Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in skomand's LiveJournal:

Saturday, October 23rd, 2004
8:37 am	A Special Evening I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I did it anyway. So please don’t email me to tell me I’m a total sap. And don’t you dare bring up the fact that I was a film major, and what self-respecting film major would do what I did. Just leave me alone about it, ok? But yeah, I paid to see Resident Evil 2. So I’m ten minutes into the movie and I’ve already had enough. The editing was so nonsensical it was borderline experimental. Shaun of the Dead was starting in another 20 minutes, so I hopped over to that theater. Shaun of the Dead was great. It’s really a parody with Simpsons-esque absurdities, but it abides by zombie movie conventions so I guess it’s a horror movie too. And unlike Resident Evil 2, it wasn’t edited by the trembling hands of a fiending junkie. So hurrah, the evening was saved. But no. My troubles had just begun. I was halfway back to the Daly City BART stop when I realized I didn’t have my wallet. It’s a horrible feeling to lose your wallet, but it’s much, much worse when you’re halfway home and it’s almost midnight. So, here was my dilemma: assuming someone hadn’t stolen it, the wallet could have been in the Resident Evil theater or the Shaun of the Dead theater. Somehow, I had to explain to the theater managers that I’d been in both theaters in the span of two hours. I decided my explanation would be that I’d confused the two movies because they were both zombie-related. Once I realized Resident Evil was the wrong movie, I’d simply moved to the correct theater. Seemed iron-clad to me. Back at the megaplex, most of the employees were busy cleaning up, so I easily snuck back into the Resident Evil theater. Down on all fours, I crawled through spilled soda and popcorn, the knees of my pants peeling off the floor as I advanced. My little blue keychain light did wonders. I didn’t find my wallet, but I did find a twenty dollar bill. It was a gift from God – fare for a cab ride home. (The BART had closed by this point.) Btw, shout out to God. He’s the shit. I wasn’t sure where Shuan had been playing, so I had to ask the customer service desk. The guy deferred me to a bored security guard who was standing around aimlessly. His name was Ramon, and he was totally eager to help. Ramon and I were heading to the Shuan theater when a lanky white guy, maybe in his thirties, with a slight limp, shambled up to us. “Hi. There. Ramon,” he said. He was obviously some kind of retarded. “I. Just. Saw. Anacondas. It. Was. Pretty good.” (Pretty good came out as a single unit.) “That’s great, Brian,” said Ramon, winking at me. I gathered Brian was a regular. “We gotta get going, man. This guy lost his wallet.” “A. Lost. Wallet? Mind. If. I. Help. Look?” Ramon looked at me and shrugged. It was my choice, and I was about to say no thanks. Brian was already creeping me out, and I didn’t need the extra stress. But then I figured why the hell not? He seemed harmless. And maybe he was an idiot-savant whose super power was finding stuff. So the three of us marched off to the theater. Down on all fours in popcorn, nachos, and soda…sticky crap bonding my hands and knees to the floor…and no wallet. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I prayed I had missed it in the Resident Evil theater. We regrouped and I began to tell my carefully woven lie to Ramon: “So, Ramon, I actually purchased my ticket for Shuan of the Dead, but I accidentally walked into Resident Evil 2 at first. I mean, they’re both zombie movies. Easy to confuse, right? Ha, ha, ha. Ha?” Ramon smiled and said, “Riiiight. Man, it’s almost 1 am. I’m just like you, I hop theaters all the time. So let’s go. C’mon!” he called to Brian, who was still on his hands and knees, and we heard his disembodied voice yell, “I. Think. I. Found- Oh, wait. No.” Back to the Resident Evil theater. Hands, knees, soda, popcorn, sticky shit. No wallet. I thanked Ramon and Brian and left my name and number at the customer service desk. If anything came up, I’d get a call right away. So I called a cab and waited. I’d have to cancel my credit cards, get a new social security card, get a California ID…ugh. The cab ride was peaceful and only cost ten bucks. Plus, my wallet had only contained $2 in cash, so beyond the hassles, I’d actually made money. When I got home, a message awaited me. “Hi, this is Ramon from Century Theaters. I’m calling to let you know that Brian actually found your wallet right after you left. He wanted to go back for a second sweep. The wallet is waiting for you at customer service. All your credit cards and cash look like they’re here, so congratulations man.” You know those tolerance-themed public service announcements they used to show in between Saturday morning cartoons? There were a bunch of overly cheery music videos about the fact that people who are handicapped, or brain damaged, or terminally ill still can still surprise us, and surpass us. Like, “The A-OK Gang sings We’ve All Got Something to Offer.” I always found that tripe nauseating, but after hearing Ramon’s phone message, all those old tunes came rushing back to me. They’re all true, I thought. They’ve always been true. Retarded people are people too. I curled up in bed, mighty satisfied that the knot in my stomach was gone. Just as I was drifting off, around 2 am, my phone rang. I answered it. “Hullo?” “Hello. This. Is. Brian. The. Guy. From. The. Movie theater.” What the fuck? Then I realized he must have gotten my number from the reception desk. Not one to withhold credit when it’s due, even when I'm fucking tired, I said, “Brian, thank you so much for finding my wallet.” “Thank. You. Will. You. Be. Coming. Back This. Evening. To Get. It?” “Brian, I’m pretty sure the theater is closed. I’ll get it tomorrow.” Silence for a bit, and then, “Ok. I. Have. Left. My. Name. Number. And. Address. At. Customer. Service. So. You. Can. Send. Me. A. Reward.” I had noticed Brian holding a pack of cigarettes earlier, so I said, “How about I buy you a pack of smokes?” “Well. You’re. Right. About. That. I. Am. A. Smoker.” “What’s your brand?” “How. About. You .Get. Me. One. Of. Those. Exotic. Camel. Blends?” Those cost about 8 dollars, but what the hell. I had a surplus of God’s money – might as well do the right thing. Assuming the right thing to do with God’s money was to enable a retraded man’s smoking habit. “Ok Brian. Will do. Thanks again,” I said. He said a awkward thank you and hung up. I went back to sleep, worried that he might call again. If he was lonely and started to think I was his friend…things could get weird. Fortunately, he never called me again. The next day I went back to the theater and got my wallet. Indeed, the money and all my cards were still inside, but I was missing a BART ticket worth about $30. Still, I told the manager how impressed I was with his staff, and especially with Ramon. He thanked me and went back to some figures on a clipboard. While he wasn’t looking, I snuck into The Forgotten. Awful movie. When I got home, I bought the cigs and mailed them to Brian. Total cost: $7.50. My mom thinks Brian found the wallet earlier and held on to it until I’d left so he could claim a reward. If that’s the case, those music videos had more to teach than I ever imagined. Retarded people are people too. Terrible people. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 29th, 2004
4:22 am	These Things Hurt, Man! A few weeks ago, I was waiting at the Belmont Caltrain station when guess what happened? You guessed it: some crazy shit. Maybe fifteen feet away from me, there was a guy talking on his cellphone, minding his own business. Further down the platform, a heavyset teenager, maybe 17, was sauntering towards us. The cellphone guy had his back turned, so he couldn't see the kid coming. The kid snuck up behind cellphone guy, raised his fist, and swung it, stopping just short of hitting the man. The man jumped, and then took a few steps back. For a second, I thought they were friends. They weren’t. The kid was clearly looking for trouble. He left cellphone guy alone and sat down next to me. Actually, he technically flopped down, like you’d do on your couch when you don’t have company. He was wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals. “How you doing, man?” he asked me. “I’m good. How are you?” He thought for a moment and then said, “I’m ruthlessly rich.” Then he started pointing at random people, just glaring at them and tracking them with his finger. He’d fix on one person for about thirty seconds before moving to the next. I considered changing my seat. I glanced to my left and saw a cop strolling up the platform. I thought nothing of it, but then glanced to the right and saw another cop approaching. Something was going down, and I had a front row seat. The kid gave each of the cops the finger as they approached. (He used two hands, one for each side.) When they were directly in front of us, one of the cops said, “We gonna have any trouble today, Ollie?” Ollie said, “I got a train ticket.” “Let’s see it,” the cop said. “It’s in my underwear.” “Ok Ollie,” the other cop said. “Either we take you to the hospital or we book you.” “I ain’t going nowhere,” Ollie said meekly, avoiding the cops’ stare. It was pretty obvious that Ollie would be going somewhere that evening. Then the cop turned to me and said, “Sir, could I please ask you to move?” That basically meant that things were going to get physical. I got up and moved to the side of the bench area where I had a perfect view. “I’m gonna count to three, Ollie,” the cop said. Ollie sat there defiantly. “One…two…three!” The cop made a lunge for Ollie, grabbing his arm, pulling him up from the bench, and flipping him around. Ollie screamed in pain. The other cop looked at me and yelled, “Sir! Please step away!” I took about three steps back and kept watching. Right about then, Ollie struggled and broke one arm free. The cop instantly recaptured him, slammed him down on the bench, and aimed a bright yellow gun at him. The other cop readied his yellow gun, too. “We got two tazers on you, Ollie,” the other cop said. “These things hurt, man!” Ollie had given up. The cop cuffed him and started escorting him down the steps. “My fucking sandal!” Ollie screamed, and indeed, one sandal was stuck in between the slats of the bench. The other cop picked it up and put it on Ollie’s foot. They took him down the steps, presumably to a police car, and that was the end of that. I really wanted to see Ollie get tazered. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 28th, 2004
6:47 pm	Hello, Pizza Hut? Do You Euthanize? At the southern end of the San Carlos Caltrain platform, right where the walkway ends, stands a small sign advertising a suicide hotline. (Its presence isn't random - I've heard that a handful of people each year choose to end it all in front of a twenty-ton speeding train.) So the sign reads, "There Is Help. 1-800-SUICIDE" It seems simple enough, but if you think about it, couldn't the sign just as easily be advertising an assisted suicide service? Cracks me up every time. (Comment on this)
6:18 pm	Al-true-isn't UPDATE **Please read the first installment (Al-true-isn't) before this one** Not two hours ago, I was staring Johnny Morris in the face! I'd taken the BART to 16th & Mission and there he was, standing at the top of the escalator rolling a cigarette. I was 99% sure it was him, but I had to make sure. "Hey you, what's your name?" I asked, really rudely. He looked up and said, "Johnny. I remember you." Month-old anger was flooding my system, but I didn't have the nerve to break into my Princess Bride routine. I wanted to make a fool out of him, and screaming "booo!" like an old beggar woman would have done just the opposite. So I half-yelled, "You scammed me, Johnny." He said, "What are you talking 'bout?" "Johnny, you pulled the same shit on two of my friends. Same story and everything. You're a liar, dude." He started to say something but I interrupted him. "How's your dad, Johnny? Doing good? How's Tuscaloosa?" Before he could respond, I just turned and walked away. I heard him yell, "I didn't scam you! You got that ticket!" I guess that's kind of true. And he DID try to stop me from mailing that check. But fuck him. He's a dirty liar. Later on, I was talking to a friendly Mission hobo who told me that Johnny's a 16th street regular. Apparently, he's got a $60/day heroin habit and regularly preys on tourists. Knowing that, I do feel a little bad for Johnny. (A little.) And I must give him props for his excellent storytelling abilities. But as my brother said, if you're too good at the hustling game, you stand out. And that's the last thing a hustler wants. (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 25th, 2004
1:47 am	Al-true-isn't About a month ago, I went to a John Kerry “funkraiser” in the Mission. The music was too loud and the young democrats were all pretty lame, so around 11 p.m. I decided to head home. At the 16th & Mission BART terminal, I came upon the following scene: A scrawny, out-of-place white kid was trying to sell a prepaid BART ticket to passers-by. No one was interested, and since the terminal was almost empty, it was only a matter of time before he approached me. Right away I noticed his trembling hands. He was totally scared. “Hi,” he said in a Southern accent so thick it took only one word to hear it. His voice was nervous and low. “I got 35 bucks on this ticket. Can you spare 10 for it?” He handed me the ticket, and sure enough the amount read $34.80. “Check it in the machine,” he said, and I did. The machine confirmed it. Machines don’t lie, so the ticket amount was practically guaranteed. I reached for my wallet, the kid’s eyes widened, and then someone screamed, “Hey!” The someone was a BART employee - a fat, fuming black woman sitting at the info kiosk, about fifty feet away from us. She stared at the white kid and screamed, “I told you before: if you don’t get the hell out of here, I’m calling the cops!” “What the hell?!” the kid screamed to no one, so frustrated his eyes were watering. “This lady, she hates me. I don’t know what her problem is,” he whimpered. At this point in the story, we come to a prime example of how my overactive imagination fucks with my perception of reality. The following thought process occurred in about three seconds: The white kid is Southern, the black woman has a chip on her shoulder, and she’s enjoying her bit of authority. Maybe she was once harassed by some racist Southern fuckheads. Maybe she’s seen too many of those “racism” movies designed to fuel public rage. Maybe she’s just a bitch. Regardless, at that moment I was 110% sure that the scrawny white kid in front of me was the unjust recipient of her complicated anger. So I invited him to step outside with me. He told me his story: “My name’s Johnny Morris. I’m from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Me and my Dad were on vacation and now he’s in the hospital. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with him. Something with his heart. He’s not conscious.” He put a cigarette to his mouth, but couldn’t light it because he was shaking so bad. I lit it for him. “I’m just trying to get to the hospital, man. I spent my last forty bucks on this BART ticket yesterday, but I need to take a cab to get there.” “You can’t take a bus?” I asked. He threw up his arms in frustration. It seemed like people had been asking him that question all evening. “No, man! I need a goddman cab.” A couple of fully flamboyant drag queens walked past us. “This city gets weirder every minute, man,” Johnny said. That clinched it. He wasn’t acting. Johnny Morris was definitely a Southerner. “Ok, Johnny. Just relax,” I said. I had a ten and two fives in my pocket. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you ten now, and then once I’m sure the ticket’s for real, I’ll mail you a check for the rest.” I thought that was a pretty fair deal. “Whatever man, you don’t have to mail me anything.” “Just give me your address. Don’t worry about it.” He dug into his pack and pulled out a pen. On the back of the BART ticket, he wrote: “Johnny Morris 1321 13th St Apt 3B Tuscaloosa, AL 35403” I took the ticket and handed him ten bucks. He looked a little disappointed. He said, “I’m sorry to ask man, but I don’t know if it’ll cover the cab. I mean, I could walk some of the way-“ I handed him a five. “Don’t worry about it.” A visible wave of relief came over him. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Thank you so, so much.” “It’s nothing,” I said. “We’re not all assholes in this city.” We exchanged smiles and I went home feeling great about myself. I was already mentally drafting the letter I'd send him. I would be the epitome of kindness. The BART ticket was legit, so two days later, with absolute glee, I wrote a check for $19.80 and typed out the following letter: “Johnny, The BART ticket checked out just fine, so here’s a check for the remainder. Please deposit or cash it as soon as possible. I’m sorry to have been mistrustful of you initially. One can never be too careful in a city like this, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I hope your father recovers and is well. I don’t know what I can say except that life always goes on, no matter what. Take care, Andy” I mailed the letter from work the next day. Suddenly, I had carte blanche to inflate my ego to dangerous widths. Guiltlessly running through my brain was shit like: “Somehow, in this cold cruel world, there are still people who truly care. I’m one of a select few. I am a true altruist.” On the ride home, I told my brother all about my selflessness. (I’d practiced the story five times.) “Dan, I did something really good today. A few days ago I met this kid in the BART terminal. I know con artists, and trust me, this kid was no con artist.” Totally offhand, Dan said, “Just as long as he’s not the Southern kid with his dad in the hospital.” Oh fuck. I lost the ability to speak. Dan said, “Tell me what happened, already.” I still couldn’t talk. My pride was melting into rancid shame. Dan’s face lit up. “It WAS the Southern kid?” I nodded and he burst out laughing. “He pulled that same act on us a few weeks ago! Sarah gave him 6 bucks! Did you give him money?” That Southern hick motherfucker. “I gave him $15 for a $35 BART ticket.” Dan laughed harder. “He probably stole that ticket! But at least you made a profit.” But, of course, I’d sent that letter. That fucking letter with my embarrassingly kind wishes and a personal check with my name, address, phone and bank account numbers. “I sent him a check for the remainder,” I admitted. Dan then summed everything up nicely: “Andy, you’re a total idiot.” Bank of America charges $20 to cancel a check. I doubted anyone in Tuscaloosa would cash it, and even if someone did, I’d actually save 20 cents. On the other hand, that lying hick motherfucker didn’t deserve a fucking penny. So I cancelled the check and felt a fleeting, unearned sense of victory. Money-wise, I’d just about broken even. A week later, after I’d forgotten about most of this, Dan told me how he'd mentioned my story to his landlord. “I've seen that kid!” she screamed. “The one from Tuscaloosa with his dad in the hospital.” By this time, I’d managed to patch up my pierced ego. After all, when all was said and done, I’d only tried to do something nice. I was a good guy. A big part of me wanted to help Johnny because I honestly wanted to help him. The self-satisfaction was just a perk. Then letter came back to me. Undeliverable: Return to Sender. Not long ago, Dan was over at my place and I read it to him. He couldn’t control his laughter. And he was right – it was pathetic. Whenever I’m at the Mission BART terminals, I keep an eye out for Johnny Morris. If I ever see him again, I’ll point at him and scream “Boooo!” like the beggar woman from the dream sequence in The Princess Bride. "Johnny Morris! King of Muck! King of Refuse!" That fucking hick will taste the wrath of a city boy. So what’s the lesson? I guess it’s this: if you want to feel the self-aggrandizing effects of charity, work at a soup kitchen. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 21st, 2004
9:39 pm	Aunt Mitzi My Aunt Mitzi is cool. She’s actually my mom’s aunt, so she’s in her mid-80s, and she STILL works as a Real Estate agent. I mean, she’s had the same job for more than 40 years. They just inducted her into the “Million Dollar” club. All she got was a plaque, and apparently she had to pay for it. So not long ago, the office managers brought in a motivational speaker. His topic? 'Let’s discuss your long term goals.' Sitting in her kitchen, Aunt Mitzi exclaimed to my mom and me, “Long term goals? I don’t even buy green bananas, and he wants to talk about long-term goals?” Yeah. My Aunt Mitzi is cool. (Comment on this)