Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Do not start a blog!

Recently a couple people asked me for advice regarding the startup of a blog. Here it is.

Don't do it!

Why not? Here's what happens when you start up a blog. Immediately the Singular All-Powerful Dark Force of the Universe - let's call him - SAPDFOTU for short, says, "Oh! Look who's started a blog! Well, well. He's gonna need a bunch of stuff to blog about. Let's help him out. Let's flood his life with freaks and misadventure. That'll give him stuff to blog about. Oh, wait. Or I could just make his books get published and make him famous. That'd give him stuff to write about. Ha! As if! No, I'll just fill his life with freaks and misadventure."

Yesterday evening went light on the freakdom but heavy on the misadventure. I arrived home having two very important calls to make. One, a phone appointment with a musician/producer/entrepreneur for whom I'm doing some press work and web copy. He's a very busy young man who's schedule I respect. I was to call him at nine for some follow-up to our recent interview.

The second call was to be to the Royal Bank lending unit to apply as cosigner for the Illicit Sweetheart's loan application. The I.S. most eagerly wishes to buy - ready for this? - a motorcycle. Yes, a motorcycle. Presumably so as to get violently killed and break my heart. So who am I to say no?

SAPDFOTU of course, sprang into action immediately, severing both my phone and internet connections. Without the internet I was unable to access either the I.S.'s loan application reference number or my interview notes, both residing on my PC at the office.

Steve-o, Designated I.T. Guy has the antidote for all this of course but he was nowhere to be found. Probably kidnapped by SAPDFOTU's gang of flying monkeys.

I have the key to my neighbor's apartment. I'm watering her plants these days. Wait now. Don't misconstrue. I'm not trimming her hedges, so to speak. I'm literally watering her plants - all 8612 of them, while she's vacationing overseas, cavorting with the young Englishman, trying to sink her talons into him and drag him screaming and flailing into holy blessed matrimony.

So I slip next door to make the calls. I reach the I.S. away from home, on his cell. He doesn't have the loan application number handy. No progress on that endeavor. I call the musician and leave a voice mail, apologizing and proposing a Thursday connection.

And thus ends the misadventure - ahem - or would if I were a luckier man.

Fast forward - this morning. I'm headed out the door to go to work and notice I've no wallet in the designated wallet pocket. So I go back up to my bedroom to retrieve it from its resting place atop the stereo unit but neither is it there. Nor is it on the desk or the night table or the chest of drawers in the hallway or on the kitchen counter nor any other conceivable horizontal surface in the apartment.

Nowhere.

And I just had the bleedin' thing in my hand the night before! I clearly remember removing the insurance slip from it in order to supply automobile information to the loans officer (before realizing that SAPDFOTU had cut the lines). And I hadn't left the premises except to use the phone next door - via a semi-private shared secure entranceway!

What the farg?

So I call work to warn I'm running late (phone now working - hurrah). I search the neighbor's apartment three times between the careful inch-by-inch picking-apart of my bedroom.

Nothing.

I call work again and book a surprise vacation day. They can be flexible that way. Bless their black little emaciated hearts.

I call Steve-o to see if he scooped it by mistake. His own wallet is thin and brown like mine.

"No way, dude."

Jeebus.

Time to go out into the world and start replacing wallet contents. I'll need some facsimile of identification I presume. I pull open a trinket drawer and fish out a recently expired drivers license. I pocket it. I don't have a current passport but I come across an expired one. Bingo. That should do nicely.

I open it to the photo page and discover it's my original passport from 1987. The image of a blonde beardless eighteen year old stud winks back at me. I sigh mightily and hurl it back into the drawer.

At the bank they hem and haw over my lack of ID.

"Was your wallet lost or stolen?" they ask.

"It was vaporized by the singular dark force of the universe," I explain. "Right about the time he cut my phone lines."

"Ah. Okay. Ahhhh - I beg your pardon?"

"I had it. And then I didn't have it. That's all I know."

I've drawn two bank tellers working in tandem. They say I must wait for my home branch to fax them my signature sample.

"No problem," I say. "I can wait all day. But I warn you, I signed that signature card twenty years ago and it's not gonna look anything like my current signature."

"You've been a customer twenty years? Oh, I'm sorry sir! We'll get you a new card immediately!"

And they spring into action. Wonder twin powers - activate.

Apparently once you've been a customer twenty years they throw legislation out the window and treat you like royalty. You or anyone claiming to be you. I should have demanded a gold brick while they were at it.

They offered me their phone. I cancelled the credit card and ordered a new one.

I then drove to the Ministry of Transportation office, home of Jason the Generous Drive Inspector Man, in order to tackle the drivers license and vehicle ownership certificate issues. I arrived at 12:20 PM, marched into the place, halted, grabbed my belly and laughed long and hard, then turned around and marched right back out again.

FWG doesn't get into lines that are 68 people long. No way. Not even if they're handing out free gold bricks.

FWG

2 comments:

Flumadiddle said...

But wouldn't life be boring without freaks and misadventures?

Have you found your wallet, yet?

Kathleen said...

Your life is so much more interesting than mine.

You lucky qzegz, you!