A guy comes into the store today and says,
“I want 4 packs of American Spirit Yellow.”
We ring him up, take his money and say, “Would you like a bag?”
He says, “No thank you, I have gloves.”
I have gloves?
More like you have a frozen mush of a cerebellum.
Jesus Krispies.
It must be the cold here in New England, huh? (7 degrees)
That would be like ordering at a drive-thru Burger King
and telling them, “I want to eat it here though, thanks.”
A definite WTF moment.
Damn, I encounter far too many these days.
Maybe it’s me.
Not!

I’ve had some very odd things happen in my life lately and it seemed not only appropriate but almost necessary to tell you folks about it.
Aren’t you glad you stopped by?

The picture below will tell you all you need to know about my commute into Boston this morning.
The train I was riding in was empty.
No people.
Just me.
It was empty for the first two stops.
Very strange.
Sitting alone on a moving train at 6AM on a weekday is not only odd but it’s really creepy in a ‘Rod Serling, Twilight Zone’ kind of way.
No human voices or announcements, just the cracking metal creaks, low scraping groans and the desperate sounds of a wheezing ventilation system filling the wee hours of a Thursday morning ride.
I made it to Boston, falling asleep somewhere after Framingham . . .

My mail slot has produced some definite weirdness over the past few weeks as well.
I got a bill from a geriatric/medical place for my mother, in care of me.
The bill originated from the assisted living place she left in 2000.
I’ve now received two bills and have made as many phone calls to the company.
The last several years of her life she had no dentures because she had lost every set we had made.
It got too damn expensive to make any more.
Guess what this bill was for?
You got it- a case of Crest toothpaste.
Shoot me.

Monday morning I woke up at 4:30AM and the first thought in my mind was,
“I wonder how tall Bing Crosby was?”
I kid you not.
You can’t make this kind of shit up.
Before you go to Google, he was 5′ 7″ tall.
Here I was thinking he was taller.
Whatever courses through my brain at that time of the morning should be sanitized and bottled.
I’m thinking if it were administered properly, it could be used to interrogate criminals.
Or not.
Just a thought.
Any weird stuff happen to you today?

I like the fact that the name ‘Hannah’ is a palindrome.
And I love the fact that my wife and I chose to call our youngest daughter Hannah.
I’m not sure why the palindrome catches my attention but it just does.
Strange, huh?
I stumbled upon a madass comedian named Demetri Martin.
He loves palindromes.
(check out his nasty little 224 word work below, it can be read the same way in either direction)
I think he’s probably nuts but I love this kind of stuff anyway.
Hannah.
God, I love her name.

Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.

I’m thinking this could be an entire class for MrsV . . .

The following is an actual junk email that had me laughing my ass off.
It was kinda like reading Hemingway on acid.
If all spam was like this, I think I’d actually read more of it.

“The grand piano is single-handledly gentle.
Some eggplant related to a traffic light makes love to a carelessly frustrating rattlesnake, or the hole puncher over a traffic light accidentally borrows money from some paper napkin of a diskette.
A bowling ball daydreams, because a power drill eats the maelstrom about another polygon.
Another highly paid spider buries the college-educated line dancer.
For example, the mitochondrial fraction indicates that a vaporized nation is a big fan of a stovepipe for a dolphin.”

Yeah, weird.

For two nights in a row I’ve dreamed of Gwyneth Paltrow.
No rhyme, no reason.
Maybe it’s the part of my brain still coming down from my Kelli Pickler fantasies.

Now the strangest part is that me and Gwyneth are in Grand Central Station in New York and she’s trying to buy a ticket.
I keep trying to get a word in edgewise but she ignores me for reasons that are really pissing me off.
Nothing more demoralizing than getting dissed in a friggin’ dream.
She finally gets her ticket and she begins walking away.
I no sooner start to follow her when she turns around, looks at me and says, “Get Parmesan.”
That’s it.
Now remember, this is a woman that has children named Apple and Moses.
Get parmesan?
I should have said something witty like, “Why don’t you name your next kid Pork Chop, honey.”
But I didn’t.
I will say she’s damn pretty in my dreamworld.
Now if I can just figure out the deeper meaning of ‘get parmesan‘ maybe I can get to that next level.
Apple.
Pickler.
Parmesan.
Maybe it was damn food dream after all.
Or not . . .
Apple, Pickler and Parmesan.
Say that 3X real fast

I had something happen to me tonight that was so bizarre and out of whack that I had to blog a bit of it.
After working in Boston for well over three years I would have thought this situation would happen there but life is not always so predictable.
Tonight, I came face to face with 666.
She came in the form of a woman 70+ years of age.
It all began as I was arriving at my stop tonight.
I made my way down near an exit door and found a seat to wait for the train to stop.
Across the way was an old woman looking out the window; 4′ 10″, black skullcap, white hair, weird clothes . . . yup, she’s nuts, I thought; a Poltergeist extra, basically.
Strange thing was I could see her face in the reflection of the glass and she was looking at me, studying me.
I didn’t think anymore about it and I began to quietly hum a blues song by a preacher named O.V. Wright, called “Don’t let my baby ride”, a favorite song of mine.
About 30 seconds before the train stopped, she walked over to me and got right in my face.
Weird right there, dude.
She asked about the clothes I had on (shirt and hat, compliments of my oldest daughter’s college) wondering if I attended said school.
The conversation went haywire from there and I refuse to write it here simply because of the amount of profanity. (on her part, not mine)
This hag seriously creeped me out but before I walked away from her I did say, “Please take your medication and do us all a favor and go play in traffic, you bitch.”
Not sure what else to say except that it doesn’t get much weirder than this, and if it did, I’d blog it and probably be rich.
Anyone curious about exactly what this gasbag had to say, email me.
I remember a few snippets but I was too freaked out to remember all of it at the time.
This encounter was just too freekin’ weird folks . . .
I’m now home, smoking a cigar and drinking Harpoon Octoberfest.
Life is once again, okay . . . for now.

~m