The guy walks up to me shaking his head. I’m not sure if he was embarrassed that I heard what transpired or just pissed because she turned down his best Don Juan. Either way I say,

“Dude! This isn’t the classiest place in the world but, even here, you gotta talk up before you cock up.”

I have no patience today.

I guess I’m due for my four million moron tune-up.

“What’re ya working on?”

“A filled in three hundred and sixty-five day to-do calendar for people who have trouble making plans.”

As odd as it sounds. . .

. . .I actually don’t mind helping people. The good thing is I have relatively few useful skills (amazingly, not everyone feels my main skill, making fun of things, is all that useful) so don’t get called upon all that often.

A guy I know called and asked if I could help him with some lyrics. As much as I may not have really, truly, wanted to (okay, I didn’t) I did because, who knows. Music being the way it is he may just turn out to be the next big thing.

Doubtful. But I’ve passed on working with people who’ve become famous so, what the hell.

I go to his home studio. It’s a nice room. He’s put some thought and work into it. A good recording space and very comfortable. The room is festooned with musical instruments of all types. I’m not sure he can play each of them but it’s a pretty impressive array.

And that’s about all that was nice.

He’s a pleasant enough fellow but languid is too strong a word for his work style. I liked to work fast because I’m lazy. Get to it, get it over, get out. I don’t mind if it takes a while, but, I do mind sitting there doing nothing.

And that’s what I was doing here. A whole lotta nothing. He was fiddling and noodling and looking for things. I’m not joking when I say there was a point where I stared at the back of his head for ten minutes as he looked for something in one of his computers.

Only to figure out in was in another computer.

“Listen,” I say at the end of my rope. It really is a simple procedure, ask me to work then let me work. “I’m outta here. Call me when you’re better prepared.”

He starts to flit around the room in a flurry of, in reality, nothing. Just like the rest of the time, it’s all wasted movement. I stand but he beseeches me to stay. I stay on my feet but am now leaning on a table. On that table is a tuning fork. I pick it up and, being the only instrument I have an expert ability on, tap it gently against the palm of my hand.

While I finally have a distraction he begins to lay out his master plan. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! That’s no where near what we discussed nor is it in a realm I could attempt to write. He disagrees, I disagree. I’m very accustomed to sparing during the creative process but not very often before it begins.

He steps toward me revealing his ideas. And it’s nothing like the demos he sent me. It’s all sword and sorcery and gnomes and elves and shit I couldn’t write with a bucket of acid and a case of Four Loko. He tells me he had a vision so has to go with his new musical concept.

I”m looking at him as he spins his tail, I mean, tale then reach out and pop him in the head with the tuning fork. Shock is registered on his face but at least he’s semi-focused on the here and now as I put the tuning fork to my ear.

“What did you do that for?”

“Just checking.” I say handing the tuning fork to him. “Yep, I was right. Your brain is running a little flat today.”

Like I said, I don’t mind helping but I have so few usable skills.

Bug Boy: TNG

Years ago I created a character for Ed Nyahay, Bug Boy. There was interest to produce it but, truthfully, Ed’s a scary bastard so people ran away screaming. As right minded people would.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Ed BECAME Bug. He truly manifested the character into something not only otherworldly but disturbing to his loved ones (if the frantic emails and phone calls from them were any indication). I had no idea how one simple conversation between friends could turn into this interesting and, yeah, I’ll admit it, enjoyable ride. Bug gets under your skin and that’s all Ed’s fault, I mean, Ed’s work.

Years passed and so did Ed’s chronological age. So, because there was little interest in Bug Middle Aged Man (I just don’t think Bug with a broken hip would draw our demographic), Ed decided to pass the larva on to the next generation.

If you’d like to read the scripts that started this phenomenon you can check them out here:

Bug Boy 1

Bug Boy 2


A telemarketer number pops up on caller ID. I pick it up because, sadly, it’s part of my job. She begins the conversation with a lie. The name she says does not provide our telephone service. Caught in a lie, I feel it’s within my rights to end this charade so hang up.

Seconds later the same number is on caller ID.

“You don’t have to be an ass.” She says before hanging up.

I laugh and dial the number still hot on the caller ID. The phone rings twice before being picked up. I can tell by her accent and tone it is the same woman so say,

“Yes I do. It’s my livelihood.”

It’s pouring out.

Buckets of rain clanging on top of people. The phone rings. Someone wants to know how bad it’s raining where I was. They don’t want to come over if it’s bad. I don’t bother looking outside, I just say,

“It’s pissing like a incontinent octogenarian.”