Mortgage Days I – “Nen Barter”

One thing I think I’ve learned after three years in finance is that karma is complete BS.  I never believed in it to begin with (in fact, I was accosted by co-workers in my earliest days at my last job for stating that I didn’t buy into karma at all), but it has been confirmed all the more:  sometimes evil and mean people are also really smart and clever when it comes to the system around them, and can secure themselves to be evil and mean until their last days with little-to-no consequences in this life.  I’ll probably expand on that idea more later on in this “series,” but know that for now I’m just being careful with names in these entries.  So this is the story of a guy named Ben in Chicago, but when referring to his full name, he’ll be “Nen Barter.”  Did you see what I did there?  Eh?

So let’s get some of the technical stuff out of the way so I can tell you how amazing Ben was (and I mean “amazing” in a not very positive sense).  Also, after this, the following entries should be more concise.

After being employed at this place for a year, I was moved to the Administration Department and I helped in the process of hiring new loan officers (“hiring” can be something of a misnomer since all loan officers, or LO’s, are contracted and work 100% off commissions, and less than 2% ever came into the corporate office).  Over the course of the first of my two years doing that job, I slowly and eventually took over the entire process:  from collecting the needed documents, gathering application and licensing fees, entering their information into our system, doing a complete background and due diligence report, and making official proposals to the executive staff to hire or decline.  The complete application package consisted of a 12 page contract, filled out completely with personal and contact information, signed and dated, an I-9 form (for the DHS to prove you are who you say you are and that you can work in the USA), a tax form (many states allowed W9, but some, like Illinois, required a W4 for LO’s), crystal clear copies of identification per the I-9 (a passport, or a driver’s license and social security card, etc.), a resume, and a $45 application fee to cover background check costs, plus any state licensing fees (for this story, you need to know that Illinois has a $35 fee). Around the point that Ben came “knocking,” I was running maybe 70% of the process, and my genius bosses (sarcasm) were bringing in a dim-witted loan officer to assist with the other 30% as he also recruited other loan officers for the company.   Seriously–this guy knew no other way to survive in life other than trying to find some way to manipulate someone else out of their money.  We’ll call him “Todd.”

Ben sent in his hire package about a week before Todd started.   Ben’s package included three of the twelve pages of the contract, a W9, an I-9, and a hand-written note that said “I’ve been in the mortgage business for two years.  Please rush my application.”   Oh, I should also mention that he only wrote in his name on the W9 and I-9 (they require SSN, date of birth, address, etc.), and gave minimal information on his contract and didn’t sign it.  Also, his handwriting made it look like he was filling it out at the post office with a line of 15 angry people behind him, shouting for him to hurry up.  Except this was a fax.  As was procedure, I emailed him letting him know that I needed 1) the complete contract, filled out in its entirety and signed and dated, 2) proper identification per the I-9, 3) the $45 and $35 fees, 4) his resume or, at the least, a 10-year work history, and 5) a W4 instead of a W9.  Within the next day or two, I got another fax from Ben.  This time it was almost the same documents as before, with all the same, incomplete information on them except he had ONE additional page from the contract included.  I wrote again, telling him what he needed to send in, and a day or two later he sent in another fax, this time he was missing the W9 altogether, had three completely different pages of the contract included (but no other pages, not even the ones he sent before), and also had a piece of paper with a black rectangle on it, which I could only assume was an attempt to photocopy his driver’s license.  I wrote back to him, yet again, and shortly afterwards he sent another fax, which was a weird mishmash of his two previous faxes, with other stuff missing, too.  At this point I just said “screw him,” and filed the stuff to the side and started focusing on other applicants.  You know, ones who could follow instructions.

Well it wasn’t long after this that Todd started.  Todd’s position was one of many mind-blowing decisions made by the executive staff to put an ignorant person in authority over me, while telling me that I had to train them.  Our office relationship quickly became about me giving him small, simple tasks to do to free up my time to focus on the difficult ones he was hired to supervise, because he’d let stuff sit on his desk for days as he chatted on the phone all day with other loan officers.

It was about two weeks into Todd’s time in the office that Ben came back up.  You see, the whole time I was figuring out how to manage Todd as he was supposed to manage me, Ben continued sending in faxes.  Usually one a day, sometimes more.  At best they were faxes of the same stuff I’d already received with one additional page added; at worst they were a single page.  Sometimes he’d fill out a new form of some sort with the information he was missing on the previous form, but not put the information on the previous form on this one (e.g. he’d have one I-9 with just his name and address on it, then he’d fill out another one with his social security number and birth date, then another one with his name and social security number, then another one with his address and social security number, and so on and so on).  I ended up with a very thick stack of papers in Ben’s file because I didn’t waste time sorting through them.  Up to this point, Ben had just been fax-happy and never emailed a word.  Well, now he started to ask about the status of his application.  I would respond to tell him he still had not sent a complete package, nor was anything sent in the way I told him.  I would then list out in the kind of detail a parent gives to their six-year-old what he needed to do.  He would respond that he did exactly what he was told (he hadn’t), and then fax another incomplete set of papers.

(For the record: at this point in the company history, the goal was to hire as many people as possible, so we put up with this crap until we could do a background check (which required a complete application) before we declined; about a year later the policy was changed and a time-limit to get a complete package was implemented, though not always enforced by the executives.)

After a few days of this, he started to call the office.  I would see his name on the caller ID and would refuse to pick up–as far as I was concerned, he was a discard because he couldn’t be trusted to handle people’s very personal financial information, which is a huge liability to our company (people can get huge fines or lose all commissions and fees in the mortgage business for something as trivial as not check-marking a box on some random form, and we would be liable because it would be under our license).  Eventually, though, since I wasn’t picking up, he got on the phone with Todd.  Oh, they just had a great conversation.  Todd comes to me after getting off the phone with him, “Hey, man, how come you’re giving Nen Barter such a hard time?”

“Giving him a hard time?” I replied in disbelief,  ”He’s completely incompetent and has spent the last three weeks or more sending me incomplete packages while refusing to follow the instructions I give him.”

“He says he’s sent it all like you asked.”

“I know he said that, but its not true; look,” and I would show him the 40+ pages of faxes I’d received from him, “And none of this equals a full package.”  Todd saw it and laughed and just went back to his desk, shaking his head.

The next day I hear Todd talking to Ben, “Well, Ben, you’re not sending the stuff in like he’s asked. . . . I know that, but we can’t do anything until we have everything . . . Man, I’ve seen it, you don’t have everything.”  After finishing, Todd asks me to email Ben what he needed to send again.

“He’s a waste of time, Todd.”

“Why do you say that?  I’ve talked with him a few times, he seems like a cool guy.  I think he’d make a good salesman.”

“He’s going to be handling people’s financial information.  He cannot be that disorganized, and he cannot fill out important documents so incompletely.  He’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, he is a bit scatterbrained,” said Todd, to my surprise, “I was talking to him earlier and I was in mid-sentence and he said, ‘Oh, I’ve got to go, there’s this hot girl I gotta talk to,’ and hung up on me.”

I didn’t say it, but I was thinking, Really, Todd?  You think this guy is quality after he does that?  Are you that dense?

Yes, Todd was.  He still pushed for me to keep working with Ben.  I argued and fought and demanded that my time be used on quality applicants (the few we had).  Well, Todd took it to the president of the company and I was ordered, at an executive level, to proceed.  Since it was clear that emails weren’t working, I got Ben on the phone and took him page by page, line by line, though what he needed to send to me.  (“And the next page starts, at the top, with a continued sentence that says, ‘at will and can be . . .,’ is that the page you have?”  ”Yes.”  ”Okay, then the next page starts with the end of another sentence that says, ‘liability,’ and then item twelve starts after that.  You have that one?” and so on).

Well . . . the fax he sent minutes later was STILL incomplete, but it had the last few pieces I needed to complete the package from the now-60+ pages I had from him.  I put it together like a puzzle, tossed the tons of duplicate pages, and started on the background check/due diligence report.

Part of our background check was checking credit history.  Ben had a credit score in the mid-400’s.  In case you don’t know, that’s REALLY REALLY bad.  If  you’ve got a 575, you’re not doing well at all, 700 is decent, and 750+ is just “good.”  His was close to 450.  He had, if I remember right, three repossessions of sports cars in the previous three years (and he was 26 or so at the time).  Since the proposal to hire or decline was in my hands, I saw no other solution but to decline.  I wrote up the report, explaining the previous month’s events and what I found in doing a check on him (not much else of note other than his poor financial history, really, but that was more than enough), and sent it to the CEO/Owner of the company, who made the final decision.  This guy, whom I will call “Matt,” sent an email to Ben, and I was CC’d.  He copied and pasted the bulk of my report into his email and commented to Ben, “See below, I’m not sure we’d be comfortable with you representing our company if this is how you handle the application process.  How can we trust you to be as organized as you need to be to properly do mortgages?”

Ben responded, “I have a processing team of three older women who have over 50 years experience combined.  They handle all that paperwork stuff.” (Author’s note: 90% of mortgage after someone agrees to get one is “paperwork stuff”).

A day or so passed by, and I got an email from Matt in which he said to me, “good call.”  I looked and there was correspondence between him and Ben on which I was not included.  There was a little more back-and-forth of Ben making a very poor case for himself, and Matt finally saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that you’ll be a good fit with us.  I wish you well.”

Ben responded, “Whatever, man.  What the f**k do you care about how I organize my business?  It’s all just commissions.  This is bullsh*t, just like your whole stupid company.”

. . . and that’s actually the last I heard from Ben.  Writing that makes this part feel a little anti-climactic, but I guess that’s just the nature of this particular story.  In the end I ended up “winning” that one, but it was far too long of a journey to get there.  Actually, many of these stories I’m going to tell I did end up “winning,” but the part that amazes me is how many times I went through the same crap with the executives to keep a dangerous person out of the company.

Okay, this one’s long enough.  Next time I might talk about Pector Hementel.  Ha!  These names are so funny when I switch letters like that.

 

Mortgage Days – introduction.

I like to tell stories.  Some of the best, and most readily available, stories are ones from the work place.   I’ve really been lacking a good audience for mine, though, since up until two months ago I worked in mortgage.  As any other workplace, it was filled with its crappy managers and bosses, stupid customers, and mind-boggling coworkers.  However, the circumstances that allow those qualifiers to be present get lost on many people because there’s so much industry babble that gets involved.  I end up spending so much time explaining what means what that the story disappears and the conversation becomes a lesson in Mortgage 101.

On the other hand, though, I have the desire to blog more often (both because I enjoy it and because I wish to improve my writing skills, as it is, at my core, one of my two passions; I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit wordy and I’d like to correct that).  So at this moment I am making it official that I will do a certain number of blogs in a row that are those lovely, blow-your-mind, oh em gee people are ridiculous kind of work stories from my three years at my last employer.  I’ve already told several from Steak ‘n Shake, one from RentACenter, and at least one from my days at Kohls, along with mentions of my days at McDonald’s.

So let’s pick a number of entries to do.  I would like a good challenge–something to force me to be concise and clever–while at the same time not stretch the idea so far that even I can’t stand it.

How about five?  Yes.  I will pull out five stories from my mortgage days that deal with the most over-the-top, ridiculous, crazy, money grubbing people you couldn’t begin to imagine.  This should be fun.

 

Jeff the Car Salesman – 2 year anniversary, edited and revisited

In these days of joblessness, I’m not paying much attention to the dates on the calendar.  I was shocked a little bit (though only a little) when someone mentioned to me Sunday night that the next day was Columbus Day, America’s most ignored holiday (but good luck finding a bank that’s open).  Well, Columbus Day weekend, whether I ever have it off again ever, is always going to be remembered for one specific thing by me.

Keep in mind that its been two years, including a leap year, since the following events took place, so I thought that today, October 13, 2009, was the two-year anniversary of my day with Jeff the Car Salesman–but it turns out that these things actually happened on October 6-8, 2007, not October 13-15 as I had thought.  REGARDLESS! If you’re reading this and don’t know this story, you’re in for a treat.  For all intents and purposes, this is just a copy-and-paste re-post of the story I placed here in April 2008.  The exception is that I’ve edited it to make the story flow better (and I’ve kept it all in past-tense this time, instead of both past- and present-tense as it was before; now you may read it and relax that it is grammatically correct)  So without further ado (get comfortable), I give you, Braden vs. Jeff the Car Salesman.

I wrecked my Chrysler Concorde on October 2, 2007.  It was very sad.  It was even more sad when I was informed that my insurance company declared it a total loss, even though the damage was slightly less than the value of the car (I think it’s if the damage is more than 70% of the value of the car, it’s totaled, and mine was something to the tune of 90-95%).  It was a great car.  It looked good, it ran great, it was roomy, full of awesome features and luxury things that a guy in his mid-twenties with my income doesn’t usually have.  I was actually planning on driving it until the engine could not possibly carry it another mile, possibly another six to seven years or more. But I had to say goodbye and look for a new vehicle.

The following weekend – Columbus Day weekend – I began my car search.  I started by driving up to Shoreline on Aurora to the Enterprise Car Sales office.  This place was suggested by one of my bosses, and it sounded appealing because the commission structure for their salesmen is something like $500 per sale.  This their goal is to sell you a car that works, and not get you in the most expensive one they can.  This was perfect for me because I crumble in high-pressure situations, especially sales situations, and I didn’t want to get taken.  Since my total funds from the accident were going to be a little over $6000, I figured I could easily finance $2000-4000 and get a decent $8000-10,000 car.  However, I was informed by the guys at Enterprise that when it comes to car loans from banks, they don’t like to do less than $5000 in financing.  My brain is slow, so at that moment I only rationalized what they were telling me, which is that I’m stuck with a car that will cost $6000 or less, or $11,000 or more.  I had not messed with my budget that morning to see how much of a monthly payment I could handle–but I did know, without doubt, that financing anything over $4000 was too much.  This “rationalization” was not actually my only option.  A little creative thinking and I could have been back in that range I wanted, and I would do just that in a few hours, but know that at this point this is how I was approaching my car search.

I looked at what Enterprise had available and nothing was that impressive, neither in my old price range or my new price range.  So I left with their business cards and positive impressions and drove south again on Aurora, towards home but stopping at the other various used lots on the way.  One of these lots was a Chrysler/Dodge/Jeep dealership named Town and Country.  Since I loved my Concorde so much, and was hoping to find another one or at least a decent Chrysler with which to replace it, I stopped in.  Their used lot was NOT priced for me.  There wasn’t a single car under $16,000.  I know that these places can come down in price, but with my negotiation skills I’m not expecting to get anything down to an affordable range, even my now-disregarded $10,000 range.  So nothing in my immediate vicinity is affordable.  I glanced around me and saw one corner of this small used lot at which I had not yet looked.  I debated turning around and getting back in the truck that Al Gray lent me for the week, and leaving . . . but I made the fateful decision to check that corner . . . and as I was walking there I saw him coming towards me.

“Hi, there! My names Jeff!

“Hi, I’m Braden.”

“Hello, Braden. So, seeing anything you like?”

“Um, actually everything seems a little out of my range.”

“Well what’s your range?”

Okay – I need to interrupt.  As mature as I like to think I am, sometimes I find myself in situations that make me feel like I’m alone and awkward again, like I was in middle school and high school, and that boy comes out and lies about things in order to not appear out of place.  So, I answered Jeff.

“Uh . . . I can’t really go over . . . $12,000.”

“Well there’s this one over here!” he said as he took me over to a dark grey Sebring. “It would have to come down a lot, but we can work something out.” The 2003 Sebring was priced at around $16,500.

I continued to try to play it cool rather than just dismiss interest and leave.  I act like I’m giving the car a once-over, and notice that there’s some scratches on it and the grill on the front is somewhat busted.  Before I can say anything, Jeff speaks up again, “Would you like to drive it?” I can remember not wanting to, but I don’t remember saying either yes or no.  I must have said, “yes,” though, because he got some keys and we took it out.

During this test drive, Jeff made small talk.  “Are you originally from Seattle?”

“No.”

“Where are you from?”

“Illinois.”

“Oh, really? Wow! What brought you out here?”

“My church in Illinois started a new church here a little over three years ago, and I moved out here to be part of it.”

“Ah, I see. <weird look> I’ve been going to the same church for about four years now, I like it . . . blah blah blah ”

Great.  Now he knows I’m a Christian, and a serious one, too, because the list of church-goers who would move across the nation for the sole purpose of joining a church is a bit short.  While I’m, of course, not ashamed of my faith, nor do I ever hide this fact about myself, in high-pressure sales situations like this was about to be, it’s not in my best interest for him to know this.

We got back to the dealership. “So, how about you come inside and we draw up some numbers?”

Well, I liked the car.  It drove just like my Concorde.  Since I didn’t know how big of payments I could handle, it made sense to see what the payments on this thing would be, and then I can run that number into my budget at home and see if it was doable.

So, yes, Jeff.  I’ll come inside.

We sat at his modern, open desk, decorated with family photos and pen cups and some paraphernalia for some college team that I can’t remember.  I do remember it wasn’t UW.  I fill out a form that allows him to run my credit and he said he’d be back in about five minutes.  Well . . . he was gone for 15-20.  I didn’t leave, though.  I’ve thought about why a lot since then, and I’ve only been able to conclude that I’m the kind of person who will not leave a conversation unless it is understood between all parties involved that the conversation was over.  Of course, there’s the other factor of this, which is that I felt as if Jeff was in control of the whole situation and I had to follow his lead; as you’ll continue to see, I was not at my most assertive that day.  (And yes, I really did want to see if I could afford that car, too.)  I sat at his desk, looking out of the big glass display room, watching the Saturday traffic roll by, listening to the hustle and bustle behind me, hearing the humongous projection-screen television playing some football game about ten feet from me . . . and then Jeff pulled up outside in a black 2005 Dodge Stratus.

Back inside, he sat back down across from me and showed me my credit report. Upon seeing it I felt very proud of my median score of 777, then thought about how cool Stryper was, made a mental note to get another report someday so I can figure out how many credit cards I’ve destroyed but never canceled, and then I turned my attention back to Jeff.

The prices for the Sebring per month were somewhere in the mid $200’s, depending on the amortization. I knew that was way to much, but I still didn’t know how much “enough” would be, so I told him I  had to leave to figure this out.  Well, without transition, he started the pitch on this black Stratus he had pulled into my line of sight.  It was virtually the same car, but with the Dodge name on it so it’s cheaper!  Oh, also it’s a 4 cylinder rather than a V-6, and had less features.  But they looked similar.  Oh, and I could tell from less than ten feet away that it was covered in scratches.  He pushed and pushed for me to test drive this one, too, so I did.  When we come back, we went back inside to “look at some more numbers.”

The rates he showed me weren’t much better (I think the lowest one was like $195 a month, even though the car was around $2000 cheaper).  I stayed quiet after each of his suggestions to not lead him into thinking that I was interested, but he took my silence as a challenge to keep trying.  Eventually I realized that sitting there was doing neither of us any good, since I didn’t know my numbers to begin with, but every time I’d mention that I needed to find out what I could afford for sure, he’d drop the price or propose some other course of action.  (Now, as he continued to pitch, I begain to realize a more creative way to use the money I had to get back into the price range I originally had; I’ll spare you the boring details, but just know that I’m back up to a $10,000 limit).

So I kept saying nothing except, “I need to go home to go over my budget,” and he kept dropping the price.  I didn’t become interested until he said he’d see if he can get me the car for $10,000 at $150 a month.  After a few seconds of thinking, I decide that if that price could be attained, I’d get it.  Ten thousand dollars for a two-and-a-half year old car with 27,000 miles on it?  Tell me you wouldn’t if you could.

So he kept me waiting another 30 minutes, and in the meantime I called my roommate and had him look up stuff about this car online, on which he reports mediocre reviews.  As I talked to him, I also did a closer inspection of the car and not only notice more scratches and scuffs, but one of the tires has a very significant tear in it.  I also called my dad, who opened his Consumer Reports booklet and found the same things my roommate did.  Finally, Jeff returned to the desk with a solemn smile on his face, “We’re a ways away.”  In the same breath he started showing me payments of $190 and saying the car will cost at $11,500.  “Really, Braden, $40 isn’t all that much more a month.”  Yeah, that’s what he said; no joke.  Forty dollars was one week’s gas money for my Concorde, so actually it is a LOT more a month, Jeff.

I told him again that I had to go home to check my budget.  “Here!”  He flipped a piece of paper over in front of me and hands me the pen, “Do your budget right here. Write out your expenses. You make this much a month, how much is your rent? You spend, what, $100 on groceries a month?”  The sad thing is that I was starting to crumble so badly under his pressure that I actually attempted this for a few seconds, and then felt BAD that I couldn’t do it.  However, my budget was pretty detailed; ask someone who’s seen it.  There was no way I could do it from memory with pen and paper.

To my surprise, he didn’t pressure me to keep writing out my budget, he just went right back to dropping the price, though not as much as he did before.  My full collapse under pressure at this point was imminent, and I begin to be trapped in the mind-set that I have to take what I’m given this next time around.  I had been sitting in that dealership for so long that I was starting to forget the world outside of it.  I was forgetting that I could keep looking for other cars if I just walked away.  I began to forget that I had, at that point, only looked at four cars.  I completely forgot that I’m supposed to be the one in control, and that if I walk away he’s the one who looses.  Forgot all of that.  Plus, he started to add in his sob-story, “Hey, today is Saturday!  It’s supposed to be our big money making day, and it’s been dead around here.  It’s past 2 p.m. and we haven’t made a single deal yet.  We’re desperate today so we’re willing to push the line to sell a car.  You’re getting a steal on this thing. If we’d had a normal Saturday, we wouldn’t have dreamed of coming this low.”

Well there you have it.  This pricing is a one time shot.  I know because he just told me.  I’m trapped, now.

Eventually he got the car down to $11,100 at $170 a month.  I didn’t want it for that price. I didn’t even want that car, but remember the things I forgot . . . so he headed back to the back to talk to that “guy” with whom these salesmen are always talking, and I go back out to look at the car a bit closer again, and I just felt so sick about the whole situation.  I looked at the scratches again, I looked at the scuffs, I looked at the large tear in the tire, and I went back inside and sat down.  Again.  Jeff returned and he was beaming, which meant he got the pricing he wanted.  He sat the papers and the pen in front of me–the pen and papers to authorize him to draw up the papers for the financing–and waited for me to sign.  I couldn’t get that sour feeling out of my stomach, that I had lost and that was about to pay too much for a car I didn’t want.  I sat and looked at the paperwork, then back out at the car, then back at the papers again.  He saw me hesitating, “it’s a good car, Braden.”

“It has a lot of scratches on it.”

“Well we haven’t even cleaned it up yet.  Remember we just got it on the lot today and we hadn’t gotten it ready to be shown yet. We’ll get it washed and waxed and most of those will be buffed out.”

“I noticed one of the tires is in really rough shape.”

“Um . . . well, see . . . the thing is I’ve already come down in the price so much already, there’s really not much I can do about new tires.”

I was already defeated. “Okay.”

So I signed the papers, and Jeff smiled from ear to ear and enthusiastically shook my hand, “Great doing business with you, Braden. This will take about 15 minutes to get ready so go ahead and enjoy the game over there and I’ll come get you when it’s time! And you’d better get my name out there and send some referrals my way from that church of yours, okay?”

“Okay.”  For the record that wouldn’t have been my response had I not been so squirrel-ified at that moment.

So I sat on the couch in front of the giant television and watched some game I didn’t care about and liked much less than I normally would have because I was not happy about my decision.  I started to think about how I still wasn’t sure if I could even afford $170 a month. I thought about the possible repairs I might get stuck with on top of the cost of the car.  I thought about the damaged tire. I was freaking out.

The 15 minutes that I was promised turned into 20, then 30, then 40.  The longer I was away from Jeff’s high-pressure sales, the more rationale returned to me.  I was kicking myself as I realized I could have just gotten up and left.  I was so upset with myself for trying to not look like a buffoon for standing in a lot of $16,000 cars and only being able to afford $6000, instead of manning up and admitting I was in the wrong place.  I was groaning on the inside because I had managed to forget that I had no intention of actually buying a car that day.

I had never done this before, and I had no idea how obligated I was.  They were drawing up the papers for the financing.  Did that mean I was stuck?  Could I still walk?  I had a sneaking suspicion that Jeff wouldn’t give me a straight answer if I were to ask him (besides, he was already smarming up a couple of new customers ten feet to my right).  This is when I finally remember God, and I prayed, “Okay, I really need help with this!  I don’t know if you can get me out of this, but I really screwed up and I let myself get walked on and I need a rescue!”  Suddenly it crossed my mind to call someone who would know.  I called my dad again and asked him.

“You’re not obligated at all until you drive off that lot, son.  Actually, you technically have two days after you leave to change your mind, but that’s all a lot harder after you’ve signed the papers for the financing.  If you haven’t signed the financing papers, then you can just leave.”

Great!  Thanks, Dad!  Thanks, God!  So what did I do?  I walked back inside.  sigh . . .

“Hey, Braden!” shouted Jeff as I walked back in the doors, “They’ve got everything ready, man. I’ll take you back there.”  I tried to muster up the courage to say that I was walking, but I couldn’t.  All that same lack of control I felt before was returning.  Jeff led me back through a narrow hallway into a small office and sat me down across from a young man, probably younger than me, and introduced me.  I can’t remember his name.  I wasn’t listening; I was working on trying to figure out how to leave, and I knew I had to do it before I put my signature on that paper that this young guy slid in front of me.  I didn’t know if I could do it with Jeff there, as it seemed he held some intimidation factor over me.  I just knew if I said something in front of him, he’d play some words on me that would make me see “error” in my own decisions, and make me give in.  Jeff wished me well and headed back out the sales floor to keep smarming.  This new guy, significantly less imposing, marked some lines for me to sign and initial.  I took the pen in my hand, looked at the paper, and . . .

“Look, man.  I got really high-pressured into this, but the truth is this is the fourth car I’ve seen on my first day looking, I’m not that happy with it, and I’m not even sure if I can afford this.”

The guy was obviously stunned, and a little worried, “Well, if you’d like I can go see if we can come down in the price some more.”

I didn’t want to explain to him that Jeff had “already come down as far as he can,” and frankly I didn’t care at that point. We got up and walked back through that narrow hallway, him ahead of me.  He stepped into a little booth area with a bunch of banking guys in it and I heard him say, “Hey, do you guys think we could come down in the price some more for Mr. Boast?” His voice trailed off in my ears because as he talked to these bald guys in a glass office, I kept walking, right out the front door. I walked out in a way that it was right behind Jeff’s desk, so his back was to me. I knew that if he saw me leaving, he’d stop me, and I’d be at his mercy again.  I walked as quickly to the truck as I could without making it look like I was running there.  I tried to pull out of the lot, but the car in front of me wasn’t pulling onto Aurora.  I got more and more nervous that I wasn’t going to make it, but finally the car turned.  I pulled forward and had to wait for around six cars to pass by, and each second that ticked made me more and more anxious.  Finally, traffic was clear enough and I drove out of the lot just in time to hear Jeff running behind me, “WAIT!!!”

The adrenaline rush that followed was like crack.  Or at least I’d assume it was like crack. I’ve never done crack. Well, during the nearly four (count them: FOUR) hours I spent at that dealership, Enterprise had called me and left a message, letting me know that they’d come across a car that might fit my budget better, so I start heading back up there to see what they had.  In the 5-10 minutes it took me to drive there, Jeff called me four times.  He left a message the second time (and that message was nearly three minutes long).  I got to Enterprise and shared my story with them, and they looked up the 2005 Dodge Stratus on Blue Book . . . and the Blue Book value for perfect condition was $11,500.  Jeff went $400 under that and said it was the best deal possible.  I asked for a minute to call Jeff back, as I felt it was an honest thing for me to actually speak with him.  They obliged, and what I thought would be a 30-second, “Sorry, I’m not comfortable about this right now, if I change my mind I’ll let you know. Bye,” phone call actually went like this:

“Braden! What happened man?  I thought we had a good, low-pressure thing going here!  I’m telling you, you’re getting a good deal on this car, man.  This is a steal!  If it’s the scratches you’re worried about, we’re going to buff them out!”

“Sorry, Jeff, but I’m not comfortable about this right now, if I change my mind I’ll let you know.  B–”

“Well, Braden, I can’t guarantee you that I’ll be able to get you the same price on a different day, man.”

“That’s fine,” I responded, and then the conversation from my end turned into the following:

“Uh-huh.  Yeah.  Jeff?  Jeff.  Jeff.  Jeff.  Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  Right, but– Jeff.  Jeff.  Jeff?  JEFF!  Jeff.  No.  Jeff.  No.  Jeff?  No.  Jeff?  No.  I have to go.  I have to go.  Jeff, I have to go.  Jeff.  Jeff.  Jeff.  No.  Uh-huh.  Jeff, I have to go.  Jeff, I have to go.  Jeff, I’m going.  Jeff, bye.  Jeff, bye.  Jeff, bye.  Bye.  Bye.  Okay, fine.  Thank you.  Bye.”

I finally get off the phone, talked with the Enterprise guys and yada yada yada not interesting I didn’t like the car they had and it’s not important.

Sunday.  The next day.  The Blue Sky 3rd Anniversary Party.  The one we had in the auditorium because it rained on our first planned day and then on our rain day.  While preparing sandwiches, I got a phone call and a voice mail.  From Jeff.

“Hey, Bradeeeeeen!  Jeff here at Townandcountrychryslerjeep, and I just got out of church myself [emphasis added] and I was looking over our deal here, and I think the key is that if we can save you just $500 that that will make all the difference, whether it be in the down payment or on the total cost of the car.  [He then proceeded to redundantly repeat what he'd just said about $500 for about two minutes].  So I’ll be here for a few hours today, go ahead and give me a call!  Bye!”

I did not call back.

The next day I had off from work because of Chris Columbus and all, so I spent it looking for cars again.  While I stood in another lot on Aurora (but much smaller and much farther south),  I received another phone call.  I reached for my phone and started opening it out of reflex, and I knew before I looked who it was. I had my earpiece in, too, so I technically already had the phone to my ear.  I was stuck.

*gulp* “Hello?”

“Bradeeeeeeen!  Jeff here!  How you doin?”

. . . and I hung up.

Not one minute later I get a call again.  From the same number.  I didn’t answer that time, but I listened to the voice mail shortly after.

Please note that this is verbatim, as I listened to this voice mail so many times I memorized it.

“Hey, Braden, this is Jeff.  Look, I’m really sorry that you feel so bad about dealing with me that, as a Christian, you’d just hang up on me like that and not even give me the day of time.  I really felt like I deserve better than that, but that’s okay.  I hope you have a nice life and that you find the car you want.  Okay?  Thanks!  Bye!”

To be honest, I felt like the world’s biggest heel. I felt like I’d somehow been a bad Christian. I felt that I’d just put a small seed out there for a bad reputation for Blue Sky Church.  It continues to amaze me how he held that power in him to make me feel like I was the one in the wrong, no matter what.  But within a day I was over it, and I’ve cherished this story since.  I look forward to my next car purchase so that I am able to actually maintain the upper hand–but I can tell you for sure that I will not be going back to that dealership on Aurora again.

Good riddance, Jeff.

 

Another story from the red bow tie.

Whoops. My bad.

I honestly don’t remember exactly when this happened. I do know that it had to be at least a year and a half into my time at Steak n’ Shake, making it at least the summer of 2004. This new girl had started. Some pe0ple seemed to know her, so I think she’d been around before – or maybe she worked in the Marion store for a while, which was 15 miles east of us. Honestly I’m not sure which.

Well she had been around for a couple days when she finally introduced herself to me. I don’t remember her name. I barely remember what she looked like. . . . no, I don’t remember that either. Well, she asked me how long I had been working there, and I decided to do what I call “enjoying myself,” and other people call, “lying.”

“About eight years,” I said.

“Oh, really?” she responded with much excitement. “Did you work with Tom Harrison*?”

“Yeah, I remember Tom*,” I said, continuing with my fun/ruse. “He was a jerk.”

The excitement left her face REALLY quick, and she was suddenly very sad. “What?”

“Yeah, I really didn’t like him.”

She was devastated. Recognizing the pain this was causing her, I decided to come clean, “Okay, I don’t know who that is. I’ve only been hear for a year and a half.”

I guess I was expecting her to do something to the effect of rolling her eyes, or even laugh, and give me a light punch on the shoulder. “You kidder,” she would say. Imagine my surprise when she got even more mad and said, “Well I hope you know you just disrespected a DEAD MAN!” and stormed off.

She didn’t say anything to me for the rest of the night, and if I worked with her one more time after that, it was the last time. She quit and moved on very quickly.

I can only hope that my uninformed joke may have played part in leading her to bigger and better things.

A few days after this event, I went to one of my co-workers who had been there a good 5 years at that point. I told him what happened, and he told me, “Yeah, I remember that guy. He fell down a staircase and died.”

Well. I hope she’s forgotten our encounter, then.

________________________
*I don’t actually remember this guy’s name, so we’ll call him Tom Harrison.

 

Is it taboo?

When I was a junior in high school, on one particular day, I was browsing through my history book during class rather than paying attention. (Yes, that actually happened more than just once, but we’re only concerned with this specific instance.) That particular day, I came across a photo of one of the Apollo 11 astronauts standing on the moon. It was on page 888. This photo sparked the thought in me that something wasn’t right. You see, the photo was obviously a fake. You could CLEARLY see that a backdrop was being used on a sound stage, made obvious by the straight, horizontal line across the bottom of the distant lunar “hills” and the abrupt color and texture change on either side of it. It mortified me, and it gave way to the thought that maybe the moon landing wasn’t as genuine as I had been told to believe. (For the record, I never completely surrendered to that conspiracy theory, I just refused to put it away for a long time.) Now, try as I might, I’ve never been able to locate that photo anywhere else. I’ve even looked up specific articles on photographic fakery theories for moon landing photos, and not ONCE since 1997 have I seen that picture.

I have since completely turned away from my “consideration” that the moon landing 40 years ago might have been staged all together, because most (if not all) of the things that conspiracy theorists say proves it didn’t happen, actually in fact prove that it did.

(And while I have the thought – you ever wonder what happens to old history books? Like the one you had in 1991 that was 4 years old and showed Presidents in the back, and it came to “Ronald Regan – 1981-Present.” Sure, most of them are trashed or recycled; but somewhere, someone has a collection of out-dated history books. They would be interesting to read, to see how differently things were interpreted in different times (like, for example, the Manifest Destiny).)

Okay – the point. I was Wikipedia surfing the other day and came across the cheery article of the holocaust. I wasn’t really reading much, just doing like I was that day in high school and browsing over the pictures, and reading a sentence here and there. Well, I came across a section of the article that dealt with the experiments that Nazi “scientists” performed on Jewish people. In this section, there was a photograph from the Dachau concentration camp of a Nazi professor and a Nazi doctor presiding over a man floating in an iced water tank, wearing a breathing apparatus. On the right frame of the photo was another man, taking notes.

For some reason I enlarged the picture to take a closer look – and I was shocked to see that it appeared extremely fake. It was so obvious! First, the hands of the two Nazi men were clearly not natural and drawn in post-development. Second, there are clear cut-out lines around the two Nazi men and the note-taker (note the curves on the body and hair). Third, the ice appears drawn into the photograph. Fourth, the light appears to be coming from the right of the frame, but the light is shining from the left on the note-taker. Yet the biggest kicker is that the man sitting on the edge of the tub has clearly been cropped in because THERE IS NO SHADOW UNDERNEATH HIM! (And just in case you’re thinking it, these light problems are not due to a flash because there are no shadows on the back wall.)

I searched high and low on the internet and NO ONE has discussed to the slightest degree that this photo is, at best, doctored. If you look up “cold water immersion,” this photo will come up 100 times, but every time it’s simply someone discussing the inhumane experiments done on Jews – not once do they bother saying anything to the degree of, “well, obviously this photo is fake, but there is documentation of these experiments being performed blah blah blah . . .” Has no one noticed? Is the topic of the Holocaust such that anything handed to us about it must never be questioned, so we look the other way? Please be sure that I am in no way suggesting that anything about these experiments or the Holocaust as a whole isn’t true. I’m not even taking my moon-landing-point-of-view and leaving the possibility open. But I think that someone wanted to show, in the flesh, that these two men (named Professor Ernst Holzlohner and Dr. Sigmund Rascher, left and right, respectively) were  performing these experiments, and put something together to provide that. And now, it appears that everyone just accepts that it’s authentic, which I find humorous because I checked Failblog every day for months, and every day someone would try to point out how some photo on that site was faked somehow. Sometimes I would notice one myself and go check the comments to make sure someone else did, too. Maybe this one just isn’t in the internet-surfer’s eyes enough. That may not necessarily be a bad thing, considering the subject material.

I’ve shown this to a few people. One agreed it didn’t look right, one couldn’t care less, and one proposed that the photo had been poorly edited, rather than created from scratch all together. I don’t know. But I do know that this couldn’t be more obviously fake if the guy in the tank was Ronald McDonald. In color. If it’s simply a poorly-edited-but-real photograph, I want to see the the original. I won’t believe otherwise until I do.

Now, before I conclude, if you want to toss out the opposition that, “Oh, those old photographs – they’re hard to tell what’s what,” let me knock that out of your head by suggesting you 1) study basic physics of light, 2) study the structure of the human hand, and 3) go look up some photos from the 1940’s and tell me if THEY look like they came right out of Photoshop.

 

Election Day

I hate election day. I begin to enjoy life again slowly as each day passes beyond it. I’ve already gotten into three arguments over things that neither I nor any of the three other people really understood. I told one of them that Obama came from obscurity, and she said that Palin was more obscure, and I said she wasn’t, and then she somehow got me to defend the notion of Palin as President some day, when all along I don’t really think she’s that capable. How did she get me to that place? I’m awful at real-time arguments.

I usually try to keep myself out of the American political arena, instead standing on the outside where I can clearly see how everyone inside all act exactly the same way or, at the very least, have the same, messed-up hearts despite the fact that their issues are opposite.

So many people think that the future of the world hangs in the balance with this election, but that’s just not true. It’s the same as all the other elections previous. The left says that if the right stays in power, the world will be thrown into the dark ages. The right says if the left gets in power, they’ll take over everything we own. Obama is a Chicago politician (a city known for corruption) who has rose from obscurity over the last 4 years (he was first elected to the Illinois Senate in 1996, served 8 years, and then has been a US senator for 4), and he’s gotten us chanting things like, “Yes We Can!” and “It’s Time for Change!” without any of us really knowing what he means. Sure, we know what WE mean, and that’s what those who wrote those slogans were counting on: that we’d all fill in our own blanks. McCain is a Republican who has stood in the Moderate range at best for years now, and now that he’s the GOP’s candidate, he’s suddenly as right-wing as they come. Do we really think that Obama will make all the difference with the issues we’ve made him represent in our own minds? Do we really think that McCain really means it when he tells us he’s against abortion, let alone anything else he’s said? If you answer “yes” to any of those, I’m afraid you’re naive. The crossroads where we stand right now WILL NOT be the defining moment in our nation’s history that either brought about our demise or our success. It can be a step in either direction, but nothing that’s not reversible within 4-8 years. When Clinton took office, the right shouted “he’s undoing everything done in the last 12 years!” and then when Bush took over, the left shouted “he’s undoing everything done in the last 8 years!”

In the end, when you vote today, you’re just defending a point of view or your own comfort. Those on the left can go on about how horrible the Bush Administration has been, but the fact is there are those who think he’s done an excellent job – it all depends on the criteria you put forth. Those on the right can scream about universal health care and assisted suicide and increased governmental controls, but the fact is there are those who want those very things and will be happy if they are put into place. As much as anyone on either side wants to think, their opponents will not someday think, in mass, “Oh, gosh, guess I was wrong about this one” under any circumstances. Americans are stubborn like that.

I think we need to take a long, hard look at how important we make this stuff. Yes, it’s important and valuable in this nation to be sure to vote, but the fact is that people see various issues differently and you might lose. We have turned the act of NOT voting into an immoral action, and not because of fear of an unelected person taking over or people of which we don’t approve making decisions for us, but to keep the other guys from getting their way.

Go ahead, get mad, tell me I’m not seeing the importance of this election. Tell me that I don’t really understand what’s at stake. I’ve already heard it. Let me tell you that all of this will eventually pass, be it 4 years, 8 years, or maybe 16 to 20, and we’ll all have some other list of issues that we’re debating and thinking that the world will end if things don’t happen the way we think they should.

 

M.A.S.K.

I’ve had the pleasure of viewing the intros and sometimes full episodes of the cartoons I enjoyed pre-1990, but none of them brought back that feeling of awe that overcame me like when I just watched the intro to MASK. MASK was quite possibly the coolest concept for a 30-minute toy advertisement (aka 80’s cartoon) ever: there are the good guys, MASK, led by Matt Trakker, and the bad guys, VENOM, led by Miles Mayhem, and they all have these huge mechanical masks and drive these normal-looking vehicles that change into assault vehicles. Wow. Even names like “Matt Trakker” whisk me back. I had the tow truck that turned into a moving turret gun, and the Pontiac GTO that turned into a tank.

A lot of them turned into tanks, I think. I know there was a minivan that split in half and launched a jet. A kid that lived across the street from me in the summer had that one.

The visuals from this short intro may have returned me to first grade for a few fleeting seconds, but it’s the lyrics that most deeply moved me:

Masked crusaders
Working overtime, fighting crime
FIGHTING CRIME!
Secret raiders
Who will neutralize as soon as they arrive
AT THE SITE!
Trakker’s gonna lead the mission,
(?) Expect from gods of supervision (?)
(muh-muh-muh-Mask) MASK!
Is the mighty power that can save the day
(muh-muh-muh-Mask) MASK!
No one knows what lies behind their masquerades
(muh-muh-muh-Mask) MASK!
Always riding hot on VENOM’s trail
(?) ‘Cause in the laser raids (?)
Fly away!

Pure poetry.

One other thing I remember is that the logo was absolutely impossible for any non-savant 6-year-old to draw. One time in Mrs. Hagerman’s class I was trying to draw it while she was teaching math or something, and she got frustrated and made me stand in front of the class as she sat in my chair and said, “Fine Braden, if you don’t want to pay attention, you teach the class!” and all the kids laughed at me when I said I wanted to go home and started crying. I didn’t much care for Mrs. Hagerman; I really could have used a ‘57 Chevy that turned into a 6-wheeled all-terrain vehicle to escape that day. And blow up her car, while I was at it, too – if I had known which one was hers.

 

Three or four is good enough for me.

I saw an article on Yahoo yesterday that talked about the Duggar family in Alabama, which has 17 children and the 18th one on the way. I read the article, rolled my eyes, thought about how I have wanted a big family someday, but by “big” I meant like 4 kids . . . and then something almost set me off. The story was rated by readers as 2 out of 5 stars. “Oh, no! Say it isn’t so!” Well, to understand why I had to quickly grab my composure again so as not to venture down a path of irreparable furry for the whole day, you have to understand all the things I’ve seen, heard, and discussed over the last couple of years relating to large families.

I think it was the Duggar family in the summer of 2004 when they had their 15th kid, and I heard the mom and dad being talked to on the radio. Well, some lady called in and was calling them horrible human beings. Why? Because they have so many kids. Because they’re adding to the population and therefore causing more pollution and using more resources and (she didn’t really say this) making more Republicans. Man, that lady made me mad, especially when she said that she had two children, “To replace my husband and I.”

It was probably, again, when the Duggars had #17 that it was in the news (as it clearly always is – develop some modesty, people, please!), that a co-worker of mine went off about how horrible it was that they could get away with that. She cited a bunch of reasons similar to the lady I just mentioned, but then went on about how everyone needs to adopt and stop pro-creating for like 40 years. Some of you have heard me rant about this co-worker before, so know that she’s a quack, but she’s not alone.

I enjoy web comics, usually ones that reference old video games and comics. I found one that I liked for a bit until I saw a strip that showed one of the two main characters walking by an SUV with one of those “Our Family” decals on the back window. You know the ones: with the stick figures of mom and dad and all the kids and the dog and cat? Well, the family depicted in this comic apparently had 4 or 5 children. The main character wrote a note on the SUV and walked away satisfied. The note read “This should help” and had a condom taped to it.

I get so furious about that stuff that I sometimes wonder if I over react a bit. Yes, I said “sometimes wonder.” In this age of “live and let live” social theories, the taboo-ing of believing in universal truths, and supporting just about any sexual lifestyle imaginable, we have people who are viciously against two people wanting to have tons of kids. I think the Duggars are nuts, but I wouldn’t ever think that their decision to do this was wrong, especially since they are all from the same two parents and every kid is in a loving home and well cared for. The people against this sort of thing almost always admit happily that the genuine reason is because of how (they think) it affects their lives. This further supports my view that Liberal vs. Conservative is a bunch of crap and they’re (we’re) all the same because it’s not about the issues; it’s about our approaches to those issues and where are hearts are. Maybe I’ll write a book about that someday.

There are couple of other smaller things that bug me in regards to things said or assumed when it comes to the Duggar family. The first is how so many people hear that they’re from Alabama and think, “oh, well that makes sense.” Why? That could actually open up a whole other discussion on how the East and West Coasts wrongly dismiss the South and Midwest as worthless and dumb.

The other thing that gets me is really just a fallacy in logic, and I noticed that I was guilty of this a couple postings ago. When a couple has several children, or has a few really close in age, people tend to make comments about the “active” sex life that couple has. Really? Do you honestly think that this man and woman have sex any less or any more than any other healthy married couple does? A child doesn’t mean that they had sex. A child means that it worked.

Ugh. Anyway, I need to go so I don’t get fired. One last thing – to the Duggars: Keep having kids so you keep annoying these annoying people! Thanks.

 

Ten years and counting.

More and more things keep coming to me for my 10 year high school reunion. It’s not officially planned yet; they’re still trying to get the date set, but a website has been put up where each person can go create a little profile, write about what they’ve done over the last 10 years, name their spouse/partner and children, and post some pictures.

It’s almost like everyone inflated. But talking about how your former classmates got fat in 10 years is a tad cliche. I’ve gained a few pounds, myself. I was no more than 130 lbs. when I graduated, maybe as low as 120; now I weigh about 176, and that’s after losing nearly 10 lbs.

So let’s skip the weight thing and move on to some other peculiar observations that I have about this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Some of those girls married / are dating some geezers. My goodness. That guy looks my dad’s age, <name removed for confidentiality>! And <name removed for confidentiality>! Holy Cow! Got a thing for the Class of 1974? Well, hope they’re happy.

Life changes quick. I remember working at Kohl’s in late 2000, and <name removed for confidentiality> walked in to say hi. She and I knew each other in high school, I remember having a crush on her at one point, but “school mates” is really the only relationship we could claim. Well, she had apparently just been to my parents’ house looking for me, and my mother directed her to Kohl’s. I took a break and stood outside with her and had a cigarette and talked. It was strange because, as I said before, we weren’t exactly close friends in high school, and we hadn’t seen each other since graduation. She proceeded to confess all kinds of stuff to me, such as her cocaine addiction, how she’d just ended a relationship she was having with a married man, etc. Well, now I see that she’s been married since 2002 and has two kids. Maybe I was the “confession booth” for her to begin anew?

These people are rabbits. Okay, fine, maybe that’s an insensitive statement as many of these bundles of joy who are already over the age of 6 were most likely not planned, but more than a handful have 3 kids already! We’re 27 and 28, folks! 30 is the new 20 my rear.

Springfieldians are like yo-yos. Even those who got out went back. Of the 50-some people who have created profiles (out of 250+ in the class), 30 of them live in or around Springfield, Illinois. Maybe they have stronger family ties to that town than I do; who knows?

I may have changed a lot physically, but I don’t get the top prize. Randy Newtson. You win, my friend. When I saw your photo, I wondered why you would put up a photo of your 55-year-old uncle, but then I realized it’s just you. You probably also win the prize for going from full head of hair to completely bald the fastest. I have friends my age who are balding, but you got that done quick! Good work!

People die. Aw. The sad one for next-to-last. I met Lindsay Logsdon my first day of 5th grade, and she and I never got along until late high school, at which point we just mutually ignored each other. In college I became close friends with one Clint “Skippy” Davis, who turned out to be Lindsay’s cousin. I’d see her on occasion at Davis family events such as Skip’s sister’s high school graduation, and we’d reminice about Mr. Clark, our 5th grade teacher, and so on. By 2000 she had a son and was engaged, but in December 2000, Skip informed me that she had run off a road in her car and hit a telephone pole, killing her instantly. It’s really a strange thought that she’s gone. However the sobering one was when I went to the “In Memoriam” section of this Reunion web page and saw Chad Anderson’s name. I’m still in disbelief. I had countless art classes with him from 7th grade all the way up to the end of senior year. He hung around with the rockers and the druggies, but he was still really cool and kind of popular, and was really nice to those of us who didn’t fair so well in the social arenas. He always cracked me up, too. And apparently he died from causes of which I am not aware on July 27, 2001 in western South Dakota, where he had been living. How crazy is it that he didn’t even see 9-11?

I ain’t giving these people nothing. Don’t get me wrong; I have no intention of being rude or mean. But I have not been in regular contact with anyone from this group of people since graduation. I got that diploma and I found a new circle of friends, and have had several different circles since. I’d see some of them from time to time, but never to the point that we buddied up. I will find it hard to believe that I would be in the top 10 of very many “Where are they now?” lists, since I was just that weird guy who wore ties to school every day our senior year. And I don’t really care all that much. It’s all behind me and God has put me elsewhere. So . . . my profile is as follows:
Current location: Seattle, WA
Spouse/Partner: As if.
Occupation: Desk Jockey
Comments: I invented PostIt Notes

and then the following picture:

With this caption:

“I’m the one on the left . . . no, the right. . . . no . . .”

Man, I’m funny. Thanks for the idea, Brandon.

 

I’m still confused.

So back in 2000 in the spring I was visiting Champaign, IL (specifically U of I) to visit this girl I was kinda sorta seeing. We went to the mall and walked around and went into this candy store. While we were in there, looking at all the fun confections, I began to notice the music playing over the store’s speakers. The song sounded familiar, but not. I recognized the melody, and the words were lining up, but the instrumentation and vocalization was so different that I was having trouble placing it. Finally I realized what it was: “Zombie,” by The Cranberries, except it was done with soothing strings, a piano, and a female voice that was almost Dolores O’Riordan, but much much smoother and less chaotic.

Then the next song started. It was acoustic guitar. Again, the notes sounded familiar, but for some reason my mind was wanting to hear them more . . . aggravated – like the way I was hearing it being played was too uniform, correct, and spot-on, and the way I was remembering it was wilder, with more accidentals and bending notes. Then the vocals began, which was a very calm male tenor, “God damn you half Japanese girls, you do it to me every time,” and then I knew it: it was “El Scorcho” by Weezer, except this wasn’t Weezer. At least I didn’t think it was Weezer . . . that could have been Rivers Cuomo singing, but he was singing peacefully, along with the peaceful notes.

I looked at the girl I was kinda sorta seeing to see if she noticed, too, but she was focused on some Jelly Bellys or something. I still asked, “Are you hearing this?” and she looked at me, letting me know she wasn’t. So I turned and there was this other girl in the candy shop just a few feet away, and for some reason her facial expression made me think that perhaps she knew, too.

“Are you hearing this?” I asked. “It’s like all these songs but their done without accidents and not messing up the guitars!”

And the girl looks at me and said, “Yeah, it’s just candy, I guess. You’ve got to get excited about candy,” and then walked away.

I turned back to the girl I was kinda sorta seeing to see if she had just heard that, but she had moved on to candy ropes or something. I’ve been puzzled about that response, now, for 8 years.