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There was a dark period of my life about five years ago when I was fresh out of college and couldn’t get a job–but that’s not really central to this story other than I had massive amounts of free time on my hands. One of the things I did to occupy my time was to drive down to San Diego and spend my days at the Indian casino. Now I know what you’re thinking (an unemployed fellow shouldn’t be spending his time at the Blackjack tables) but it sorta worked out for me. In retrospect, I might have been precariously close to having a gambling problem. Perhaps the only thing that prevented it from being a “problem” was that I always won.
Sometime around the height of my Blackjack days a dealer handed me a brochure that outlined the signs of a gambling problem. I’m not sure why he gave it to me (maybe it’s because I was still sitting at the same spot when he went home the night before). I never thought I had a gambling problem because I never showed any of the signs.
Inability to stop gambling. Why would I want to stop? I was winning.Betting bigger . . . . .
The PayPal thing turned out about how I expected…which wasn’t good for me. The automated response I received did nothing to help my concerns and had little to do with the problem. I was “assured” that PayPal was safe and secure (because if you can’t trust the emailed words of a stranger, who can you trust). There was no mention to why my bank account was removed; no reason given to why my purchases are being denied. We’ll see how they respond to my next letter. If this fails, I guarantee the third email will contain far more profanity (and perhaps a few comments about the sexual liberation of their mothers).
This is gold. A few months ago there was an officer-involved shooting in Anaheim–I remember the story when it happened. The police were called out to a neighborhood in the middle of the night because someone reported a robbery. Meanwhile, 20-year old Julian Alexander was sleeping in his house when he thought he heard someone outside. He went outside to confront the prowler; the police were looking for a suspect. It was dark and…well, the wrong place at the wrong time. I feel bad for the family; I feel . . . . .
I’m not sure what to think of this, but my wife Photoshopped our wedding photos. She didn’t like the color of her dress so she changed it. You can’t rewrite history. I just hope her next alteration does involve replacing me with someone better looking.
When I was a kid, I used to twist around in circles just because I liked to see the world spin when I stopped. I grew out of it eventually–but the point is I didn’t use to get sick. First time I went on “Star Tours” I was ten years old and I didn’t get sick. Merry-go-rounds, carousel, or roundabouts, it didn’t matter: I could ride any amusement park attraction without getting sick (except the Teacups–that’s way too much spinning for any human to endure).
As I get older, I realize my stomach ain’t what it use to be. They say taste buds evolve as you get older; allergies can develop after adolescence. I think susceptibility to motion sickness is another change you body makes when you get older. My parents couldn’t tolerate even the mildest roller coaster…and I fear I might be joining them.
Over the past couple years, I find myself about to . . . . .
I hate traffic. It’s probably because I’m an impatient person. Disneyland is my worst nightmare because the lines and a traffic jam is nothing but a line with cars. My job, my girl, my family–they all live within ten minutes because if I had to drive 11 minutes, I probably wouldn’t see any of them again.
Last month I caught in the mother of all traffic jams. I know there have been 80-car pile-ups in the Midwest, but since that hasn’t happened to me I’m gonna pretend they never happened. I was sitting on the 210 freeway–completely not moving–for reasons unknown. I know this is SoCal and folks sit in traffic jams everyday–but not me. The idiots who work in LA and live in OC brought that upon themselves. If they wanna sit in traffic for an hour each way, that’s their business–the lifestyle they chose. But not me. I hate traffic more Kevin Costner movies and people who vote for the Green Party. You’re forced to do nothing but sit and wait. I’m not an important person–but I have more important things to do than sit around twiddling my thumbs.
I called The Girlfriend up. She said according to . . . . .
I can’t think of a bigger waste of space in California than carpool lanes (well, maybe golf courses). Carpool lanes are put on freeways to encourage commuters to rideshare. In theory, carpoolers are rewarded with a lane that has less traffic and shortens their commute. It sounds like a lovely idea and the intentions are honorable. Less cars on the road means a cleaner environment, decrease in freeway congestion, lowering of gas prices, and a more productive and happy workforce.
But it’s all a load of crap.
First of all, NO ONE in California carpools–at least not in SoCal. The Girlfriend and I both have the same employer. We both live in the same complex. Yet we each take separate cars to work because our shifts don’t start or end at the same time. Carpooling isn’t feasible because I’d end up sitting around with nothing to do for 90 minutes in the morning; she’d do the same in the afternoon. And we’re lucky enough to identical starting points and destinations.
The idea of strangers commuting together every morning is utterly ridiculous. Rush hour traffic is impossible–on and off the freeways. If I had to go two miles out of my . . . . .
I was at Disneyland with The Girlfriend trying to recuperate from the 451 degree temperature outside. We noticed a kid run by us, screaming with tears in his eyes. He was a tiny lad–The Girlfriend said he looked to be about three-years old but I’m never good at that sorta assessment. What I am good at is recognizing other people’s misery. The kid was bawling hysterically and my immediate assumption was the kid was lost. But then I saw a pack of 12-year old girls flock to his aid and figured one of them had to be his sister. The girls’ behavior struck me a particular. They kept their distance from the boy; trying to engage in conversation but were intentionally avoiding contact. A sister would pick up or hug her crying little brother. Something seemed amiss and that’s when I intervened.
“Is he lost,” I asked the girls.
They said yes and he started screaming “I want my mommy!”
“Where did you last see her?” He pointed in the direction he came from–completely far from where we were.
“We need to find a cast member.” With Disneyland routinely welcoming more than 40,000 guests a day, a lost child . . . . .
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