Odd person No. 2: Attention hog

Let me preface this post by saying that it will not be as hilarious as I intended because I seem to have left the notebook in which I chronicled OP2's behavior in my office, and I am currently in Arizona.

I was at a local cafe on Sunday to chronicle a jug band contest. After having done the bulk of reporting in the first two hours of this eight-hour jug-gernaut (hyuk!), I had just returned for the last half-hour to see who would be declared winner of the coveted Krumkakke Iron Trophy (second place won freshly caught steelhead... gotta love northern Minnesota).

After the champions were announced I ambled over to the man who seemed to be their leader and asked him if I could interview him for the paper. What follows is an approximation of what the gentleman said as he got close enough to me for me to smell that he had apparently bathed in gin that morning.

"What's your name?"
"Bob."
"Bob what?"
"Bob Dylan."

***

"What instruments do you play?"
"Well, I played the harmonica tonight, but I also play guitar. And spoons. And the occasional jug. And I blow a mean whistle. I've done washboard before. I also play the ham bone."
"The hand bone? What's that?"
"No, the ham bone. Like this: (slaps hand on thigh)."

***

"What does winning this prize mean to you?"
"Apple pie... mom... the American flag... getting the Republicans out of office... no, wait, say getting those goddamn bastard Republicans out of office... want me to keep going?"

***

"Well, I think those were all the questions I had for you."
"Are you sure? Because I sure do like the attention you've been giving me."

How to make an unamusing work day more amusing

Disclaimer: At least one of my work superiors now reads this tract, so I want to assure her and all others concerned about my productivity that I only resort to the following during the spans of pensiveness I must indulge before spewing out a story. Remove treasure from your keyboard: The obsessive-compulsive in me recently became, well, obsessed with my keyboard being spick and span. Not satisfied with hanging it upside down over my garbage can and gently tapping it, I have taken to popping off the keys using a defunct pen as leverage so I can more effectively remove dust, granola bar crumbs and other errant bits of debris. I would recommend only removing a few keys at a time so you can ensure accurate replacement.

Use unique words to spell your email address: This one always gets me giggling on even the most gloomy day. Most people use a predetermined set of words to clarify which letters they’re saying, i.e. “P as in Peter, i as in igloo, r as in rat, a as in apple, t as in tree, e as in egg.” I like to use more non-conventional words, i.e. “N as in natal, u as in umbilical, g as in gregarious, g as in geriatric, e as in elephantitis, t as in Tunisia—at—t as in tinkle, p as in prenatal—dot—com.” Oh, the fun you can have.

Exchange nonsense phrases in your foreign language of choice with a cubemate: My work pal has picked up a good deal of French from visits to the Cheesey Wineland and educational media like this. Sometimes, like yesterday, we go through a list of produce vocabulary. Other times he’ll tell me, “Voulez-vous coucher sur le Lac Qui Parle, Mont St. Michel, n’est-ce pas?” and I’ll respond with, “Il y a une pamplemousse dans le forêt magique qui a un clé au royaume magique dedans. Cherche-le!”

Look for jobs in Portland: This is a really fun game, and it’s made even more amusing by the fact that you can be a college grad with all sorts of great experience and you still won’t qualify for anything that looks even remotely interesting. Plus, sometimes you come across real gems, like this job working for a Masonic Lodge. One of the job duties is to prepare “needed items for the change over to the new Grand Master, i.e. pocket calendars, etc.” My aforementioned superior and I hypothesized that “etc” might mean skulls, rings that hold poison, magic plumb-bob and most holy and mysterious fez.

I think I pressed my parking luck

Remember how my parking lot attendant was creeping me out? Since writing that post I haven’t been back to his garage. Sometimes my van spends the day at a meter. At times I’ll cough up $4 to hitch my wagon at a bowling alley’s lot.

But lately, upon the advice of some sneaky co-workers, I’ve been leaving Ol’ Red in a (free!) hotel parking lot that has signs everywhere stating that only hotel guests may park there. There’s a greasy-haired, snaggle-toothed gremlin who watches from the hotel’s back doors to guard against malfeasance, and the game is to exit your car, duck out under the garage’s overhang, speedwalk up a hill and down the street to the office without him catching you.

About a month ago, I lost. I had pulled in next to a coworker and was nervously chatting with him before making my trek up the hill. I had turned the corner to the street, thinking I was safe, when the gremlin literally ran up to me, waving his arms, telling me my actions were verboten.

“You can’t (heave) park there (heave) unless you’re a (heave) hotel guest,” he panted.

“Oh really?” I asked innocently. “I didn’t see a sign.”

I apologized and drove across the street to the bowling alley. I waited a few days before trying again, and since then I’ve only parked there if I arrive by 8:40, figuring he doesn’t start patrolling until about 8:45.

This morning, I did everything right. I left my house on time, made sure there were no shadowy signs of life from the back door before I parked, silently locked and closed my doors, and began my speed walk up the hill. When I reached the street I thought I was safe, but the gremlin appeared on the second floor of the parking garage below me.

“Ma’am!” he screamed. “You can’t park there! Ma’am! MA’AM!”

I ignored him, thinking that if he caught up to me I could claim to have been listening to an iPod and didn’t hear him. When he started moving like he planned to follow me on my trajectory, I cut across the street and headed to the courthouse, thinking I could claim sanctuary.

“MA’AM! I’LL TICKET AND TOW YOU! MA’AM! DON’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME!”

I walked away from him and into the courthouse. I had to get a refund from the post office there anyway. When I was done, I circled around the government buildings and entered the skywalk, not wanting to reveal my place of employment in case he was still watching.

I don’t think he’ll really tow me… He didn’t see me get out of the car so there would be a chance that he towed the wrong one. Plus, I’m parked inside the garage between two cars. Could a tow truck really get in there?

Regardless, from now on, since I’m something of a wuss, my free ride (park?) is over.

Update: I followed a complicated route around the hotel at 11 a.m. so I could catch a glimpse of my car. She was safe. I returned for another peek at four, this time risking a route that put me much more out in the open. After ascertaining she was right where I left her, I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just drive to a meter so I wouldn’t have to make another harrowing journey to the site when I was done with work. The exact moment I was about to go into the garage, the gremlin drove right past me in a hotel van. I cast my eyes shoe-ward in hopes that he wouldn’t recognize me, then continued walking down the sidewalk in case he was spying on me from his rearview mirror. Then I jumped in Ol’ Red and got the heck out in my Dodge (get it?).

More news from the dead and dying animal beat

After the Windchill debacle of February 2008, I can’t claim to have been ignorant of what would happen when I wrote about a guy who hit a dog and is now suing the dog’s owners for damages to his car. Its name was Fester. It was a “special needs” dog after seizing as an infant and losing oxygen to the brain.

There was no way people weren’t going to “lap up” this “tail.” (Hyuk!)

When I got into the office I checked our website and, sure enough, it was the top-read story. It also had amassed three pages’ worth of comments from animal lovers and those with animal apathy alike. Then I got a call from a radio station in Montreal that wanted me to go on-air to comment on the story. Then I got another email from a nationwide Canadian station with the same request. Turns out the AP and Canadian Press had picked it up.

Those Canucks sure love their ailing critters.

I’ll update if I get impassioned pleas from animal lovers or more requests from the foreign press.

A Grand Idea: Tea House in a Tree House

On Friday evening I surprised the gentleman caller with a night's stay in a beautiful bed and breakfast in town for our anniversary. We took the proprietor's advice and pretended we were living in 1904, playing chess by the library's fireplace, tickling the ivories in the music room, toasting each other with champagne chilling in a grand silver urn, popping in a DVD... Oh. Whoops.

In the morning we awoke to a winter wonderland; a freak late-April snow storm had blustered a coating of snow on our quaint surroundings. We continued our game of make believe at breakfast, enjoying a fine array of eggs and chicken sausages on lovely china and sipped hot beverages from the most darling teacups.

Our fellow residents were discussing what they should do that frigid but fine day to make their stays even more perfect. I knew there was only one thing that could complete my 1904 experience, and I had such a hankering for it (the likes of which the gentleman had never seen).

I needed a fancy tea house, stat. One where the waitresses wear long, striped aprons and funny hats, where one must be wearing lace gloves to be properly attired, where there is a delightful selection of cakes and cookies and other delectable treats. I required a place much like this fancy tea house I went to in Paris, but better somehow...

A tree house! Yes! My fancy tea house would be made all the better (and fancier) if it were perched up in a a weeping willow, or some other fancy tree. I could hollow out the trunk to create a dumb waiter system to ferry fancy treats on silver trays from the kitchen. I would build a grand spiral staircase around the tree's exterior so the fancily dressed little girls (who will flock to my tea house in droves to celebrate birthday parties and have Princess Pretend Days) needn't get runs on their fancy stockings by climbing up.

I will instruct the birds living in my tree to chirp only the most charming string quartet music, and I will hang the branches with colored lanterns to make the setting even more festive than it already is.

This idea is gold, I tell you. If you are interested in being my financier do let me know.

The temptation of the carbs

It’s been Passover for almost a week now, and I’m craving things I usually don’t care for. Someone has brought muffins—big cakey, chocolatey, sugary muffins, the ilk of which I normally disdain—and boy do I want one. I want one so bad.

Most people think Passover isn’t so bad. How hard can it be abstaining from bread for just eight days? But it’s so much more than bread. It’s anything with flour in it, including pasta and tortillas. It’s grains like rice and whatever’s in tabouli. It’s corn, dagnabbit.

That cuts out a surprising number of lunch options, most notably: The Sandwich. I’ve been subsisting on salads all week and I’m STARVING. Inevitably I fill up with the nearest non-yeasted calorie source, and in this office it’s my buddy Will’s candy bowl. Props to Will, by the way, for having luscious Dove dark chocolate this week so at least I’m getting some antioxidants.

My carbophilia has yet to enter my dreams, but it’s getting to that point. We’ll see how I survive the remaining two days.

Lil’ Green the Cell Phone: February 2008-April 2008

I was just getting to know you, little phone, and your ways were beginning to bewitch me rather than beguile me. I finally figured out how to turn on your camera at the touch of the button rather than hunting through menu options. I was just getting used to your predictive text feature, and you were learning with me—you understood that when I typed the “4” and the “8” I was usually trying to say “Huzzah!”

The tiny grooves on your slim body made the most wonderful squeaky sounds when I dragged my nails across them. Your fancy screen glowed paisley orange. Every time my gentleman caller rang you sang, “Hey There Delilah” and it made me laugh because my gentleman caller hated that song.

You were so funny, little phone. I’ll miss that about you.

But I guess the God of Electronics needed you more than I, for last night at approximately 9:48 p.m. you met your watery grave in my second floor bathroom. You sizzled and made a few feeble “mews”—so different from the songs you used to sing me—and then left me forever.

Believe me when I say I tried to revive you, little phone. After delicately cleaning you with a Clorox wipe I blew on you with all my lung capacity in attempts to make you a little less damp, a little less cold, a little less lifeless. But it was all for naught. Your screen grew milky, like the eye of a sheep afflicted with glaucoma, and that was that.

I only knew you for two months, little phone, but that was enough to change my life forever. I suppose I should be grateful that I kept your predecessor, for that means I can suffer through a sufficient mourning period before I buy your replacement. Just know that even when that day comes, I shall never forget you.

She's a killer queen

I just finished a biography of Marie Antoinette and have come to the conclusion that, as Pink might say, she’s m!ssundaztood.

I expounded on the facts that led me to this conclusion in the first draft of this post, but then I realized I was just indulging the yearning to write an essay I have harbored since graduating.

Then I ordered myself to cease and desist from boring you. Then I obeyed myself.

Next up: a 700-page biography of Napoleon.

Baby Mama Drama

Ever since I moved home in January, my father has patted an invisible bundle of joy on his shoulder and looked to me plaintively. My mother has repeatedly made known her desire to be a grandmother. At a funeral I attended yesterday, my fellow congregants exhorted me to create some “happy news” this summer—an engagement would suffice, but what they really wanted was a little babyleh. The mazel tov’s would ring from the hillsides.

My guess is that it all comes down to bragging rights. Most of the folks in my parents’ set don’t have a whole lot to talk about now that their kids have ended their schooling and gone on to become boring adults. With no school-related achievements and accomplishments to laud, life events have become the new frontier. And if your kids are staying stubbornly single and barren, you lose.

But I still don’t really get the frequent hints and near-demands. I’m barely into my twenties and have yet to land a secure, benefits-providing job. Heck, I’m still moving cross-country at the rate of least twice per year. My baby would be raised in abject poverty and insecurity. Is that really what they want?

I’m clearly of fertile stock—there are four kids in my family—and I’m more than willing to pop ‘em out. It will happen, dear parents. Just give me some time to lay away enough capital to keep the tot clothed, fed and in clean diapers.

My parking garage attendant either has a crush on me or is plotting to kill me

Parking Garage Guy has sandy blond hair, chubby cheeks and prefers windjackets and the occasional baseball cap as garb. He seems to be in his late teens or early twenties, and is about 5'9'' from what I can tell (he's usually seated or leaning out his window). Please give this description to the authorities when the begin their inquest into who has buried a piece of my mangled flesh at every mile marker along I-35.

He's the type of guy who spends hours in his basement making YouTube videos of his light saber skills, the lovable weirdo who would burst into uncontrollable giggles with his buddies when teachers asked the class to turn to page 69, the overgrown pre-teen whose every Halloween costume involves a cape.

Our relations started innocently enough. At the end of my workday I would roll up to his station in my mom's battered minivan and we'd exchange pleasantries about the weather (me: Sure is frigid out! him: Yeah, my nose is full of booger-sicles), innovations in currency (me: Whoa-- the "5" is all huge and purple now. him: I could totally counterfeit that) and life events (me: Did you have a good weekend? him: Shyeah! Me and my friends head-butted each other's stomachs til we puked!).

His behavior has gotten more bizarre recently. Instead of saying something random and making me laugh, he's nervously repeated the same inquiry at least five times over the course of a few weeks:

Him: Do you need a receipt?
Me: No thank you.
Him: So why is it that you work downtown and stay here all day and never need a receipt? Don't you get reimbursed?
Me: No. Like I said, I work at the paper. They don't even have money to keep us all in a job. They're not going to pay for extras like parking.
Him: I think that's so lame.
Me: I know. That's what you thought the other four times we've had this conversation.

Last week, when I pulled up to his station he was pointing his opened phone at my face and grinning. I asked if he was taking a picture of me. "That's what they all ask," he replied. It's a natural thing to ask when there's a camera phone up in your grill, I said. He continued staring at his phone, smirking. Thoroughly creeped out, I put my ticket and the correct change on his ledge and got the heck out of Dodge. Lately he's taken to resting his chin in his hand and gazing at me, refusing to take my money and ticket until I say something to him. Then he pretends to have just woken up from a daydream.

I can only assume he's dreaming up ways to off me.

Friday night date with the pape

I've found that in the newspaper biz people tend to want to flog stories until they're good and dead. Every story could use a follow-up, so why not multiply the fun with three, four or 10 of the same thing?

On Friday my mission was to produce our fourth article in two weeks (and I'm not counting the many columns) about the movie "Leatherheads," a film that, if you'll remember, brought a certain George Clooney to my humble town. Though I'd already written about locals' reaction to a screening of the movie, this time it was premiering to a general audience. These folks would supposedly have a new, fresh take on the flick that I hadn't already gleaned from the previous sample set.

I got there way earlier than was necessary and was accosted by the manager of the local semi-pro football team that's hosting a "throwback" game in honor of the team on which "Leatherheads" is based. This dude has harassed me before-- he tried to get me to get the editor in chief to get George Clooney to do the coin toss for this selfsame game-- and he's relentless. On Friday he insisted I had the power to choose which photo would grace my story, and told me he would buy me two dozen roses if I ensured it would be of his three bored-looking players manning a table with a leather helmet signed by the film's stars. After I emphatically explained to him that photo selection was far from being under my jurisdiction, he tried to extract a promise that I would cover their upcoming game. I'm not in sports, I told him.

"This isn't sports news; it's front page news!" he insisted. Sadly, he's probably right.

When most everyone had trickled into the theater I purchased myself a kiddie combo and climbed solo to an empty row where I could watch George and Renee try to out-sass each other for the second time. Two of the three football players made their way toward my row and excused their "wide hips" as they thrust their crotches in my face en route to the seats to my left. They proceeded to chat and text their way through the movie, the best part of which was the "Sex and the City" trailer that preceded it.

Potential blog entries brainstormed during lunch time in the Skywalk

Look at you with your angst: A description of the hooligans from the downtown alternative high school that populate the Skywalk at all hours.

Walking through the Skywalk with a sandwich in my pocket: Don’t know how much I could flesh this out, but it has good rhythm. Might make for a nice song title.

Yo spring: where you at?: March is supposed to go IN like a lion, not OUT. God. Get your facts straight, Borealis.

Hippy for a day: I unwittingly forgot to put on deodorant today and have been self-conscious about it for approximately four hours now. I have yet to hear expressions of disgust from passers-by of my cube, so I think I’m going to survive the four hours I have left at the office before I rush home and slather it on. I’m thinking about the merits of buying a second “just in case” stick to keep in my desk.

Time for a snip: I find it outrageous that in the year 2008 the mullet continues to have a strong presence on the heads of my city’s denizens, several of whom are my coworkers. Evolve, people.

An alcoholic housewife thinks I have beautiful legs

Ma Nugget and I joined Curves on Monday, a circuit-style workout haunt for middle-aged women who want to get fit, stay active and have fun with just us gals!

I usually don a sweatshirt and calf-length yoga pants, but I went with shorts yesterday because I couldn't find my desired gear. After sweatin' to the Christian rock set to a techno beat, Ma Nug and I decided to reward ourselves with a few movies from Video Vision next-door. While she put some things in the car I sprinted into the store, my bright-white legs prickling with goosebumps.

"Look at you with your short shorts!" a voice behind me called. "But you have beautiful legs! I like that attitude! Think spring! Think spring! Short shorts! Yeah!"

"Oh... um, thanks," I said. "I was just at Curves, and yeah, my legs are really pale... but thanks."

"But that's natural," she insisted while flopping her hand forward. "Me, I'm going to Arizona next week so I'm tanning a little bit-- did I TELL you the deal I got?"

"Um... no..."

"I went to Pricshline-dot-com and got four tickets--FOUR!-- for $270 easch!" she slurred. "Can you BELIEVE that??? I mean, with fuel prices the way they are." She lowered to a whisper. "That'sch bullshit." She covered her mouth and raised her eyebrows as a 7-year-old walked by. "But seriouthly... that's just CRAP! So yeah, me 'n my two kids are going to Arizona for vacation. Tucson."

At this point Ma Nugs walked in and, seeing an opportunity to escape, I offered, "Tucson? Really? My mom's from there!" As she got entrapped I slowly backed away to gather the DVDs we wanted. When I came back I could see there was no chance we were going to get out of there anytime soon.

She told us about her daughter Tiffany, who's a state-ranked swimmer with a bigger booty than hers. "And she's thish tall!" she exclaimed, reaching far above her head. "She's 6-foot?" Ma asked. "Oh no. She's 5'7''." Tiffany wants to go to a private liberal arts college in the southern part of the state but has concerns about it because another swimmer she doesn't like is planning to go there.

"What middle school do you go to?" she asked me. "Well, I went to Woodland, but I actually graduated from college last year," I said. "NO! But you look so YOUNG! College? No! I don't believe it!"

Back to Tiffany: she's 16 but has just started up with a 21-year-old who's about to graduate from college. "You better believe we shat her down and had a convershation with this young man-- who may be very nisch, but you know how sometimesh young kids get real exshited with each other-- and we just told them you gotta use protection, you know! You've sheen what'sch going on with all these girls today!"

Finally Ma was able to drag us away. After we checked out we saw that she had leeched onto someone new. "Have you ever used Prischline-dot-com???"

Newsflash: Cub Reporter Actually Knows What She's Doing

After a far-too-long hiatus on political reporting, yesterday I was finally able to go back to reporting on my first love when one of our senators made a stop in our humble town to kick off his bid for reelection.

He was late, of course, so I spent the time before he showed his mug sweating in the overcrowded, tropically moist room and shooting the shi(r)t with a broadcast reporter .

Now, print and broadcast reporters may be of the same genus, but we’re of entirely different species. While both can be cocky and/or arrogant, these traits display themselves with much more frequency in the latter. By nature of their medium, broadcast reporters insert themselves into their reports and thus must concentrate on things other than the facts, things such as the degree of shine on their faces, whether their hair has been shellacked in place, etc.

And there’s something about their mediocre level of celebrity that makes them think they’re better than us lowly scribes who hide behind our bylines. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been elbowed out of the way by a broadcaster shoving a microphone in the face of someone I was just speaking to. I can’t tell you how many press conferences I’ve attended where broadcasters talk through others' attempts to speak and then grandstand instead of just asking a damn question in a plug to get more airtime.

But I digress.

Yesterday I had been in contact with a pair of spokespeople for this senator’s likely opponent. After said senator gave his spiel, I caught up with them outside to get their impressions. The aforementioned reporter hovered around us the whole time, trying to catch my eye and at one point actually hissing my name and beckoning.

“Those aren’t [senator]’s supporters!” he said as if he were feeding me career-saving information. “They work for [the other guy]!”

“Um, I know. But thanks,” I said.

Omigod I met George Clooney

I've been handling our arts and entertainment section for the past two weeks (something I'm woefully unqualified to do) while the regular arts reporter does an in-depth project. Therefore, when rumors began swirling that George Clooney might come to town to promote his new movie, I was the go-to girl. My nosing about came to nothing, and I kind of forgot about it until last week. The newsroom got a press release stating that not only were we getting George, his co-star Renee Zellweger would tag along as well. I could hear shrieks reverberate around our building as my co-workers received the news in their inboxes.

I wrote a story for the next day's pape about their impending visit, and then went to the screening of "Leatherheads" a few days later and wrote about that, too. This, apparently, was enough to qualify me to attend the press event yesterday. When we arrived on location, over-eager public relations hussies drunk on power only allowed us to descend to our seats in groups of five. My chaise was six rows back, behind the broadcast lovelies, the Strib and PiPress scribes, the public television and public radio voices and, yes, even our local radio stations' morning show DJs. How about a little love for the hometown pape? I mean, come on! My only solace was I was right next to the mayor and his wife, who's a pretty cool chick. (I wasn't the only one getting the shaft... a video camera-wielding photog from our pape got hustled by a trashy looking PR brat in 5-inch heels, a fellow alumna who went to school for broadcast. Guess it didn't work out.)

They packed in adoring fans all around the press pen. The ones with chutzpadik climbed up onto the trains to get a better view. A scream arose from the crowd as George and Renee chug-chug-chugged up to their platform. George was wearing a charcoal suit and a saucy gray newsboy cap. Renee was wearing a tweed dress and matching jacket, with 6-inch black Christian Laboutins and pearls, natch. She looked very shiny and taut and, as my dad likes to say, like she was farting lemons. George flashed his Sexiest Man Alive smile and made the ladies in the crowd swoon.

The mayor presented them with extremely phallic trophies-- blocks of wood with helmets on top-- and declared Mar. 24 Leatherheads Day. The fancy up-front reporters lobbed nothing but softballs at the stars (so how do you like our town? what's it like to be a celebrity? you have fans. what would you say to them if you could? it's cold here, huh?), to which they responded with a charming, witty repartee. Well, for the most part. Most of the questions went to George so Renee spent a lot of time looking bored and farting lemons.

The last question went to a woman in the crowd who had knit the pair mittens. It was all so hokey and heartwarming. I had made it my mission for the day to find out what George smells like, so I followed him around like an awkward, lost puppy trying to get a whiff. He turned around and saw me, shook my hand, and told me to have fun. Unfortch, didn't get close enough.

I proceeded to the front entrance, where they were scheduled to make a public appearance, to talk to some fans. There was a babushka who police weren't forcing behind the barrier, so I decided to lob her some questions. After a few I could tell she wasn't all there, so I aborted the interview. "I don't know what I'm doing here," she said. "I just saw all the people so I came down. I turned 85 last week. Here, look at my birthday card. Oh, is that him?" she asked, indicating a PR flack.

I migrated to the other side of the crowd, which ended up being a bad choice. As soon as George popped his head out of the door, the middle-aged women around me surged toward the barrier, screaming, "George! I love you George! George, come here! George!" A cameraman bopped me on the head quite a few times with his gear, and somehow ended up stepping all over my pants... I have footprints on them now. George was extremely gracious, greeting fans on either side of the entrance and even going to the other side of the street. Renee only greeting one side before lunging into the safety of her luxury SUV to fart some more lemons.