I Have A Horse In The Bathroom

I really don't like talking about my job on this blog. Not only will talking too much about run the risk of me losing it (the job that is, not my mind) (then again…), but it's really rather dull. However, I had a conversation with someone today that warrants a post.

Just to give you an idea of what I do for those who don't know, I am officially a 'Product Specialist'. This fancy title really means 'Technical Support in a Specified Software Application'. A lot of people upon hearing I'm in support usually respond with, "Oh, I hate those guys!" or "Do you get people who don't know how to use a mouse?". To them I respond, "We don't like you either" and "Um, no." My first support job I did work with a lot of geriatrics and therefore talked a lot of non-technical people. But that was 11 years ago and I have since moved on to talking to people who, for the most part, know what they are doing on a basic technical level. By the way (addressing those who 'hate those guys'), if we are talking about pecking order in the technology field, technical support is pretty much as far down the totem pole you can get before you're actually working in a sweatshop in the Philippines making mouses and keyboards. We know this. After years of getting absolutely no respect some of us can become bitter. Some of us may transfer that bitterness to you. We are sorry. We are sure your grandson really is a wiz at the computer and would never ever download Kazaa and look at porn on your PC causing a virus that ruined it so badly that you need to pay that snot nosed kid at Best Buy to rebuild it for you. And yes, we actually DO know the developer who created that cryptic message that you are looking at but we still aren't transferring you directly to his extension (as much as we would really REALLY love to).

As you wait on hold, Toby is diligently researching your problem by finishing the next level of Half-Life 2.

So yes! Today I talked to someone that was worthy enough to post about. Since this conversation is application specific and none of you save Kevin and Ed would know what the hell I was talking about, I've replaced the specifics with the absurd. I think it still works. Let's just say I got off the phone and called over to my next door cubicle buddy, "So yeah, am I speaking Latin right now without knowing it? I must be speaking Latin."

CUSTOMER: I can't get my cat to eat the food.

MOE: You mentioned in your email that you have another cat. Does your other cat eat the food?

CUSTOMER: I have a horse in the bathroom.

MOE: Uh…where is your cat?

CUSTOMER: I have a horse in the bathroom.

MOE: But aren't we talking about your cat?

CUSTOMER: Yes.

MOE: So does your other cat eat the food?

CUSTOMER: My horse eats food. He's in the bathroom.

MOE: Where is your cat?

CUSTOMER: I don't understand.

MOE: Do you have another cat?

CUSTOMER: Yes.

MOE: Does that cat eat food?

CUSTOMER: I have a horse in the bathroom.

MOE: Yeah, OK. Does your horse eat food?

CUSTOMER: Yes.

MOE: Does your horse juggle?

CUSTOMER: Yes.

MOE: Are you at the circus?

CUSTOMER: You mean with the clowns? That type of circus?

MOE: Yes.

CUSTOMER: No, I'm not at the circus.

MOE: But your horse juggles?

CUSTOMER: Yes.

MOE: That's impossible. Horses don't juggle unless they are at the circus. And even then it's pretty rare because their hoofs can't hold the balls properly . Are you sure your horse can juggle?

CUSTOMER: No, my horse can't juggle. He's in the bathroom. (pause) But yes, I'm at the circus. Why won't my cat eat the food?

MOE: Well, it would help if you had another cat so we could see if it's something wrong with the cat or something wrong with the food. If you don't have another cat, can you get one?

CUSTOMER: Sure!

MOE: OK, go and get one and see if it eats the food.

CUSTOMER: I don't understand. What's wrong with the food?

MOE: I don't know if there is anything wrong with the food. We need another cat to see if it's the food or the cat.

CUSTOMER: My horse is a juggling asshole.

MOE: Excuse me?

CUSTOMER: My cat won't eat the food.

MOE: I understand. Can you get another cat?

CUSTOMER: Sure!

MOE: Can you get another cat now?

CUSTOMER: I can't do that. I'm in the washing machine.

MOE: Can you get out of the washing machine just for a moment so you can go get another cat?

CUSTOMER: I don't understand. Why do you want me to get another cat? My cat won't eat the food.

MOE: OK, let's try something else. Do you have some other food you can try to feed your cat?

CUSTOMER: I have another cat, will that work?

MOE: (pause. Breathe) Yes. That will work.

CUSTOMER: You know what? I think I'm just going to watch the horse juggle. I'll let you know if I need any further help. Thanks!

MOE: Uh, OK. You're welcome.

EMAIL FROM CUSTOMER 15 MINUTES LATER: Hey! I'm sorry; I don't actually have a cat! It was a dog! It's eating just fine now.

Happy Blog-a-versary to me

So recently I have done nothing but be obnoxious and make an ass out of myself. This of course reminded me of back when I first moved here to California, when being obnoxious and making an ass out of myself was a weekly occurrence (rather then the occasional slip up with deep head shaking come Monday morning). Of course this also reminded me of my old 'More Fun Than Scrabble' blog on Diaryland where I actually had the nerve to post the details of my obnoxiousness and ass-out-of-myself-ness on a fairly regular basis. While that blog is still out there in cyberland, I did have the foresight to privatize most of the entries. Those of you who had the fortunate\unfortunate pleasure\un-pleasure of reading those posts, I hope you enjoyed them and made copies to use against me for when I decide to run for Congress. The rest of you…well, sorry. My 27-year old self did not have a proper functioning 'Edit' button and it showed. I should know, I've been spending the last few days going over those old privatized posts wondering, basically, what the hell was I thinking? And, "Man, I was an ass, but I sure did have fun."

I'm bringing all this up because if you count my old blog, I've been writing to you all in some function for the last 7 years. Actually, that wasn't why I was bringing all this up; I just wanted to say that to sound impressive. Are you impressed? How about if I give you a dollar? No, the real reason why I'm bringing this up is that I wanted to use a cheat (or a lifeline, or a street shout out, or whatever) and actually do a re-print of one of the old entries as kind of a blog anniversary present to myself. Of course trying to find an old entry from Diaryland suitable for the new evolution-ized version of this blog (Read: Parent Friendly) (Or, my parents anyhow) was not an easy task. I did find one (one!) that I thought was safe enough as well as amusing enough to warrant a re-print.

This post is from August 2001. (7 years!) I was living in the Blue Boxes at the time. Tom was a friend of mine that eventually became a roommate which basically means that we don't talk anymore. (Though Kevin and I were invited and went to his wedding a few years back) Hope you like it…and for some of you, like it again.

I've got to tell you how yesterday I was transformed to DANGER GIRL.

You know, I suppose I really shouldn't say DANGER girl. That just implies a whole bunch of things that are, well, dangerous, and I suppose that really isn't the case at all. Let me change that to the MOMENT OF PERIL girl. I don't think peril is as forthcoming as danger is and well, hmmm, maybe I'll just get on with the story...

So I got home from work yesterday and went to get my mail like I always do when I first get home from work. I've got a small track of land they call grass (though very rarely the green variety) that I walk over to get to the mailboxes. Three steps into the grass to the mailbox, this horde of wasps fly out of the grass and start surrounding me like, well, like wasps do. I scream and run like a girl to the mailbox like a true hero and return back the long way around completely avoiding the grassy knoll. I get back inside my house and call Tom.

TOM: Hello?

MOE: Why would wasps live in my grass?

TOM: Excuse me?

MOE: Why would wasps live in my grass. There's a horde of wasps hanging out in my grass. I don't understand.

TOM: Wasps? In your grass?

MOE: Yes. Big fuckers. With teeth. In. My. Grass. What's in that grass anyhow? It's not like it's shady. It's not like there's any flowers or anything there. It's grass. It's dry. I don't understand the appeal to the wasps. It's like us deciding to hang out in Death Valley all day. Just because.

TOM: Well, it's August. It's Bee Season. I've got them too...in my tiki head. I sprayed them though.

MOE: I still don't understand the grass...

TOM: Want to come over?

MOE: Sure. As long as the wasps aren't invited.

So I go over to Tom's house to hang out. When I get there, he's sweeping out the back patio. Tom has this 4-foot tall carved wooden tiki head on his back patio. It's kind of cool actually. You can put candles in the tiki's mouth and he lights up and looks really scary. Tom points out that that's where the bees were this afternoon. Tom returns to sweeping and I notice that there's definitely some more bee activity going on by the tiki head.

MOE: Hey Tom. Uh, I don't think you've eliminated the bee situation.

TOM: Well, I got this spray. (pointing to can of Bee & Wasp spray)

MOE: Uh, well, there seems to be a lot of bees going in there.

TOM: Huh. Well let me spray again. (He stands and points the spray into tiki mouth from 20 ft. away) There, that should do it.

MOE: I think you just pissed them off. There's still a lot of bees. I think there might be a nest.

TOM: In the tiki head? No...there can't be a nest in the tiki head.

MOE: I think there's a nest Tom, there's an awful lot of bees flying in there and they sure as hell aren't flying out.

TOM: You really think there's a nest? Well, let me try the flame thrower approach.

At this point Tom takes the Bee & Wasp spray and sprays using a flame from a lighter - creating one hell of a flame which in turn burns the tiki head. This doesn't seem to affect the bees. Running out of Bee and Wasp spray, Tom turns to the Ant and Roach spray and tries the same thing.

MOE: Tom, that's Ant and Roach spray. Those are bees.

TOM: It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it's on fire.

Tom burns the tiki head some more. There is now smoke coming out of both the top of the tiki head and the tiki head's nostrils. The tiki head is beginning to look really scary. As well, something seems to be burning in the inside, and it's starting to smell really bad.

Tom eventually runs out of the Ant and Roach spray, but the bees are still there.

TOM: I'm going to get all Lysol on their ass.

MOE: Lysol? We don't need to disinfect them Tom. They're bees.

TOM: It doesn't matter what it is...

MOE: I know, I know, as long as it's on fire.

So out comes the Lysol flame thrower. Something is DEFINITELY burning inside of the tiki head. There's smoke everywhere. And the smell made me run indoors from the gagging reflex.

MOE: Tom, there's *gag* an awful lot of smoke..*GAG!* I think..*gag!* you set the nest on fire *cough! gag! gagg!*

TOM: Hmmm...I think you're right. I'll get the hose.

Now Tom takes the hose and shoots water down the top of the tiki head. Bees are everywhere and those bees are pissed off. I run inside and shut the patio door and gag and laugh at Tom trying to get back in. But then the nest falls out of the mouth of the tiki head. Not that big of a nest, about 6 inches round, but there are bee larva EVERYWHERE.

TOM: Let me back in!

MOE: No, the bees have no home. They'll want to live here.

TOM: LET ME BACK IN!

MOE: Fine. But they're staying in your room.

And that was the BEE peril. That we handled. I suppose I can't really say I handled it as I just stood around offering advice and humor while someone else tackled the peril, but you know, it was bees. Bees are scary.

Shishmaref, Alaska

Sorry for the silliness ahead...

When I was at the Harp last Saturday night, I ran into Steve (Steve of Fairy Princess fame, not Steve the bartender) who stated he was a regular reader of the blog. He then made the comment that since I enjoyed traveling and I enjoyed writing, that I should be a travel writer. I do admit to having many aspirations to be a great many things (National Geographic photographer, Radio DJ, Rock Band Album Cover Art creator, Cast Member on a wildly popular underground indie film, Tilt-A-Whirl operator, Fruity Pebble maker, International Woman of Mystery, Fish Whisperer to name a few) and being a travel writer is definitely one of them. However, I’m afraid that I’m in technology and technology is what I will always be in lest I get too old and have to revert back to retail due to “this darn tootin’ stuff that the kids these days are getting into” gets too complicated for my aging brain. Let’s be honest…aspirations of greatness take work. And I’m lazy. Many of the good things that I’ve achieved were achieved by a combination of luck and being thick enough to jump into things without thinking about them first. But Steve said that if I didn’t this, and by this I mean writing about a place that I’ve never been to, that he would do me harm the next time he saw me. I think he has nun chucks, I know he definitely has a turtle. Maybe a turtle with nun chucks.

I had asked him to pick a place to write about and he told me, but of course I forgot (Mags, I’m turning into Dad faster than I like!). It was someplace in Alaska so to save time and harm from nun chuck wielding turtles; I just opened Google maps and picked a place…which was Shishmaref, Alaska. Yeah, I just liked the name.



Without cheating and looking up Shishmaref on Wikipedia, this is what I know for a fact about it:

• It is in Alaska.
  
• It rhymes with Wish Pear Miff. Or “Sheesh Ma Riff!”
  
• It’s cold there. REALLY cold. Like cold enough to wear two sets of mittens.
  
• Location if you had a GPS in your pocket: 66.25066 N, 166.11954 W

OK, I totally cheated on that last one. I didn’t think I could fool you with another “It’s in Alaska”.



Now let’s cheat and see what boring old Wikipedia has to say about it…

• Just north of the Bering Strait (check!)
  
• Population: 562 (check!)
  
• Home to Herbie “Shishmaref Cannonball” Nayokpuk, a famous dog-musher (check!) (and a quick side note…I read that wrong at first and thought he was the beloved dog-musher “Shishmaref Cannibal”)
  
• Voted the “friendliest village in Alaska” (until they eat you) (check!)
  
• Well known for it’s high quality seal oil and fermented meat (yum!) (check!)
  
• Known for it’s whalebone and walrus ivory carvings (of the dog-musher Shishmaref Cannibal eating fun loving tourists) (check!)
  
• And finally, if you were a woman and you took 99 of your closest girl friends to the Annual Ivory Carving\Seal Oil Cook-Off, there would be 21.3 men thinking that they should have stayed home and cuddled with their walruses.

For the sake of Steve, if I climbed into Mr. Rodger’s ‘Neighborhood of Make-Believe’ this is surely what I would write if I had actually been there:

I woke up early this morning. I tried to sleep in but the sound of mating seals outside my window was too much to handle. Pukachuamon greated me at the breakfast table with the most delicious cup of hot seal oil and honey followed by orca fat on toast with a side of hot seal oil. She is truly a gracious and kind host, though I am a bit skeptical on why she keeps grabbing my belly muttering something about “being ready for the feast on Sunday.” Perhaps it is a cultural oversight I missed in my Lonely Planet guide. I am looking forward to the feast on Sunday, especially if there is more seal oil! I could literally take a bath in it I find it so lovely.

After breakfast Pukachuamon’s son, Cliff, offered to take me walrus hunting. I let him know that due to my beliefs of getting mauled by large arctic animals, I would be unable to partake in the obviously exciting event, but would he happen to know where I could find the local mall or maybe just a pub? You know what? He did! The mall was very nice and had the usual stores but I was really disappointed that everything was covered in fur. I bought an evening gown of penguin anyhow. I want to look nice for Sunday’s feast.

After the mall Cliff took me to the pub. It was the oddest thing! I went up to order Cliff and me a couple Ice Houses (I know, it was the only thing they had on tap) and when I turned back around, Cliff was gone! Thankfully there were 22 very nice, albeit rugged, gentlemen to chat with. I especially liked the man who only had a head and an arm; I think his name was Pointre. I wonder if that’s French. I talked with him for hours. Afterwards we took his dog sled and went out for fried seal oil with cheese. Yum!

It’s getting late here so I’m going to try to get some sleep before the seals start back at it.

(Don’t do me harm Steve!)

NOTE: No seals or walruses were harmed in the making of this post.

The Wombats: Los Angeles, CA

This post is dedicated to Dori who is quite possibly the hippest girl I know (though Am. Dave would say “hep”) and who insisted I give her a full report on the show.

MOE: (Addressing a large room of people) Hello everyone.

PEOPLE IN ROOM: Hi there.

MOE: (shifting uncomfortably) My name is Moe, and I’m…I’m a music whore.
PEOPLE IN ROOM: (Nodding knowingly)

MOE: I’m not sure how I got to where I am now. Pimping myself for music. I never used to be this bad.

LARGE WOMAN IN ROOM: Amen sister.

MOE: It started about 6 months ago. I was innocently browsing through my iTunes when I realized there wasn’t anything there I wanted to listen to. I went to the iTunes Store but I drew a blank on what to get. Their ‘Top Songs’ and popular downloads were awful. What people listen to in this country is appalling at times…

LARGE WOMAN IN ROOM: HALLELUIAH!

MOE: …I had already infiltrated Kevin’s CD collection years ago…

MULTIPLE PEOPLE IN ROOM: (whisper) I’ve done that. Have you done that? It’s so sad…

MOE: …the radio stations in LA weren’t helping. I used to be so with it -I mean music wise. My mother and step dad were DJs when I was growing up. I had access to so much music. Well into my twenties there wasn’t a festival where I didn’t know all the bands playing. I was even sometimes friends with some of the local bands playing there! I don’t know what happened…

MAN IN ROOM: (mumbling) You got old.

MOE: I heard that! And I didn’t get old! Not that old. Just old-ish-er.

MAN IN ROOM: That’s not a word.

MOE: Shut it! I’m telling a story here through narrative!

MAN IN ROOM: Are you going to get to your point soon?

MOE: Maybe.

MAN IN ROOM: You know you lost half the people who were trying to read this. They’ve already moved on to the Wombat story. You know, the point to this entry.

MOE: I know, I know…I tend to be wordy.

MAN IN ROOM: No kidding.

MOE: SO AS I WAS SAYING, with no access to new good music of late, I went to desperate measures. I started to steal.

PEOPLE IN ROOM: Gasp!

MOE: No, it’s true. I’m not proud. Half the delight in finding new good music is finding it all on your own. There’s a bit of smugness being in a conversation and saying, “Have you heard of So-n-So band? You haven’t? Well, you should, they’re awesome.” But I can’t do that. I’ve been stealing other people’s discoveries. And in the worst ways! If I read an interview that so and so actor likes so and so band, you know what I do? I buy it! If I watch a movie and the closing credits have a good song, you know what I do? I buy it! I’ve read music reviews in magazines and then went out and bought some of their suggestions! I’ve gone into other people’s iTunes and forced them to burn me music! I’ve gone into other countries iTunes stores and browsed their popular downloads! The Germans are really weird by the way. Oh, and if you want a good laugh, check out the Qatar store. I don’t think there is any actual music available.

MAN IN ROOM: *a-hem*

MOE: Right. So I guess what I’m saying is that if it wasn’t for my recent music whoring, I wouldn’t have ended up in LA on a school night watching the Wombats. And I wouldn’t have had a fantastic time and want to change my career from technical support to professional go-and-see-live-bands-and-write-about-them-on-a silly-blog Person. Oh, and I’d probably have a lot more money as buying loads of music is, as you may have guessed, expensive.

MAN IN ROOM: Are you done with this stupid narrative?

MOE: Um, yeah, I guess I am. Thanks for the support buddy.

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WOMBAT (marsupial): Australian. They are short-legged, muscular quadrupeds, approximately 39 inches in length with a very short tail.



THE WOMBATS (band): English. They are regular-legged male homosapiens, approximately 68-72 inches in height with such short tails you don’t even see them.



(So there Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby-Jones who insisted otherwise!)
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When I found out that the Wombats were playing in Los Angeles, it took me about 15 minutes to purchase the tickets to the show. Most of that time was used digging through my purse to find my credit card. I had asked Kevin if he had wanted to go but unbeknownst to him, I actually asked after the tickets were sitting in my hand. I really like the Wombats. And if you must pry and embarrass me, I found them on the iTunes Discovery Download of the Week a few months back. They must have a good PR rep; after downloading the free song it was less than a half hour later that I bought the whole album.



While I wiggled in my office chair the entire day of the show too giddy to do any real work, Kevin was going about as normal with general appeasing comments as I bugged him with my excitement via IM every 15 minutes. Kevin had only heard two of the Wombats songs and really couldn’t care less about seeing them. Thankfully he got more into it when we finally got there…

…to the Echoplex in Echo Park. If you Google Maps (with Street View!) the address for the Echoplex you will assume that it’s the big white building on the corner. Nope. In true ‘Swingers’ LA fashion, the entrance to the Echoplex was a side door with no signage what so ever. I never would have found it if it weren’t for the line of people waiting to get in.

Speaking of the people waiting to get in, are skinny jeans still that popular? I totally get the big floppy hair and the low top Converse, but skinny jeans? Really? OK, cool, whatever. I guess looking back I really have no right for judgment (so you can just put away that yearbook Beth).

So anyhow, on the ticket it said that the doors opened at 7 PM. The way we figured it, even though there were two opening bands, it was a small all ages show at a small venue on a school night…with the doors opening at 7, the Wombats would be playing by 9 at least. Right?

So it might have been awhile since I’ve seen a live show.

Not the Wombats, but it is the Echoplex stage.

The first band was called Pop Noir. They’re from Costa Mesa and play at La Cave on a fairly regular basis. They were…alright. Kevin and I both agreed that they were *ahem* interesting dancers. The second band was called the Afternoons. Their first couple of songs were actually really good but then...oi. They were a 7-piece band and some good songs but one of the members, the tambourine player no less, insisted of “wooooooo”-ing her way through every single number ruining them. I mean, I don’t mind an occasional “woop woop” or a “wooooo” at the beginning of a tune, but the entire song? And it was that sort of sad arctic seal on the beach about to get clubbed sort of woooooo-ing. “Look at me, feel sad for me, I’m so deeply interesting, wooooooooooo”. OK, to be fair, I just looked on iTunes in hopes to give you a sample of the woooooo-ing and it was refreshingly non-present from their album. I will just say that the audio guy at the Echoplex must have had the day off instead….

…which would make sense! When the Wombats finally took the stage at 10:30, one of their amps was piping in a local Spanish station. They took it with stride and make a joke out of it but it was so obvious that it was annoying trying to play over. But they did great. Not having a huge catalog at this point, the Wombats played all the songs from the EP and about 5 from their album. And it was fantastic. Kevin even danced! He never dances! And I bounced around like I used to at shows, except I’m older and out of shape so instead of a continual bounce, it’s more like bouncing for 30 seconds, resting for 30 seconds (maintaining a head bob), then continuing the bounce.


By the time we left at midnight, our feet hurt, our backs hurt, we were covered in sweat, our voices were going and we could hardly hear. As I said to Kevin with his grinning agreement, “I haven’t felt this good in years!”

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**Pictures from this post have been *borrowed* from the World Wide Web. Kevin has been working on a device that will permanently attach my camera to me. Either that or a big wooden hand that will slap me if I leave the house without it.