When I wake up:
my thoughts are confused;
my eyes are cloudy and sensitive;
my hair is a mess;
my body is sprawled out;
my sheets are wrapped around me or wadded up.
Because of this, I imagined as a child that someone
had picked me up in the middle of the night and
thrown me back down on my bed--perhaps repeatedly--
and that I had somehow slept through it all.
Maybe he sneaks up and grabs me by the collar and
belt (sleeping in clothes is a practice reserved
only for the most-drunken of nights), lifting me
up and shoving me back down; maybe he grabs me by
the ankles and slides me around on my bed, laughing
quietly to himself....
To this day, each night before I fall asleep,
I still imagine that perhaps *this time* I'll
catch the guy.... He'll make a mistake. I'll feel
those hands tighten on my ankles just before I drift off,
and I'll be up like a bolt and pound his face.
It could happen.
One such handle was "ilikemeatballs". This guy sent me
an unsolicited note via Caissa mail, and a short series
of notes ensued between us:
ilikemeatballs: guess what? I like meatballs
Fingerly: Swedish meatballs?
ilikemeatballs: sure, why not
Fingerly: I like Swedish meatballs, but I like
the Swedish bikini team even more.
ilikemeatballs: if it's all the same to you, I'd
rather have the meatballs
A couple of sandbagger handles I enjoyed were "poopypants"
and "inahurry". They could have been the same guy for all
I know.... "inahurry" was extremely fast at G/2.
I cracked up every time I played him!
I don't know why I seem to be the only person
around when things like this happen.
Bob the Slob
One of my coworkers discovered a problem with a company
called "JT Crack Repair" and an individual going by the
name of "John Thomas", each in Brooklyn, and each ordering
WD HDs, paying with bad checks. Each "customer" was having
the HDs sent to a different address, though. My female
coworker didn't notice the penis reference. Out of
curiosity, I ran a query to isolate customers from a few
Brooklyn Zip codes, and found four more customer accounts
that fit the profile. Two were permutations of "John Thomas",
such as "J. Thomas", while the others were "Richard Mann"
and "Frank Garcon". Anyone who has seen *Pulp Fiction*
should know that "garcon" means "boy" in French.
The fellow was caught by Federal agents. I never found
out what happened to him after that.
Actually, I think rush-hour drive times in Dallas would
improve by 50% if everyone traded in their SUVs for cars.
They're slow; no one can see around them; they anger
other drivers, causing them to make snap decisions; snap
decisions result in a brake light domino effect.
You own an SUV? Move! Get out the way!
I don't think life is supposed to be a rollercoaster
with one big ascent at the beginning, a few exciting
drops and twists in the middle, and then hills of
diminishing size as the speed winds down at the end.
This may be why I occasionally imagine a pair of
images of Jack Pallance as I clutch my beer mug in a
crowded bar: one, of him imparting the secret of life
to Billy Crystal in *City Slickers*, and the other of
him doing one-armed pushups on stage at the Oscars
as an elderly gent. Jack Pallance is a real man.
A dude's dude. That's really all I wanted to say.
I guess I could have just said "Jack Pallance is a
dude's dude" and been done with it.... But, no. I had
to go into this awkward long-winded speech. I'm sorry.
Whenever this trick doesn't work, I try imagining the
offender has a large, poorly-drawn tattoo of Tweety on their
left buttock, and it's a source of profound embarassment.
"Chess is a contest between two men in which there
is considerable ego-involvement. In some way it
certainly touches upon the conflicts surrounding
aggression, homosexuality, masturbation and
narcissism which become particularly prominent in
the anal-phallic phases of development."
--Reuben Fine, *The Psychology of the Chess Player*