One night back in the 90s, when at the top of my game, I was playing darts with friends at a bar. I covered my eyes with one forearm, and threw three triple bulls while reciting this song. Very Zen archer-like, but applied to an electronic darts game!
Pity I never played for $.
I gave, and still give Primus all credit.
Hung out a few times with a friend of a friend who constantly stared at my chest. It was infuriating, and made me more than uncomfortable. I hated it when he was brought along by a friend we really liked, but, hey. I couldn’t tell our friend whom he could and couldn’t bring to concerts, etc.
Once I actually had warning that we’d see him. The night before I saw him for what turned out to be the last time, I formulated a plan. I told my BF about his endless staring, and he got mad. Then I told him my idea, and he laughed, and said it was great.
When the guy showed up, he stared as usual, and I checked to see if my BF noticed. Oh, he noticed, allright! He was clenching his jaw and one fist.
I put my plan into action.
I STARED at the guy – a couple inches below his belt buckle.
To my joy, he began to squirm, looking around nervously, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them back out; his hands shook, and his air of anxiety increased by the second. I caught my BF’s eye, and he was stifling laughter.
I stared like that whenever he was standing up, the entire time he was there. His reactions remained the same.
I just hope he learned his lesson.
My BF (who lived in Brooklyn, NY at the time & had made a surprise visit) and his best friend appeared on my doorstep one evening, announcing they were taking me to see The Residents perform at a nearby venue! It was during their tour for Demons Dance Alone, which was released in 2002. I quickly got my act together, and off we went.
The show was incredible, of course. There was camo netting everywhere, the singer wore fatigues and a weird half mask. The other members of the group were swathed in such vasty heaps of sheer black material it became opaque, and they had black, gray, white, and silver tubular crin cyber braids
in varied configurations stickin’ out the tops of their heads. Slits musta been cut in the fabric over their eyes; they each wore different strange goggles.
The only dancer I remember was in a devil costume, mask and makeup, like on the cover of the album
He was excellent.
I hadn’t heard the album, but the sound was so great I could easily make out the lyrics, and I was dancing my ass off. Far as I could tell, when I’d occasionally open my eyes, only one or two other audience members were dancing. I shook my head, sadly smiling. Dunno how anyone can just stand still when the music is so…moving - rhythmically, lyrically → emotionally, but I was raised by a dancer.
There I was, about ¾ of the way thru the concert, still dancing like mad, eyes shut, transported, when there was a sudden tap on my shoulder. My eyes flew open, and I spun toward whoever it was, only to be met with the devil’s face maybe three inches from mine! We locked eyes, and I grinned. Everyone around us was smiling and laughing, too. I immediately began dancing again, as did he. I closed my eyes again and we danced together for almost the rest of the song.
That was the night I danced with the devil in the pale moonlight.
Or pale stagelight, as my wag of a bassist BF had it one afternoon.
Thank you, Liebchen!
It was a very strange night. Many women tried to pick me up, including one who pressed and slid her entire body up against mine while I was trying to get a drink at the bar.
I do wish I’d said, “Couldn’t you have at least bought me dinner first?!” So damn creepy.
At least three other women had tried, and I finally got a great idea. I went up to my BF’s friend, and some other buddies of theirs we’d met at the bar after the show, and said, “Here!” as I rubbed a shoulder against their most convenient arms. “Women keep tryinta pick me up, so I’m hoping it will rub off on you guys!”
They loved and welcomed that.
I have two very good flat tire stories….no, threee! Here they are in chronological order:
During the late 80s, an often quite bitchy friend was driving us to his place on the East Side of Detroit when we got a flat. He quietly swore once as we got out of the car. He opened the trunk, got out the tools and the dibby dibby tire (an onomatopoeic Jamaican nickname for undersized spares), and set to work w/o another word. Though normally talkative, I also remained silent during the entire operation, not daring to risk one of his many dramatic meltdowns. I was amazed that he didn’t throw a screeching fit, and how efficiently and quickly he changed the tire. We easily made it to our destination. He didn’t even whine when telling his roommates, one of whom drove me back across town (also w/o complaint) when the time came.
During the mid-90s Mom and I were crossing Woodward Ave at Mack, which at the time was a much-potholed intersection. It was a bitter cold January evening. We hit something just the wrong way and a tire blew. Mom pulled over right after we’d crossed the intersection, and turned off the car. As she was about to get out, the valet parking chap from the hoity toity music center (it’s on the corner) appeared at her window. He told us he saw what had happened, and offered to change the tire! He even told us to stay in the car so we wouldn’t freeze, as mom popped the trunk. He began changing the tire, and apologized when he had to stop and park a customer’s car. Mom told him there was no need for him to apologize for doing his actual job. The two of us discussed his tip when he was almost finished (he was V quick!), and I suggested $20. She said she was thinking $10; I pointed out how cold it was, he was so solicitous & kind as he rescued us, that there was all this traffic on the street, and how quickly he was changing it. She agreed, and insisted when he politely declined the offered tip.
[Ed. Note: This one is the longest, but it is also the best one.]
A month later, mom, her then-BF and I were driving from the airport in Montego Bay on Jamaica’s West Coast to the small place on the North Coast where we stayed. Mom had been warning him about the jagged edge of the road, but he would keep drifting over, and he hit the edge. We naturally got a flat. W/o a word I slid across the back seat & jumped out as mom bitched at him. I leaned in his window to hit the button to open the hatch, then began pulling out all our big heavy luggage so he could access the tools and spare. I was smiling, intuitively knowing everything would be fine. Only one suitcase was left when he joined me, and he was shocked that I’d done it at all, let alone so cheerfully & quickly. (My surprising upper body & arm strength back then was belied by my slight frame [those were the days!!!] and small stature.) Mom sat in the car and fumed for a few minutes, then got out so she could yell at him some more.
I walked a little ways and happily looked around at The Bush surrounding the road. An expensive all-inclusive hotel’s expensive bus fulla mascots (tourists) drove by, a little more slowly than the other traffic. A woman inside it gave me a horrified stare, so my smile quickly melted and I gave her a horrified stare right back. I laughed once the bus had passed, knowing the woman was horrified by The Very Thought of getting a flat in a third world country; I was (and am) horrified by The Very Thought of being on a bus loaded with mascots on its way to an all-inclusive!
I walked into The Bush alongside the road to escape the road and mom’s yelling. I went a short way and found myself on a lovely rocky outcrop overlooking the bright green/blue/turquoise Caribbean, the road noise and mom all but silenced by the lush growth behind me. I breathed in the warmth, the sunshine, the breeze, the bliss - and winter left my bones. I went back to the road after a few minutes, and mom said she’d just been wondering where I’d gone. I smiled, took her hand, and silently led her down the road and into The Bush, ignoring her questions and complaints. When she saw the sea, she gasped at the beauty of the scene before her. All her anger left her, and I said, “You know, of all the places to get a fucking flat…“ then added, "This sure beats hell outta Mack and Woodward!” She laughed, and after a few enjoyable minutes we went back to the car.
A cop car pulled up and stopped behind us as we returned, and two gorgeous young men hopped out. One had on the uniform trousers but a polo shirt; the other wore a uniform shirt and a pair of his own shorts. The one in the shorts had a yo-yo. (I swear to God/dess I’m not making up any of this!) They greeted us, and immediately one of them took over from mom’s BF, and rapidly finished putting on the dibby dibby tire, as he called it. We laughed, loving the silly slang. He also hipped us to the much sillier term foo foo tire, which made us laugh even more. When he was done, we warmly thanked them for at least the tenth time. After asking, “Which one of you is the boss?” mom insisted on giving him a sort-of tip, and said their first post-work drinks were on her. 
Those are great stories!
I especially love the serendipity of finding such a beautiful spot you wouldn’t have otherwise discovered. (Oh, and the “dibby dibby tire” bit made me listen to Snow Informer again since that’s the last time I heard that phrase. 
)
Here’s my flat tire story:
After years of chatting online (first on AOL, then internet), I took a leap of faith and got on a Greyhound cross-country to meet this lady. After 1024 miles, 24 hours on buses, I finally arrived and she picked me up at the station, took me to her home and introduced me to her cats. We got along great right away.
Her daughter had been staying with her ex when I arrived (he had custody on the weekends). So at the end of the weekend we went to pick her daughter up. All the way there, she was super worried we’d be late and her ex would bitch at her about it. That was all she could talk about, we can’t be late, because she’d been late before and it hadn’t gone well.
So of course we got a flat on the highway on the way there.
The next few minutes are a blur to me, but according to her, I jumped out as soon as we stopped on the side of the highway. Had the car jacked up, the lug nuts loosened, and was taking the wheel off by the time she had walked around the car. Got that tire changed like some kinda pit crew person. All I remember is someone else pulled over behind us so that we’d have the light of their headlights to help.
Tire changed, we got there on time, picked up the then 13-year-old newly teenager who was really uncertain about me at first, but who now calls me Dad, and I’ve been married 20 years to the lovely lady whose tire I changed that night.
For context, I’ve never had a car myself. Luckily my dad taught me to change a tire when I was a kid, and it was just there like instinct when I needed it. In fact, that might be the only time I’ve ever changed a tire since my dad taught me.
Had a nice, positive dream last night. Of course mixed with a lot of dream nonsense but a through line of it was that someone had a mantra akin to live in the moment. Saving a fancy bottle of something to drink on a big occasion? Or have a fancy outfit you’d love to wear but can’t find the right moment? etc. Go ahead and intentionally create those moments with the people in your life, don’t wait for maybe, or some day. Have fun and be present.
The rest of the dream was bananas 
but it was a nice thing to dwell on while asleep.
We made friends with a German chap, Dieter, who stayed at the same seafront place we did in Jamaica. He’s from Ulm. It was during Clinton’s “trial,” and he was horrified by that. He’d been ignoring us, b/c assumed we were anti-Clinton, and was relieved to learn that we were not. I also explained that we read books, and could find our country - and his! - on a map. That helped even more, but when he learned that both mom’s then-BF and I speak a little German, he knew we must really be Allright.
One evening, he and his GF dropped by our little villa for a brief drink and hang. The subject of dialects came up, and he said Low German speakers are made fun of, called Fishheads by the other Germans, and are said to speak Fishhead Language.
I asked if he could imitate it, and after a couple quick false starts, he said, “No. Can you do all the American accents?!” Mom and I both grinned, knowing what I have up my sleeve.
“Well,” I said, “If y’all ah frum Jawjah, y’all tawk lahk th-yis, with a soaft Suthun acceyent.” He grinned, too. “An’ if youse from Noo Yawk, ya tawk like dis, ‘You tawkin’ ta me?! I doan’t see nobody else hee-yah, so you mus’ be tawkin’ ta me!'” and he laughed, and said, “Taxi Driver!” Then I said, "If you’re from Suthun Coliforniyah, y’kneew, like El Laye, you’d toatally say things like, 'Ef you see Bawb [Bob], tell hem I’ym pessed, and I’ym guhnna keck his ahss." They were both cracking up, and he said, “Valley Girl!” so I went off on a, like, toatal Valley Girl spiel fer a minnit. Next I gave them, “If y’all frum Tyexas, y’all’d say, ‘Thannkyeew!’” which was also met with approval. [I have it on Good Authority that mah Tyexann “Thannkyeew!” is spot on, BTW.] I whipped out a couple more, inc the nasal Midwest, the clipped New England, and the extra soft Loosiyannah acceyent, and there was much rejoicing.
I made sure to do all this without seeming like I was trying to show off, or worse, show him up for being unable to do Fishhead Language. Those were the last things I wanted to do: I just wanted to crack them up.
We were doin’ some pre-bar drinkin’ and smokin’ together a few nights later, when a smol bat 
began zipping around the light near the driveway, bug-catching. I pointed and said, “Fledermaus!” Dieter was pleased, but then proceeded to try - and fail - to think of the English word. “Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!!!” he insisted as he racked his brain. We waited, me with much empathic pain, as he suffered thru searching his English files. At last, downcast, he admitted defeat. “Allright. Now you can tell me,” he sadly announced.
Very gently, infusing as much kindness into it as I could, I said, “Bat.”
“AAAARRRRGGGGHHH!” cried poor darling Dieter. He slapped his forehead in the finest Homer Simpson fashion, then shouted, “Batman !!!”
I rushed over and hugged and petted him, and he felt a little better.
One night, he fixed me with an odd look, and asked, “What do the Germans call the Danube?” W/o missing a beat, I replied, “Donau,” and he smiled, almost like a teacher who’s happy w/their pupil. He was proud of me! 
Some of you have never adjusted/done bodywork on 50+ horses in a day, and it shows.
I swear on every volume of The Oxford English DIctionary this actually happened. It was during the 90s. I was in Jamaica and almost all were rescued former racehorses. They belonged to a woman who became a very dear friend. I miss her soooooo much.
Another day I worked on almost all the horses at St Ann Polo Club, the world’s longest-lived polo club. All but one. He tried to kill me, no lie.
I slipped into his stall to work on him, and he pinned his ears, snaked his neck, spun around and kept pointin’ his bum at me so he could kick me to death.
The stalls have no doors, just chains or those banner-y things that go across. He wouldn’t let me leave his stall. He blocked my escape every way he could. It was an absolutely terrifying dance, and every move had to be perfectly timed to go with this furious partner’s lead. I knew how to avoid his attempted assaults, which angles were inaccessible to him, but that was one speedy, nimble, angry bastard. Somehow I stayed calm despite the deep fear.
He never did kick, because he knew he’d miss, which made him even angrier. He didn’t want to waste any energy on blows that wouldn’t connect. Don’t know how many times I shifted, jumped, hopped, dashed to avoid him. I couldn’t let this go on forever, and used intellect against his violence. I faked him out - feinted one way, then dashed under whatever was across his stall doorway as he shifted his hindquarters the wrong way.
Having experienced an angry drunk’s pointing a gun at me wasn’t nearly as scary as this. Shook for a while, which would surprise no one who’d witnessed this, and no one witnessed this. Walked around the grounds, had a smoke somewhere well away from the horsey places, tried to think Pleasant Thoughts. Instead wound up thinking he must be in a lot of pain to be that angry, and how awful it was that he wouldn’t accept the offered work he obviously needed.
I got it together after a bit and went on to the next horse in the stable, hoping s/he was not some evil flesh-nomming mutant horsebeast like poor thingie over there, who pinned its ears and rolled its eyes and gnashed its teeth and snaked its neck despite my giving its stall a wide AF berth to visiting the next horse.
Worked on the rest of the horses, which went smoothly.
I told our friend who runs the polo club about what had happened when she returned from an errand. She was horrified, since she hadn’t warned me off him. She was amazed I’d survived, and grateful for all the well-adjusted horses.
She asked me to work on her one day when her back was bad. She told me, “Yu set dat jooker (J’can slang applied to an instrument I often use for making adjustments) on ‘orse!” We laughed, and I replied with a Jamaican accent, “Noa, mi set it on ‘orsewoman!” and we laughed again.
This is a true story.
The Great Phoning the henry ford Museum Adventure
I rang the henry ford Museum one day in late July of 2007, and asked whether they have any Amphicars.
The operator who answered hung up on me after I’d been on hold about 90 seconds.
I called back. She didn’t apologize for ringing off and transferred my call to someone who hadn’t a clue.
The clueless one put someone else on the line after a short wait.
“You’re looking for a what?” he said when I asked whether they have an Amphicar. “A [insert thoroughly misheard non-word]?”
[Very slowly] “Am-phi-car. A-M-P-H-I. It’s amphibious.”
Silence. I glanced over at mom, who looked suitably horrified. I smiled at her and said into the phone, “You can drive it into the water.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh, no. Oh, no. I’ve been here nine years and I’ve never seen anything like that; nothing that’s amphibious.”
“‘K! Thank you!” I cheerily said as I hung up, and looked at my still-horrified-looking mom. “You only heard half the conversation.”
LBJ owned one, but why would Henry Ford?
Any relation to Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern- schplenden- schlitter- crasscrenbon- fried- digger- dingle- dangle- dongle- dungle- burstein- von- knacker- thrasher- apple- banger- horowitz- ticolensic- grander- knotty- spelltinkle- grandlich- grumblemeyer- spelterwasser- kurstlich- himbleeisen- bahnwagen- gutenabend- bitte- ein- nürnburger- bratwustle- gerspurten- mitz- weimache- luber- hundsfut- gumberaber- shönedanker- kalbsfleisch- mittler- aucher von Hautkopft of Ulm? To do justice to this man, thought by many to be the greatest name in German Baroque music, we present a profile of Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern- schplenden- schlitter- crasscrenbon- fried- digger- dingle- dangle- dongle- dungle- burstein- von- knacker- thrasher- apple- banger- horowitz- ticolensic- grander- knotty- spelltinkle- grandlich- grumblemeyer- spelterwasser- kurstlich- himbleeisen- bahnwagen- gutenabend- bitte- ein- nürnburger- bratwustle- gerspurten- mitz- weimache- luber- hundsfut- gumberaber- shönedanker- kalbsfleisch- mittler- aucher von Hautkopft of Ulm?
To ford the Detroit River or Lake St Clair, maybe?
Mein Gott, I hope not!
{Sorry abt the rhyme}
Not exactly an interesting story but one i’d like to tell nonetheless. I like to look at collectibles, figures, blind boxes, etc and occasionally buy them. Around the time of COVID one of the websites i visit had a rare figure in extremely limited quantities, so to make it fair they had a lottery set up to give people the chance to buy it. The figure wasn’t one i was particularly interested in but i decided to sign up just because, i wasn’t going to win anyway right? For reference the figure was this:
A few days later i’m informed that i won, and if i wanted the figure i should pay as soon as possible. From memory it was around $160-ish, it was a lot of money to spend on something i didn’t even want but i figured i could hold onto it and that i would know when the right time to flip it came. Some of you may already see where this is going, for the last couple of months Labubu plush keychains have been all the rage and people have been really obsessed. I casually mentioned to my partner about the figure i had and how it was likely worth a lot of money but that i was too lazy to sell it she has also been into the whole Labubu craze and has been buying/reselling them so she offered to list it for me. It was up for maybe a day and someone offered $700 on it, there’s a chance i could’ve gotten more but frankly that amount is enough for me so i told her to accept it. Currently waiting for it to be delivered so i can get paid.
I think that’s interesting, and I do hope you get major enjoyment from your windfall!
It’s also a V cute figurine!
A horse story for @MerelyGifted
My wife was a big horse person and was working at a barn as a barnhand. Mucking stalls, turning out, feeding… The barn owner would let her take a horse out for a ride every once in a while. One time she did some extra work in return for a lesson for her and me.
She had been thinking about how to help me get my seat right as she had struggled with that when she started riding. So we got there and I hop up on the horse and, she said, my seat was perfect. Pissed her off no end, lol. We mostly just went around in a circle changing gaits and speeds but it was a lot of fun.
The following weekend she asked if I’d like to go on a ride with her. I said “Sure!” and off we went. The horse I got was an older mare named Paula. Calm, experienced, good horse for a newbie like me. We took a trail through the forest/woods that had a couple big clearings where we could get up some speed and let the horses stretch their legs a bit
We finally come out of the woods onto a plateau overlooking a valley and it’s absolutely gorgeous. As we’re standing there admiring the view, dear, sweet, calm and collected Paula dips her right shoulder and dashes off to the left. All of a sudden there is no longer a horse under me.
But I still had the reins in my hand, tight as they were. I literally climbed down the reins hand-over-hand and hauled myself back into the saddle. I got Paula under control and my wife, sensibly, said “Okay, back to the barn.”.
As we were removing the tack I happened to be facing Paula at one point and she took a step forward and gently pressed her forehead into my chest. I looked at my wife and said “It looks like she’s apologizing.” and my wife replied “That’s exactly what she’s doing.”. I gave Paula a couple pats on the neck and told her “That’s okay. More exciting than I expected, no harm no foul.”.
Well recovered !!! Bravo !!!
Mom, her then-BF and I had been doing some shopping in St Anns Bay (locally pronounced SintAHNNZbey), Jamaica, and were heading back to the car when an exceptionally sleazy-looking chap demanded my number. I ignored him, and we walked on.
A couple seconds later, I snorted, and said, “Huh! Give you someone else’s number!”
The three of us laughed, and so did a woman who was walking alongside us. She gave me a great smile. I was suddenly inspired, and began to loudly sing, “54-46 was my number, yea-ea-ea-eaaah/Right now, someone else has that number, no lie…” and the four of us cracked up again.
A much older gentleman who was walking toward us told me, with great ahem conviction, “Yu sing it, Sistah!”
I’m sure he would have been even more pleased had he seen the entire brief drama’s unfoldment.
