Pocket dialing
I got a loooooong phone message Tuesday from a woman who apparently dialed my number and then stuffed the phone into her pocket. The sound of fabric rubbing against thighs, the soft jingling of pocket change and the solemn gong of a seat belt warning chime made for an interesting six or seven minutes. More interesting still was the idle banter that went along with it. It sounded a little something like this: “. . . I’ll tell you, the hours I worked yesterday made for a long @#@! day. I don’t care, though, I’m going to take every #@#!* hour they’ll give me.” And later: “. . . when I saw that, my @#!!@ heart stopped in my chest. I’ve been driving for 35 years, so I’m not a @#!!# wimpy driver.” The woman then went on to list the various Christmas gifts she plans to buy for people and, wouldn’t you know it? I wasn’t on her list. That’s OK, lady. Just call back once a week and do that thigh thing and we’ll call it good.
Pub 33
Has closed. Why am I the last to know this? Because I’ve become old and boring, that’s why. Back in the day, I did plenty of late-night reporting from a P33 bar stool. You know, with a tall glass of mineral water and a few carrot sticks on the side. Pub 33 was where I went to hear gossip to counterbalance the bland news I’d been writing all day. It’s also where I scribbled my name on the bathroom wall in hopes of generating news tips. That turned out to be a bad idea, but I digress.
Hosed
For nearly 20 years now, I’ve been warning cub reporters, interns and occasionally complete strangers that you have to be real careful when responding to a fire scene. Park too close to the action and you’ll likely get trapped by a web of hoses and you won’t be able to move your car for hours. Hours! I’d impart this advice with the haughty air of one who has done it all and seen it all. Perfectly condescending. And then Wednesday night I went to a fire on Broad Street in Auburn and almost immediately lost my truck to the nest of hoses, drawing frowns from cops and firefighters and titters from random people on the street. My shame is great.
Old one-eye
After writing a column about my earnest desire to wear a monocle, a nice monocle salesman out of San Francisco got in touch and promised to send me one. In the course of our discussion, he needed to know a few things. Do I wear reading glasses? And if so, what strength? Standard stuff. Then he asked how tall I am, and I spent the rest of the night wondering just how height in any way pertains to an ocular device. But whatever. I’m getting a monocle!
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