I'll Gladly Transfer Money From an Unconfirmed Account Tuesday For a Hamburger Today

I recently decided to sell a bike. I wasn’t hurting for money; I just wasn’t using the bike and was planning to replace it in the fall. Because of this lack of urgency I posted it on the stained digital men’s room wall that is Craigslist. Listing something on Ebay is almost always better, unless you like haggling with local derelicts, or having people try to trade you several erotic water color paintings of horses for whatever it is you are selling. But I was feeling lazy and wanted to avoid shipping the bike if I could. Within a few hours of the posting showing up on Craigslist, I received an email.

“Hello, do you still have this? When can I come check it out? Shoot me an email back as soon as possible

Sophia......”   

It should be noted that the name that appeared with the email address was “Nick.” The email address itself was callananjudith@yahoo.com[1]. So it looks like for whatever reason Nick set up an email “callananjudith” and he shares it with a Sophia. Hopefully Judith doesn’t know, or she is into this kind of thing; it is Craigslist after all.

Now, I have been using the internet for more than two days so I realize what is going on here. Remember all of those deposed kings from Nigeria who asked you to accept a thousand gold doubloons into your bank account while they sorted out their kingly business? That racket went bust and now they respond to every single Craigslist posting. Sophia, Nick, Judith, and King Ugato of The People’s Republic of Internet Cafes are all some 16 year in Southeast Asia. If this is new information to you please throw your computer away, you are endangering yourself and those around you.

I respect the hustle, but really, the Craigslist scammers need to step their game up a little bit. I responded to Sophia that I still had the item, and mornings were the best time for her to come and check the item out. After a couple of days I get another email.

“Hi, thanks for writing back but I'm sorry I won't be able to come see it anymore, embarking on a 3 month business trip to Maryland tomorrow morning, I was gonna be coming to your town, that got changed. I still want it anyway, getting it for my cousin for her upcoming birthday. If you could sell it to me when I get to Maryland I will mail you a bank official check to cover the cost and also add funds to cover the shipping to where it will be needed.
I'll arrange for a shipper/mover to handle the pick up and delivery so it doesn't stress you. I really need this, quite important and urgent. I will be more than glad if it can be sold to me. Email me back with a name, address and your phone number for the check, write back soon. Thank you

Sophia......”   

A few things worth mentioning. If your job is sending you on a business trip to Maryland for three months, they are firing you. It is the human equivalent of driving a dog out to a field, throwing a ball, and then speeding off when it goes to chase it. The bike I am selling is a professional level (whatever that means) cyclocross bike. There might be one girl who would want this for her birthday and I’m pretty sure I know her already.

So, of course this is a scam. In addition to not having a dent in my head, Craigslist is plastered with warnings about these kinds of transactions. Also, “bank official check.” No one in the history of speaking, or writing, has ever put together this phrase, in any language. I’m almost convinced that the only way to generate this combination of words is to pour a coffee on a Commodore 64 computer[2]. Now, either because I have too much time on my hands, or because I am kind of a jerk[3], I decided to reply.

Please read this in a slow draw like a Southern Gentleman.

“Dear Madam,

I understand, I totally understand. Getting a used cyclocross bike off of Craigslist for your cousin must be a top priority. I can sympathize completely with business concerns removing one away from home. I served several tours of duty in the great wars. But I now boast many great pieces of German art in my study and the ears of many savages. But I digress, I always look for important gifts for relatives on out of state craigslist listings so I will be more than happy to sell the bicycle to you although you are in Maryland. But you must know that I take cycling very seriously; very seriously indeed. I do not want to sell this item to you for your cousin if it will not fit her properly. 

You should know that this particular bicycle was designed for a man. This means that the bike is designed to be ridden by a strong individual of sound mind who can own property. The saddle is intended to cup and cradle a man's virility. If your cousin is large of carriage she may run the risk of not giving proper air passage to her loins. This overheating will almost certainly render any future progeny female and I cannot imagine her father would be pleased in the increased dowry he will have to pay as a result of this. But, if she is planning to use this pro-level cyclocross racing bike for trips to the market for milk, bread, and make-up, than I think things will work out just fine. I must add one final caveat, and this is reflected in the user manual, do not, I repeat do not let your cousin operate this during her monthly cycle as her judgment will be impaired and failure to operate a bicycle properly can result in injury or death. Calling more blood to her legs from her already depleted brain could render her a simpleton.

I appreciate your offer to arrange shipment as to avoid my consternation. I am saddened to admit that after several tours of duty I easily succumb to bouts of the vapors when I am weighed upon by anxiety. And you can take comfort in the fact that I have field certified phrenologist tools to gauge the mental aptitude of the gentleman (I hope I am not wrong in assuming it is a gentleman) you will be sending to tend to the shipment of this goods. 

Yours in Christ,

Aloysius Montgomery Farnsworth IV”

While several things about myself can be drawn from this email (I think “olde timey” things, e.g. the vapors, phrenology, sexism are funny) that isn’t the point. Sophia never emailed me back! It seems obvious that he/she/the Commodore 64 wouldn’t email me back, because what I said was a very drawn out and unnecessary middle finger. But what I don’t understand is how does someone who picks up on sarcasm and condescension so well still write something like “bank official check” and expect that a tired Craigslist scam will actually fly? I was really hoping for at least a few more email volleys, but I think I came on too strong too soon.

Sophia, if you’re out there, I’m willing to meet you halfway, and I’ll take horse water colors too.

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[1] I don’t feel bad for one second for posting this person’s email. A pox upon his or her inbox.

[2] You’re too young.

[3] As much as it is the former, it is really the latter.

I Blame Art

I went to Tucson, Arizona yesterday. It wasn’t the first time, and sadly, it probably won’t be the last. The city isn’t without a certain charm, but whatever that charm may be, it is trodden under hoof by the burgeoning population of crazy people that hang about Tucson like a fog. On any given street corner you can find a guy who looks Jamiroquai in the Virtual Insanity music video if he had been living beyond Thunderdome for the last decade. I don’t care what museums a city has, how good its coffee is, or what its national or historic significance may be. Having Methraham Lincoln and his Dreadlock Jug Band on every corner ruins it all.

   

To be clear, and to prevent myself from coming across as a total monster, there is a big difference between crazy people, and insane people. The city I live in is full of insane people; they are falling off the vine. From the vine most of them appear to go directly on the train or, if they still need a little ripening, the bus. Insane people don’t talk to you. If anything, they talk to themselves. And they don’t wear t-shirts that advertise this quality about themselves, half the time they don’t wear shirts. This is because they are insane; their world is not the same world as everyone else. This is not the case for crazy people. Just because someone wants to be an anime character, or a vampire, or an anime vampire, it doesn’t mean that they have a mental health problem. Even if an insane person believed he was an anime vampire, I doubt he would have the presence of mind to dress the part. But crazy people, they appear to devote all of their mental wherewithal to this task.

The hunter gatherer with a cat-in-the-hat hat look is pretty universal among crazy people. You can see variations of it in Austin, Texas; Athens, Georgia; Burlington, Vermont; and Portland, Oregon[1]. But if a crazy person is a Christmas tree, this look is just the Douglas-fir, it’s not truly festive (read: crazy) until you put up the lights. Some of the most common crazy garnishes are:

Canes. Canes are usually accompanied by dozens and dozens of rings. This gives the person a certain “quiet dignity” and by quiet dignity I mean the look of a Spencer’s Gifts pimp Halloween costume that crawled out of a toilet.

Whacky pets. Ferrets, parrots, snakes, a cat dressed as Emily Dickenson? If it can be transported on one’s shoulder or a baby carriage, it is crazy companion material. Behavior regarding these faux-pets will fall into one of two schools. There is the person who is desperately bringing your attention to the ferret on his shoulder that has the same stove-top hat and monocle combination as its owner, and the person who is deeply and truly annoyed that a man in a snakeskin vest and leather pants can’t take the bus with a snake coiled around his body and not suffer the stares of wage-slaves.   

Little braids. If Korn’s music manifested into a material item it would be tiny little blonde braids poking through the Kangol visor on the head of an urban man-child asking you for cigarettes. It should go without saying that the sides of his head are shaved.

Piercings. Now, before you think that your grandfather is writing this. Hear me out. I know that nose-rings are given out to every girl who gets into a state university now; generally all facial piercings are pretty white bread; except for the eyebrow ring[2]. I am saddened to admit that I have known more people than I can count on one hand who have had eyebrow rings. But, after very brief periods of time they took them out, either because they looked in the mirror, or someone who cared deeply for them told them they looked like a total idiot. 

  

All of these things voltron together for the worst activity in the world; busking for attention. Admittedly, I’m not too keen on regular busking. But, everyone’s got to eat, and I can appreciate someone banging on a bucket or playing jazz on a B.C. Rich Warlock[3] while standing on a milk crate. What I appreciate most about these things is that I can walk around or away from them.

   

Now, back to Tucson. I was drinking coffee outside and a person who was everything described above rolled up in a shame-tortilla of human flesh came up to me. Important fact, he was on stilts. He started dancing, or walking in place, or whatever the verb associated with being on stilts is (stilting? sucking? being completely awful?). The entire time he acted like he wasn’t on stilts; like he wasn’t easily five feet taller than I was, or on the verge of falling through a storefront window at any given moment. I brought them to his attention and he replied with a surprised “oh these?” The coffee now tasted like it came from a bilge pump and I contemplated biting through my own tongue to escape the living menagerie of “look-at-me.”

I don’t know who to blame for this. Society? The Parents? Public Schools? In keeping with the “I’m a grouchy conservative old man who hates everything” tone of this piece I’m going to say art. All the cities I mentioned before, which are veritable hatcheries for crazy people, have large and vibrant art scenes; galleries, murals, art in restaurants, art in the bathrooms of restaurants, and on and on. When there is so much creativity in a place no one is going to tell nu-metal Marcel Marceau to take it down a notch. So I blame art.

Would I rather live in a world with no art at all than ever have someone with a braided beard tight-rope walking and playing the violin; a world with no Mona Lisa just so that I’m never annoyed again? Totally. Most art is pretty crappy anyway.  

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[1] Especially Portland.

[2] Although this is a trapping of crazy people, it comes pretty close to legitimately insane behavior. Someone has to be pretty out of sorts to think an eyebrow ring looks acceptable, let alone good.

[3] http://tinyurl.com/4xvcu5x the jazz man’s choice.

For Richer for Poorer, In Sickness and in the Ballroom

As I head unwillingly into my late 20s, the number of friends and acquaintances I have who are married seems to grow exponentially. I know a few people who are working on their second or third marriage and are just barely into their third decade. Marriage has always been ubiquitous, sitcom marriage episodes are always a hit and I can think of several kindergarten peers who eloped on the playground, but it is now storming down my door. I have come to accept this; I have resigned to the fact that any relationship that makes its way past the sixth month mark is fair game for marriage. There are definite plusses to this. Weddings. Weddings are fantastic, but like so many other things, their fantasticality is contingent on their budget. Seeing two dear friends who are deeply in love have a vine tied around their hands in the middle of the woods capped with a dandylion wine toast? Murder me. Watching two people who you know will cheat on each other get married in a palatial hotel ballroom with an open bar? The only thing that would make it better is if their inevitable divorce was an equally lavish affair. That’s where the plusses end. The minuses? They go on and on. Having your friends talk needlessly about married life, having to listen about the emotional rollercoaster that is buying appliances, and receiving plenty of unsolicited information about their sex life. ‘Starting a family’ is code for having unprotected sex. I don’t go around telling people that I partook in some serious family prevention on Friday night do I? Either way, marriage is very hard to escape, and I narrowly did.

When I was 21 or so I began dating a girl I met at a show. At the time we met she had a boyfriend, she lived with this boyfriend a few states and a no-bathroom-break five hour drive from me. Knowing all this, I decided it would be a good idea to pursue her. After a surprise visit and some grand romantic gestures, her boyfriend moved with his x-box and a sleeping bag to the attic where he would plot his revenge[1].

Around the time the newly titled ex-boyfriend was sharpening his knives I was in the midst of some serious family prevention. Afterwards, in what I thought was innocuous pillow talk, my lady friend asked if I would ever take ballroom dancing lessons with her. In my post coital fog I would have agreed to anything. I would have agreed to mastermind a jewel heist and author a book arguing that the earth is only 6,000 years old. I would have been so much safer had she requested either of these things from me. I gathered all my strength to open one eye and sigh out “sure.” She responded “Good. Because I couldn’t marry someone who wouldn’t take ballroom dancing lessons with me.” All of the blood in my body that had migrated south for the holiday booked a redeye back to my brain. I had walked into a bear trap. It had not yet snapped my leg in half, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it out. After some quick thinking, I did what I would most likely do if I was caught in an actual bear trap; tried to sleep it off.

She had left for class by the time I woke up and after a quick scan of the room, there were no save-the-dates that I could see. I relaxed. I thought that maybe the whole thing was a terrible dream.

A day later we went out to dinner. It was very casual. If I remember correctly, some of her friends tagged along. It was a diner style place; warped silverware wrapped in paper napkins. The meal went by without incident. As I polished off another tap water she asked me if I wanted to split some desert with her. I answered “sure.” As she put down the menu she responded “Good. Because I couldn’t marry someone who wouldn’t split desert with me.” What? Split desert? There was no way that was an actual qualifier for marriage. I was blindsided by the absurdity before I was sideswiped with reality; the bear trap had sunken deeper into my leg. I sat wooden faced and waited for the dessert to arrive. A slice of pie was between us. I imagined it officiating our wedding; a wedding predicated on ballroom dancing and pastry sharing. I took a bite of the pie and it turned to ash on my tongue.

I now had the fear. What could I do? I did not want to get married, I did not want to talk about getting married, but I did not want to stop seeing her without clothes. She was incredibly good looking, she had a good sense of humor too[2]. I could go on about her other wonderful qualities but I fear that I have already betrayed my deep and sensitive nature. But from that point on the fear was my constant companion. Did I want to go to the movies? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t want to go the movies. Did I want Mike n Ikes? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t want Mike n Ikes. Did I want to go for the jumbo size for just fifty cents more? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t and the guy behind the counter was pushing for the upsell pretty hard.

While I don’t doubt that she liked me, I don’t think she loved me, or even wanted to marry me. She loved marriage. I happened to be marriable by her estimation. I have known plenty of people who feel this way; they love marriage. Often they love it so much they are willing to marry someone they don’t really love. I can sympathize with this, to an extent. I love Thai food. I will eat Thai food with basically anyone. I’ve gone to get Thai food with some real questionable characters. It doesn’t make the food any worse. Unfortunately, with marriage, the experience depends entirely on the person you are doing the whole marriage thing with. Also, it typically lasts much longer than most Thai food outings.  

I loved neither her, nor marriage, so I did the only thing I could do. I broke up with her over the phone after my ex-girlfriend came onto me pretty hard.          

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[1] This revenge took its form by slashing the tires of my Toyota Corolla, an act which I deserved completely.

[2] It is worth mentioning again how good looking she was.