Cinlach gets “Fantasticized”…

I’m a rather spontaneous individual and so at about 8:30 Sunday night I decided I wanted to go to the movies. I even managed to somehow convince my younger brother A to accompany me.

We headed out to see Fantastic Four : The Rise of the Silver Surfer at the Greenville Camelot. Once we got our tickets and made our way inside, we began waiting for the movie to start. Listening to the tunes playing over the theater’s sound system, I started my favorite activity…”people watching”. I never fail to find some poor bastard who’s made himself/herself look stupid.

Among the throng (and by “throng” I mean no more then about 8 people total) taking in the 9:45 showing on Sunday night I noticed two folks I’d like to single out and spend a little time discussing.

First there was the guy with his wife about three rows behind us, who was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. His whole fashion statement ensemble was set off by the socks he was wearing with his sandals. Chuckling quietly to myself about the socks and sandal combination, I also happened to notice he was wearing a Bluetooth wireless earpiece for the cell phone which was perched conspicuously on his belt.

Oooooohhh…a high roller amongst us common folk. How lucky we are he deigned us worthy of his presence.

But seriously…what the fuck dude. It’s 9:45 on a Sunday fucking night…you’re at a goddamn movie theatre. If you’re anticipating a call that’s so important you have to wear your stupid little ear-thingie during the movie you’re seeing then perhaps you should’ve stayed the fuck home. No matter what you do during the day or week there’s absolutely no reason to walk around with a fucking earpiece in for your phone. Unless you’re the President or a Secret Service agent take the fucking thing off and leave it at home. In fact, please just get up and leave before I snatch that fucking thing off your self-important sandal and sock wearing goofy head and jam it and your formerly attached ear up your ass with extreme prejudice.

Give me a fucking break dude. No matter what your Mommy told you when you were little you’re not that damned important. The world will continue to rotate even without you having access to your fucking cellphone.

Second, I observed two guys coming in together. One was a very burly looking biker guy…stereotypically biker in fact. He had a long scraggly, unkempt beard, a tightly knotted pony tail, a denim shirt turned into a sleeveless wife beater, a harley hat, numerous splotchy looking tattoos on his arms and a pair of sunglasses on his face.

Did I mention the fucking movie was at 9:45? That’s PM folks, not AM. That distinction didn’t stop homeboy from totally rocking the Corey Hart “Sunglasses at Night” look. The guy with him was more “normally” dressed in a shirt and jeans.

They sat about 10 rows in front of us, carefully leaving a seat between them. I rolled my eyes…god forbid they should sit next to one another or else we all might think they were gay or something.

I imagined the exchange going something like this :

Stereotypical Biker Dude’s Friend : What about here? Is this ok Buzzsaw?

Buzzsaw : Yeah Chester, we should be able to see the righteous fire of destruction just fine from here.

Chester : Oh goodie! I can’t wait to see Galactus eat the planet! I’ll just sit right here…

Buzzsaw : Whoa man! What the FUCK do you think you are you doing?

Chester : Sitting down next to you…why, what’s wrong?

Buzzsaw : Give me some room man! Don’t be sitting all up on me like that…people will think were gay or something.

Chester : But we are…aren’t we?

Buzzsaw : Yeah, but that’s not the point. I’m not ready to be ostracized because I’m “different”.

Chester : You’re wearing sunglasses, a denim wifebeater, and covered in KKK tatoos. How much more “different” could you be?

Buzzsaw : Just shut up and pass me some popcorn. Keep this up and you won’t get no sweet, sweet lovin’ tonight.

While this humorous exchange was running through my head, I made a discovery. The movie soundsystem was playing 80’s new wave music.It was at this moment I remembered the music playing over the speakers.

This just keeps getting better…I was watching a Biker have to sit through Big Country’s “In a Big Country”, The Thompson Twins “Hold Me Now”, The Pet Shop Boys “West End Girls”, and Oingo Boingo’s “Weird Science”. I was somewhat certain that this was not his music of choice.

Buzzsaw : What the fuck kinda pansy-ass music is this?

Chester : I’m not sure, but it makes me want to shake my groove thang!

Buzzsaw : … [Glaring intensely at Chester with unrestrained rage.]

Chester : What? It’s kind of catchy. Doesn’t that make you want to get up and boogie?

Buzzsaw : Chester I swear on Hitler’s name, if you so much as shift in your seat rhythmically I’ll break your goddamn nose.

Chester : Fine, be that way…you big queen. You’re just mad because all you can do is the butterchurn.

Thankfully at this point the lights came down and the trailers started.The movie itself wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be…I actually enjoyed it. The only problem I had with the whole flick was Doctor Doom. He spent 90% of his time on screen out of costume. Which for those of you not in the know is bad. Doom never takes his mask off…ever. So to see him standing in front of the Fantastic Four talking shit to the Thing without his armor was a little annoying.

The film does a good job of conveying the constant poking and prodding between Thing and Human Torch. The Silver Surfer was awesome, and even though Galactus in comic form wasn’t in the movie you got the feeling that the entity coming to destroy Earth was a construct of Galactus and not necessarily the big purple G himself.

There were a couple of cool cameos, including Frankie Raye who in the comics becomes Nova and is also a Herald of Galactus like the Surfer.

All things considered I enjoyed my movie trip Sunday night, even though I fully expected it to suck…and I got to see a biker be subjected to Murray Head’s “One Night in Bangkok”.

That alone was worth the price of admission.

The Myrtle Beach Hotel Story…

I’m always being told by my wife that I need to write down some of my more humorous exploits…you know, kooky shit that would only (seemingly) happen to me. Today I’m going to be recounting The Myrtle Beach Hotel Story.

During my highschool days, I hung out with a crew of people from Connestee, SC. My cousin lived near Donaldson Center which was in turn near Connestee.

One summer in the olden days of the late 80’s, a small pack of us, meaning only about 5 or 6 all total, decided to go to the beach for a long weekend. So we gathered up and headed down to the coast. I was also interested in going because a girl, let’s call her Michelle, I’d been courting for a couple of months was headed down as well and she suggested I should come down so we could spend “some time” together. That’s right boys and girls…Cinlach could possible be getting laid during this trip.

Once we got to the beach, I met up with Michelle and we organized a rendezvous for later that evening. She warned me not to stand her up or get cold feet because she was going to make the trip well worth my while. It’s official…I am SO getting laid.

During the day, while I’m waiting anxiously for that evening, I helped my friends get together the necessary ingredients for making a concoction I’d never heard of before. It was called “PJ” and was otherwise known as “Purple Jesus”. It was so named because after drinking a great deal of it you were liable to see anything, up to but not limited to, a Purple Jesus.

Since I had plans later that evening I passed on the PJ and instead sipped on a couple of beers. I was, however, famished from the fact that between all our running around during the day, and my meeting up with Michelle, I had neglected to eat anything. So after the PJ had “settled” for a couple of hours, I finally couldn’t ignore my rumbling stomach any longer and started eating some of the floating fruit. I wasn’t concerned about this decision because after all, I wasn’t drinking the PJ.

This proved to be seriously flawed logic.

The more of the fruit I ate, the fuzzier things got until finally I awoke in a very unfamiliar location and sicker then I’d been in a long time.

Let me set things up a little more and give you some back story as to my reaction to alcohol. Once I reach a certain point, I black out, and when that happens I’m liable to do anything. There are pictures of me in various states of inebriation, confusion, and embarassment scattered throughout the greater southeast. It’s one of the reasons I don’t drink to excess anymore. The other reason is contained below and will soon be revealed.

When I regained consciousness, the first thing I discovered was that I was cold…freezing in fact. I was lying on a slab cement floor dressed only in a too large bright orange jumpsuit and flip flops. I glanced around, and realized that I was in fucking jail.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Had I killed a man? Raped a goat? Stolen a car? What about killed a man, raped his goat, and then stolen his car? I had no idea how I got there, what I’d done, how long I’d been there…nothing. I was not happy.

This was the point I began to panic. I called out for a guard and finally one arrived. It was then that I discovered that I’d been arrested for Public Intoxication. Which I of course had absolutely no memory of at all.

It seems that eating the fruit in the PJ was worse then actually drinking that vile shit. See as it turns out, the fruit absorbs all the alcohol and if you really want to get shitfaced out of your mind then all you have to do is eat the fruit. I decided that this would’ve been a handy piece of information to possess several hours prior to my arrest.

As for the details of my arrest, it was revealed that after I got good and unintentionally snockered, a group of us all decided to head out to the beach. As we were walking down the main street in Myrtle Beach, our group began flirting with a group of girls located on the balcony of a nearby hotel. Pleasantries were exchanged and they invited us up, we of course accepted.

Now, here’s where stupidity comes into play. For some reason, I decided that the quickest way up would be to climb the fucking hotel and not go inside and take the stairs/elevator. As it turned out, this was frowned upon by the local authorities and I ended up in the drunk tank. From what I was to learn later, I was one floor from achieving my goal when I was nabbed by the cops.

Now you see why I don’t drink anymore.

The guard asked if I was ready for my phonecall, which I very much was. I dialed the hotel room and got no answer…shit.

This was the point where my panic, and the PJ, started to assault my body with pain and nausea. I spent the next few hours vomiting, praying for death, napping, and every couple of hours trying the hotel with no luck.

As the day progressed into evening I was getting to the point where I was going to have to call my parents. This was less then appealing.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice and one of my friends walked up to the cell. It was then that the obscenities started :

Me : Where the fuck have you been? Why the fuck did you leave me? What the fuck happened? Why the fuck didn’t you stop me? When the fuck am I getting out of here?

Him : Calm down, your bail is $300. We’re all pooling the money together to get you out.

Me : Why the fuck did you leave me in here so long? You all knew what happened to me! You knew I was in fucking jail!

Him : See, here’s what happened. You weren’t the only one drunk last night. Everyone was pretty torn up. You got popped and everyone headed back to the hotel. Along the way they got distracted and by the time they got back to the hotel they were all about to crash. I got up and couldn’t remember where you were, I didn’t go with you guys. I thought you were with that girl you were meeting, and it wasn’t until I saw her on the beach that I discovered you’d stood her up.

Me : Holy fuck…I did stand her up. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!! But it wasn’t my fault! I got fucking arrested for supposedly climbing a hotel!

Him : Well she’s still pissed about it just the same and there’s no doubt man, you totally climbed that hotel. Anyway, once I knew you weren’t with her I headed back to our hotel and found out what’d happened…and here I am.

Me : Why the fuck didn’t those assholes answer the phone?

Him : They were all drunk and passed out. Would you have answered if you were hung over? No one knew who was calling.

Me : Look, I am entirely too hung over to yell at anyone right now. So just please get me the fuck out of here before I die.

And so my release was secured, my trip ruined, my chances with the girl destroyed (she never forgave me and scolded me for such a ridiculous excuse once I finally caught up with her back in town), and my head pounded like Zeus’s jackhammer for three days.

I never drank PJ again, and to this day I still can’t eat fruit.

Playing catch up…

Back Problems : I had an MRI done about 3 weeks ago and when the results came back I was told I had a “classic SI Strain”. I gotta be honest, I was a little disappointed. I was hoping for a “seminal SI Strain” or maybe a “one for the ages SI Strain”, but I guess “classic” is just have to do. I mean who wouldn’t rather have a “Led Zeppelin, Physical Graffitti” style strain instead of a “Garth Brooks, No Fences” style strain. But I guess such is life.

As a result of my diagnosis, I was directed to get physical therapy. I reported for examination on time, like a good little robot, on Tuesday morning.

After a quick exam, my therapist told me my hips were out of alignment. My left hip is sitting about an inch and a half higher then my right. As a result, my bottom two vertabrae are cinched up on the left side causing the cartlidge to bulge between them. Also it seems that at some point I’ve taken a “substantial hit” on my left leg which drove my Sacroiliac Joint up and nearly dislocated it. This misalignment is what’s been causing my SI problems for the past couple of years. It’s just been getting worse and worse.

I decide to inject some levity into the situation and joke with the therapist that he’d have to hang me upside down from my left leg in order to get it back into place. Strangely enough, I wasn’t too far off the mark. He ends up literally grabbing my left leg at the ankle and pulling the absolute shit out of it in one quick jerk, moving me down the examination table about a foot and a half.

He examined my hips again and said, “Well, I think that actually might’ve done it.”

Hold up…that one fucking pull on my leg fixed it?

“No fucking way! You’ve got to be shitting me!”, was my reply but I was assured that he was not pulling my leg…about the success pulling my leg seemed to have.

I was then instructed to lie on my stomach and place my face into a oval slot in the table. I did so and then felt that the therapist was slowly pulling my workout pants down. Now look, say what you want…but when a complete stranger asks you to lie on your face in a closed room and begins pulling your pants down you start asking some fucking questions.

I casually mentioned I was a little nervous but that I trusted him to do what was best for my health. Then I felt something cool and wet being rubbed onto my left buttcheek. I glanced up and he literally told me, “Don’t worry. It’s just a little lubricant.”

See now…that distressed me and while I know that’s not what he meant all I could think about this classic SNL Jeopardy sketch :

Sean Connery : I’ll take “The Rapists” for $1000 Alex.

Alex Trebek : Uh, that’s “Therapists” Sean.

Sean Connery : That’s what your mother said Trebek!

I confided in him that I could count on one finger the number of times I’ve had a strange man pull down my pants and put lube on my ass and this was that time. We chuckled awkwardly and then settled on a light conversational topic…religion.

No, I’m not making that up.

With the almost certain trainwreck of a conversational subject in place, the therapist then proceeded to torture me for 30 minutes non-stop. He discovered that this “substantial hit” had occurred to my left leg a very long time ago and I had a knot of scar tissue about the size of a golf ball in my sacroiliac joint. His plan was to torture…I mean “massage”…it and encourage it to flee…I mean “break up”…so that I could escape…I mean “live a normal life”.

I shit you not, I hurt for 3 days afterwards and had a knot right on the spot he worked on which was acutely painful to the touch. So sitting down all day long for my job was a little slice of Heaven with ice cream and a cherry on top.

The good news is that he thinks that three sessions should be enough to get everything squared away. I’m sure I’ll still need to do some maintaining exercises but no more intense physical therapy once these 3 are finished up.

The bad news is that I’m still tender and have another session scheduled for Tuesday morning at 8:45, with yet another set for Friday morning at 8:00. I can only imagine how intensely uncomfortable and painful these 2 will end up being.

Mom Stuff : Everything is slowly coming together. We went and bought her new stove and dishwasher a couple of weeks ago for her new place.

When the delivery men showed up and as I was walking up to meet them I heard a cat absolutely screaming. I figured the guys had run over one of my grandparents cats but when I located the source I saw a solid black kitten about 2 feet in front of the truck. If they’d pulled 2 feet farther up they would’ve hit him. But I get ahead of myself…more on the new arrival later.

As they’re bringing in the new stuff and I’m clearing off the old stuff, one of the delivery guys tells me they can’t take the old dishwasher unless it’s disconnected. When we bought the new stuff, was asked explicitly whether or not the old stuff would be hauled away. We were told that it was not a problem. At no time did anyone say anything about “uninstalling” the old appliances.

I was not happy but try as I might, I couldn’t seem to figure out how to unhook the old dishwasher. Between dealing with that and the screaming kitten I finally resigned myself to the fact that the old dishwasher would have to get disposed some other way.

During the arrival of the new appliances, the Lowe’s installation department calls and informs me they’ve faxed the forms over to the installation dispatcher and I’ll have an installer contacting me within 48 hours.

Once the new stove and dishwasher was unloaded, the stove installed, and the old one on it’s way to the shitcan, i did some cursory cleaning and wrapped up the house duties for the day.

The new stuff was delivered Monday and I was promised I’d hear something from the installer by Wednesday, so on Thursday when my phone still hadn’t rang I contacted the Lowe’s installation department with a “what the fuck?” querry.

They apologized and told me I’d be hearing from someone that day, which I did at about 3:30 that afternoon. Unfortunately, I was in a meeting and unable to take the call so I retrieved the message and returned his call at 4:30 the same day.

By Saturday I still hadn’t heard back from the second installer and I was more then a little cranky about it. I decided I’d just put the fucking thing in myself and thereby save Mom $115 in installation charges as a Mother’s Day present.

After checking online and seeing just exactly how the fucking thing comes out, I had the old dishwasher out in less then 10 minutes. I wrangled everything into place for the new one only to find out that the drain hose from the old dishwasher wouldn’t fit. So I unhooked everything, took out the old hose, attached the new one, and then re-installed everything.

After about an hour I had the new dishwasher in place, fastened to the cabinets, and the wiring done. I was now ready to trip the breaker and hope like hell an explosion wasn’t the result. The power was restored and there was no electrical unpleasantness…go me!

However, there was a problem. The dishwasher made all kinds of wonderful noises but there seemed to be a distinct lack of water to be had. I checked the water lines and saw that I had indeed remembered to turn the water supply back on, so scratch that.

I scoured the instruction booklet thinking there might be a plug or valve missed in installation…with no such items to be found.

I then tried to deduce why exactly it wasn’t getting water. I pondered on this for about another hour…nothing seemed to help.

Then it hit me…it’s not getting any air! Because the air inside the lines cannot escape, there’s no way for the water to enter the dishwasher. I located the drain vent, loosened the cap on the top and immediately heard water rushing into the dishwasher tank. It’s official…I am a golden god!

Nevermind that I should’ve thought of it sooner…that’s irrelevant.

So with the dishwasher installed, we headed out to my favorite restaurant, Lieu’s Chinese Bistro for a Mother’s Day feast.

As I’m pulling back into my subdivision, my cellphone rings…it’s the second installer. He’s trying to set up an appointment to come out and put in the dishwasher. Typical. Tough shit spunky…I did it already, you just lost $115 bucks fuckknuckle!

When I get up Monday morning and turn on my phone, I have a voice mail…it’s the first installer trying to set up an appointment to put in the dishwasher. Double typical. Well tough shit to you too Jethro, you had you’re fucking chance.

I called Lowe’s, got the money refunded, and told them to tell the installation folks “thanks but no thanks!” As of today, Monday the 21st, I’m still getting phone calls from plumbers trying desperately to install the dishwasher.

New Kitten : For those of you brave enough to make it this far, you’ll remember me mentioning finding a kitten when the new appliances were being moved into Mom’s house.

He’s solid black, with slate gray eyes and appears to be about 6 weeks old. The irony of finding a solid white kitten 6 months before finding a solid black kitten is not lost on me.

The difference between Loki and Ozzy (my mother’s name for him…Ozzy, the kitten of darkness) is that while Loki was almost certainly born and lived outside, Ozzy came to us with a small collar, a bell on said collar and trimmed claws. Ozzy was obviously someone’s pet. Now whether he escaped or was set loose is something we’re still debating.

He wasn’t malnourished, and had almost no fleas, and also had no visible sickness. We took him to the vet and they gave him a clean bill of health. We’d initially investigated turning him over to a no-kill animal shelter but in the days leading up to making contact with them, my Grandfather fell in love with Ozzy and so he’s been welcomed into the family.

He’ll spend the next couple of months with my Grandparents, and when Mom makes the move into her new house Ozzy will accompany her.

So far, Ozzy has been a complete blessing for my Grandfather, who’s suffered with arthritis and assorted other health issues. Now instead of sitting and just dwelling on how he feels that particular day, he spends time taking care of Ozzy, or should I say trying to avoid being devoured by Ozzy.

Sometimes I question the sanity of my loved ones…first my wife names a kitten after the Norse god of mischief, and then my Mother names one after the heavy-metal madman himself, Ozzy Osbourne. The chances of either of these kittens becoming anything other then furry, terror mongering, feline buzzsaws are so remote they can’t even be considered.

Work : Yeah, they still gotta pay me to do it, would still rather be doing something else. Lots of changes and reorganization going on, which has pretty much been the mode of operation for the past few years. We continue to scramble to find a solid foothold in our industry which is disheartening sometimes given the fact we dominated it for so long. It appears as though there’s automation coming with what I feel is a goal of reducing labor costs and thereby saving money. Which is fine I guess, we’ve got folks who certainly have been on autopilot for about the last 10 years. But the thought of doing my job to an outstanding degree, and at a continual high standard only to lose it anyway really irks the fuck out of me. I absolutely hate the idea that nothing I do makes a damn but of difference as to whether or not I keep my job. It’s not that we’re not making money, we’re just not making the money they want us to make. But this is, of course, all due to their marketing and management strategies. It’s got nothing to do with how well we do our jobs.

So anyway, there’s a few updates to tide you all over. I’m going to try to update a little more regularly (raise your hand if you’ve heard that one before) because whether or not anyone actually reads this it’s still semi-therapeutic just to write it all out.

So until next time…same Cinlach time, same Cinlach channel.