A Banked Turn

So I’m at the bank the other day, and there are a few people in line ahead of me, and a few more at the teller windows. There is also a loud racket coming from behind the counter, it was the coin counting machine. Someone was cashing in a large amount of coins…

I know this because it took two tellers to lift the giant plastic fake beer bottle that contained all of the coins. Some guy had been saving his pennies since about 1972. Anyway I finally figured out who the bottle belonged too, since all of the tellers cycled through customers except for one.

This thrifty gent was about 45, pasty-skinned, and quite pleased with himself. When I got to the front of the line he turned halfway toward me and gave me that universal “half-nod, arched eyebrow, chics dig me” look that cool guys give to us un-cool guys.

I got the impression he was gonna take his $37, rent some videos, and go back to his room in the basement of his Mom’s house and watch them. Maybe go a little crazy a grab a pizza and some brewskis too…

Speaking of “chics dig me,” my name appears on page 49 of the August 20, 2007 issue of Sports Illustrated (first column, about halfway down the page). This is of course a lifelong dream of mine. The only problem is that the person they are writing about is not me, but he and I do share the same name. I really have no ethical or moral problem with achieving my dreams vicariously…

Plus, I now have a shot at moving into Mrs. R’s Top 100 (Re: http://srogue.blogspot.com/ from December 28, 2006).

Today I was outside doing some yard work in the backyard. I was home alone, and I had left the garage door open. When I do that, I lock the door from the garage to the house, and keep my keys in the front pocket of my shorts. My truck was parked in the driveway.

Big Mo has a keyless remote that also includes a panic button. It’s a nice feature, especially if some pasty-skinned 45 year old stud is thinking about beating me up in the parking lot at the bank. Sorry, I digress. Anyway, when the panic button is pushed, the horn honks rhythmically, and the lights flash.

So as I was out back and bending over to spray some weeds, I heard someone’s car alarm go off. There was all kinds of noise, a horn honking, etc. It was very annoying, and I was grumbling to myself about “the damn neighbors who don’t pay attention to a f**king thing and just let their car alarms go off and disturb everybody.”

After 3 or 4 minutes, the alarm shut off, and peace returned. By this time I had moved to other end of the backyard, closer to the front gate, and the driveway. I bent over to attack some more weeds, when that damned car alarm went off again.

At this point I am not a happy camper. I also notice that the honking horn sounds very close. Very, very close actually.

I’m thinking I’m just gonna go next door and let the neighbors have a piece of my mind. Not that I can afford to give too many pieces of my mind away, but it seemed like it was warranted in this case.

So I kicked open the gate, doing my best “that’s right, I’m bad,” getting myself all worked-up, when I notice the lights on my truck flashing and the horn rhythmically honking.

I sheepishly pushed the panic twice to stop the racket, and went inside.

So much for breaking into Mrs. R’s top 100…

Baseball, Plumb Bobs and Spoons, Oh My

In the midst of a difficult week at work, Daughter Rouge called and asked if I would like to go to the Rockies/Dodgers game on Saturday. That young lady has excellent timing and I gladly accepted her invitation.

As a youngster growing up in Colorado, I was a Dodgers fan. I’m not exactly sure how that came to be, but it seemed like a good choice. I mean Sandy Koufax, John Roseboro, Don Drysdale, what’s not to like?

In the 70’s it was Steve Garvey and Davey Lopes and Bill Russell and Ron “The Penguin” Cey; I became an even bigger Dodgers fan. The first major league game I ever saw was at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Dodgers vs. Giants, to watch Fernando Valenzuela pitch. The dastardly (dastardly? Who still uses the word dastardly?) Giants won on a late inning grand slam by Jeffrey (don’t call me Jeff or I will kick your ass), Leonard. Not that I’m bitter or anything…

Anyway…

DR had found some great seats; we were about thirty rows up directly in line with third base. Our seats were right under the edge of the upper deck, so we were thinking that we might have some protection if it were to rain.

The game started nicely, with the Rocks jumping out to an early 5-0 lead. As we were watching the vendors work the stands, DR asked about a guy we called “Frogman.” Frogman was a beer vendor, who had a rubber frog clipped to each ear, wore beer cans for shoes and had a gravelly voice that carried two sections over. He seemed to be everywhere, we even saw him a couple of times at spring training games in Tucson. I told DR that I hadn’t seen him in a while.

Her reply? “Maybe he croaked…”

Along about the 5th inning, it began to rain. Wet sunflower seed shells were raining down from the upper deck. It was quite unpleasant for awhile, but the ushers finally got the problem under control.

It’s a good thing too, because sitting in the row in front of us were three couples, who had also received the shower. The ringleader of the group, fueled by the combustible combination of alcohol and testosterone, told one of the ushers “If you can’t get it stopped, then there are three guys here all over 200 lbs who will go up there and take of things.”

There’s a couple of things that are important to note about Mr. Testosterone and his buddies; they all had the number 4 as the first number of their age, and their 200 plus pounds were packed onto frames about 6” shorter than my 200 plus pounds are. Maybe their plan was to go up and bowl over the sunflower seed criminals…

After the game and the twelve mile walk to our car we started negotiating the streets of downtown. I got lost, no surprise there, refused to stop and ask for directions, again, no surprise. While waiting at a stoplight, a group of about 10 or so twenty-something dressed to the hilt young ladies crossed the street in front of us. They appeared to have had a couple of drinks and were likely on the way to the next bar.

“Oh my” came the remark from DR.

I think the ladies were from the I Phelta Thi sorority…

Anyway…

While stopped at the light at Colfax and 14th Street, DR exclaimed, “Look Daddy, that guy has a giant carrot in his head!”

“What? Huh?” came my thoughtful reply.

I looked over and saw this piece of “art,” which is essentially a hollowed out marble profile of a man’s head, unfolded, with a giant plumb bob hanging in the middle of the fold.

Wikipedia defines a plumb bob as “a weight with a pointed tip on the bottom that is suspended from a string and used as a vertical reference line.” These devices were quite handy in the old days (10 years ago) for folks involved in the construction business. Today they have mostly been replaced by electronic measuring devices.

I tried to explain this to DR, but she didn’t understand why you would need a plumb bob thingy when you could just use a laser. I felt the ol’ generation gap get a little wider right then…

Imagine a well-written transition paragraph right here…..

I have noticed that a lot of my mishaps seem to involve food. I’m not sure what that means, or am I sure I want to commit the $$ and time in therapy to figure it out. I guess it’s just one of those things that make me colorful…

Speaking of color, I became a little more colorful last night. DR and I went to the Coldstone Creamery for some ice cream. This is a very dangerous place, and I highly recommend it.

http://www.coldstonecreamery.com/

On the way out of the store in light rain, the lid came off of my ice cream, and my hand became covered in about $14 worth of a green-brown mix of mint-chocolate chip-fudge-brownie ice cream. Apparently the person (me) who put the lid on my cup needs some remedial training.

So now I’m standing in a parking lot in a rainstorm, frantically licking ice cream off of my hand while DR is doubled over in laughter. Actually, I think she was tripled over.

But wait there’s more…

On the drive home, DR was showing off one of the things she learned at college. As we were driving she was trying to get her plastic ice cream spoon to stick to her nose. She was successful, and kept the spoon stuck to her nose for 17 seconds, while the car was moving. Apparently this is some kind of a record, and she has now qualified for the Olympic Trials next spring.

I think I need a vacation…