Leave the Bums Alone!

Why does the supermarket have to be so mean to the transients? Legal action against the hobos? This is essentially Safeway stealing the bums' identities; most of the time I wouldn't know they were homeless except for the shopping carts lined with garbage bags and packed with cans.

I'm not sure if this is a real theory, but for me, the shopping cart demarcates between the truly homeless and the average panhandler.

The multi-million dollar grocery conglomerates can't spare a shopping cart every now and then? The grocery stores donate the old bread and fruit to shelters, why not dish out a few carts as well?

I assume B&P Code 22435 can be used against hooligan teenagers from running amok. But if so, the letter of the law needs to add a Hobo-Exemption.

F-ing It Up at YogurtLand...

is a bad time to woo a woman. I'm one of those guys that sample cups are not an option at self-serve yogurt joints: they are a requirement. I yank on those silver handles like the conductor of a locomotive yanks on the whistle. Sure, I'm abusing the system a tad. By the time I'm finished, my three sample cups are dripping with my own spit and tracks of Honeydew Tart and White Chocolate Mousse.

Frozen yogurt is a fairly gluttonous vice...at least the way I eat it. And just my luck, the charming young lady who works next-door to my school walked into the shop right when I was pulling the lever for non-fat coconut.

The woman and I have made eye contact every now and then, and she apparently thought this was the perfect time to make a formal introduction. She recognized me, which at any other time would greatly increase my wooing powers.

But I got over-excited by the woman—and a little by the yogurt—and I misjudged my sample cup placement. There's little room for error! An entire glob landed in the palm of my hand and began trickling between my fingers.

I became frantic. I scampered across shop to the cashier for napkins. There's still time. Maybe she hasn't seen the mess. I grabbed a napkin from the male cashier as fast as I could, drying the white, tropical flavor from my hand. But it was too late. I smiled at her like an adolescent boy who forgot to lock the bedroom door. And through her look of confusion and disgust, she returned an awkward grin.

Once I had finished my clean-up, I thought of going over to her and shaking hands over a name exchange. But the residual stickiness from the yogurt hindered my confidence. Unusual textures can ruin a salutation, like shaking hands with someone right after they come out of the bathroom. Nasty if their hands are wet; nasty if their hands are dry.

I sheepishly hid in the corner of the shop, pretending to have such a deep focus on my flavor selection that she would leave me alone. Luckily and unluckily, it worked. She paid and left without saying a word.

On the way out, trying to save some face, I jokingly asked the cashier if the yogurt explosion in the hand happens a lot.

"Dude, not really."

The New View

It was just wood and nails. 2" x 6" boards hammered together with some metal pipes for railings. The deck in my grandma's backyard wasn't an architectural masterpiece, just two large rectangular boxes with two benches dug into the ground.

Grandpa didn't use pressure-treated wood and didn't seal the surfaces. But, when he was alive, he took care of it and made it safe. I remember running on that deck looking for Easter eggs tucked carefully in the corners where the wood met the pine-needle-covered ground.

About a year ago, I looked underneath the deck planning a restoration. I am no carpenter, so when I saw mitered cross braces and latticed supports driven into concrete foundations, I knew a repair would be out of my abilities and budget.

I stepped back and surrendered to the elements. The deck fell apart. The steps leading up to the first tier started collapsing. Rusted nails wiggled loose from the joints and dry rot caused some planks to turn into trap doors. The once-level surface twisted out of flush as the hill swelled during the rainy seasons.

And so, the deck came down.

With the last splintered piece of timber hauled away, the northeast edge of the back yard is wide open. Before now, I'd never stood on this section of land. And from the new vantage point, the back yard in which I'd grown up seemed different. The perspective seemed incorrect.

I feel that I've lost a family heirloom, something I should have been able to give my own children. I could feel the violation, the vibration that told me I could have prevented the removal had I been just a bit better with tools, been a bit more handy, been a bit more like Grandpa.

St. Patrick's Uniform

I feel bad for my students because they have school uniforms. Especially on days like today: St. Patrick's day.

The students and their uniforms looked more drab and lifeless than ever. Their navy pants were faded and un-festive from repeat washings. The white polos were tinged gray around the collars from sweat. School policy censored the shamrock shirts and emerald earrings.

But when I tried to voice this dismay to my older students, one cheerfully replied, "Don't worry, I got my green in." He revealed a green sock, secretly grinning at me from beneath his frayed pant leg. I smiled.

I guess if you really want it, the leprechaun finds his way in.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Made in the Shade

I saw this kid riding a flatbed shopping cart, and I actually felt jealous. Gone are the days where someone would push the cart with me riding along. Sure, I can coerce my brother to push me for a little while, but self-consciousness rears its head after a minute or so. And if I'm lucky enough for a push, the weight of my adult body causes the cart to fishtail inelegantly out of control.

Going solo, like I'm sure many of you secretly do, I push-start myself down the lanes of the parking lot, and when I have enough speed, I jump on the back of my wheeled bobsled and glide. Though just for a few seconds, the ride is perfection.

Like always though, the momentum decreases, and the cart starts drifting towards the bumpers of the parked cars. We are forced to put our feet down and step back into reality.

Simple things like that are hard to come by: fun with no strings attached. Like going into Toys 'R Us and not worrying about paying the rent. Like buying ice cream and not worrying about getting fat. Like playing a video game until 5 am and not worrying about work the next day.

$10, Large Round Table Pizza

I thought I would build up to this moment. But instead, the feelings, the all-too familiar feelings, have come rushing back. I couldn't wait any longer than simply say after years apart, I still love the "last honest pizza."

I ended things four years ago. I admit it. The price point was simply too high. $30 for an XL pizza was too much for the meek college student. I abandoned dignity for cheapness, substance for flash, Round Table for Costco.

But with the promotion of $10, one-topping pizzas, I come grovelling back to you.

You are as wonderful as I remember. Your darkened crust is as brittle as a saltine cracker. Your melted cheeses flow over the edges of my slice like water over the lip of Niagara.

You puffed your chest out, bearing the pepperoni like young love's corsage on prom night. The edges of each salty circle curled upward, slightly browned along the rim. Tiny, pepperoni bowls filled with an oily, orange/yellow elixir.

I ate you once when I came home from work. I ate you again before bed. And, my dear, if you'll have me, I'll eat you again tomorrow morning.

Glad to Be a Low-Key Dude

I'm glad I'm a low-key dude, so I can buy my 6 for $6 Fruit of the Looms that come in sealed packages.

Sexy underwear is nice but not when it could have the disclaimer, "Other people may have had their junk all up in the fabric of this fine undergarment; buy with caution."

Maybe if I were high-class I could afford special sanitizers to get rid of strangers' skid marks and underwear glue.

Damn You, Crane Game

I don't understand claw vending machines anymore. We used to be good friends, claw machines and me. My father would take my brother and me to Circus Circus in Reno, and I'd drop my allotted $10 in quarters to grab the neon-bright bears beneath the three-pronged grabber.

But now, the plastic controls of the crane seem antiquated. The amity between us, gone.

New prize-oriented games have adapted to fit the technologically evolving market. There's the electronic stacking block game where players use painfully precise timing to stack electronic blocks up to the prize line. Other machines dangle prizes by threads waiting for the player to guide a tiny razor using twitch muscle control.

And the prizes in these new machines! A Sony PSP. A video iPod. Video games. I even saw one that dangled a Nintendo Wii.

This is not 1992. Crane games that still cost $0.50 per play? Are you kidding? $0.50 to maneuver a rusty claw over a misshapen stuffed animal I wouldn't even give to my dog? Even the cabinets that offer digital-camera prizes cost only a $1.00.

But the most egregious infraction is that the vendors of the claw vending machines still pack the hideous prizes in immutable formations. How can I pull out my deformed Magneto when there are seven giant bunnies entangled in his feet?

It's not about the prizes with me; it's about the fun. But downing money into an old-school game machine when there is virtually no hope of winning is just annoying.

Dear Crane Games: get with the damn program and make your lame toys easier to drop down the prize chute. This is your last chance or it's over.

Women's Buttons on the Left?

I was in the Women's department at Nordstrom's the other day, shopping with an old friend from college.  I decided to accompany her largely because she is pretty, and being around a pretty girl, even if she is just a friend, is still better than sitting at home watching rerun Olympic Curling.  Plus I had a coupon for a free Auntie Anne's Pretzel. 

While I was licking buttery cinnamon sugar from my lips, she rifled through the racks with deep focus.  Her mouth was slightly agape as if she was hypnotized, and her eyes darted back and forth along the metal rods of hanging clothing as if performing long division in her head.  All the while, she was whispering things to herself; I'd catch bits like "I have something like that already," or "That's the worst thing I've ever seen," or "Where the crap are the twos?" 

Having finished my pretzel, and wanting to kill some time, I decided to try on a stylish overcoat.  The orange lining caught my eye.  It looked like it might fit me, and I checked the tag in the collar: GIRLS XL.  

It actually fit pretty well.  The seams fell in all the right places, and I filled out the bust very nicely.  But when I tried to button the coat, I was confused.  The buttons were reversed!  Looking down at the open front, the buttons were on the left side, not the right.  My mannish fingers struggled with the oversized buttons.  I fumbled as I tried to invert my right left coordination.  It was a surreal yet familiar feeling...like brushing your teeth with your left hand. 

"Why are the buttons on the wrong side of this coat?"
"All woman's clothes have the buttons on that side."
"Why?"
"So when we're face to face, and you're taking me out of my top, you won't have any trouble since the buttons will be on the correct side for your mannish tendencies."

I knew she was joking, but it was one of the sexiest moments of my life.