No Moon

Luna died today. Well, she will die today. It’s strange, as she’s here with me still as I write this, but we have a vet’s appointment in 2 hours.

She’s sitting beside me on the trunk, panting. Almost I expect her to move from the pant sound, to the noise she makes when she’s about to throw up a hairball. Such a similar sound to the ear, and yet so different. I used to be annoyed at cleaning up hairballs, now, I wish that was the problem.

I was woken up around 3am this morning, by Luna – lying beside me at the head of the bed. She’s not been sleeping with me for the past few weeks, as it’s a lot of trouble for her to walk up the make shift ramp I’ve deployed by the side of the bed. A small water bowel on the third level in case she decides it’s time for a drink on the way to the top. But last night she made the trek, and woke me with an almost aggressive purr. She didn’t want water, didn’t want food – just wanted me – awake, to give her some strokes. A little time under the covers before she fell into a light sleep, curled up by my side, one paw stretched out to touch my arm.

Luna and I met while shopping – she wasn’t Luna then, rather she was a kitten being sold for $1 by a homeless man, I remember his cardboard sign, ripped from the side of a produce box. I was picking up some supplies for my first trip to Canada. I clearly remember some sirens sounding in the distance, and the homeless man ran off in a panic, abandoning the kittens he’d procured from somewhere in the hot August San Diego sun. Luna jumped out of the box and came trotting after me, on wobbly kitten legs as I entered the store.

I was leaving for Canada that evening, but was enchanted by her moxy, and huge, huge eyes. A girl who was adopting another kitten offered to look after her until I returned from Canada, and Luna has been with me ever since.

She’s named after a character on Sailor Moon – I felt it had nice symmetry. Dove tailing my love of cats, anime and Wonder Woman very nicely.

She’s done a lot in her life. She’s responsible for my friend David’s 5 cats. (He had a mean cat as a child, and didn’t like them. I had told him it’s all in how you raise them – Luna as living proof. She loved people, was good for a chat or a game, and never shied away from showing affection.)

Luna has been with me from my first long term relationship until my last. And god knows what in between. She’s always shown a preference for tall men, flirting with them outrageously with me in the room.

Luna was a drooler, from day one. She’d been taken from her mother when she was too young, so I had to bottle-feed her at first; paws knitting away, as she suckled on the bottle. From then on, whenever she was especially happy, she’d start to drool. Most noticeably on your lap, or shirt, or wherever you were holding her at the time, giving her a good pat. And she was happy a lot.

Right now she’s on the bed, breath coming in shallow gasps. They say cats hide pain, hide it well. And truth be told, she doesn’t seem to be hurting. That’s what makes it so hard. To my eye, she LOOKS fine. But from everything I’ve read, everything I’ve been told, she’s not fine. I know when I’ve been short of breath; every intake labored - how hard it is. When she is on my lap, her heart is beating so fast. So I know, intellectually she’s not fine; I just am having trouble reconciling the mental with the visual.

Her companion passed away 2 year ago now, in May. The years have just whizzed by. Luna has never been another cat cat – meaning she never suffered other cats willingly. But she and Artemis grew up together as kittens. They curled up, yin and yang style – her jet black to his creamy white. She’s off to join him now, and my house, and life will be emptier for it.

But my life has been far, far richer.

I love you Luna,










goodbye.

Trying to be fascinating is an asinine position to be in.

The post office is issuing stamps again.



Such a strange stamp, suitable to any occasion. I used it to post invitations to my wedding day, and now I blog about it here, in memory of someone who has died.

In other words, can't WAIT to be sending out heaps of mail with these stamps!

What's in a name?

I was at work during most of the Michael Jackson Memorial. Over lunch, we headed to a local Vietnamese restaurant for a bite, and they were showing the live broadcast on ABC.

For whatever reason, the hard of hearing telex subtitles were on as well. Now, as this was live, those folks must have been typing up a storm, and they got a bit flummoxed when a boy from Wales came on stage to sing.

Shaheen Jafargholi.

Now, the boy can SING – but, he does have a hard name to spell, especially if you’re not from Wales.

This is what was said: “My name is Kenny, my name is Kenny Ortega, thank you, and I was Michael’s partner in the creating and directing of many of his tours, including “This Is It”. And Shaheen was invited by Michael to join him in London, for the show, so I just wanted to introduce him to everyone and to say thank you for coming out all this way to join us today Shaheen.”


What we saw on the screen was this: “My name is Kenny, my name is Kenny Ortega, thank you, and I was Michael’s partner in the creating and directing of many of his tours, including “This Is It”. Invited by Michael to join him in London, for the show, so I just wanted to introduce him to everyone and to say thank you for coming out all this way to join us today.”

The poor folks had no idea how to spell Shaheen.

You're how old?

My agent calls me on Friday evening; he’s got me an audition spot at 10am on Monday for a print commercial. It’s a straight buy out, and they’re looking for a “Silverlake” type. In Hollywood speak this is basically edgy, fashionable, young, rocker, hip – the spot is for a mobile phone company.

Then comes the kicker, he got me a 10am spot, but realized that this is actually for the 18–21 year olds. But he says not to worry, as I can just go to the other slot that begins at 1pm, and explain that my agent booked me into the wrong slot. Making this a little bit worse is that this 1pm slot is for guys who are 24-25.

My agent commented that it wouldn’t be good to put me up against an 18 or 19 year old – all I can think of is that the casting director will need to have cataracts, cause the 25 set will need to have been doing a lot of hard living or we’ll just need to make sure there’s a good photoshop artist around if I land the job.

I can definitely pass for late 20’s – hell, I still get carded. But, even on my great days, passing for 24 would be a STRETCH.

Weighing the pros and cons

I’ve been trying to catalogue the pros and cons of dating a 24 year old.

Pros:
• They’re 24

Cons:
• The fact that their house only has 1 towel (and by “house” I mean shared apartment where basic toiletries are strictly catalogued by roommate and can only be used by the official owner, and a bathroom that has to be locked in 2 doors so roommates don't inadvertently enter.)
• The twin sized bed with 1 pillow
• The lack of glasses (for champagne) and vases (for flowers)
• Having friends introduce your date at a party as “a very young friend of Mrs. DeWitt’s mother”
• Having said 24 year old ask what you’re doing for “winter break” this year

Hmm, well, after reviewing this, so far the pros still have it.

Dim Sum Sunday

I went out for Dim Sum on Sunday morning, and my friend wanted me to try dishes I hadn’t tried before.

This is how I found out I am very western in my Dim Sum ordering: shu mai, hai gow, custard tarts, chicken buns, pork buns, Chinese broccoli, sesame balls, lotus balls, fried tofu – all good.

Though lately, my “strange” western palate has been pointed out by different Chinese friends. For example, people have chastened me for happening to like chili oil with my pork buns, and no amount of explaining will convince friends that a dash of soy sauce brings out the sweetness of sesame balls.

Anyway, growing up I was never a fan of kidney, liver or tripe. This really hasn’t changed. Which brings me to Sunday morning Dim Sum and my friend saying that I just had to try “nu zha”. I would have been fine doing that, but then he had to go and give me the ingredient list – with a literal translation.

“It’s made from pig’s intestine, pig’s liver, tripe, and then the soup is made with pig’s blood. Try it, it’s good.”

After that, going round and round in my head was “intestine, blood, tripe, liver, pig’s blood, intestine, blood, tripe, pig’s blood”.

I wish I’d just been told “it’s pork”. I don’t need to know where on the animal it comes from. If I know that, it just leads to thinking that has me joining Peta and becoming vegetarian with tofurky becoming a household staple.

I was eating the other dishes that arrived via hot steamy steel carts, but hadn’t yet got stuck into “nu zha”.

“You’re avoiding that, aren’t you?”

Well, yes, I was. But I picked up a piece of tripe anyway, and asked if I should add chili oil to it. The flat stare back was answer enough. I stuck it in my mouth and chewed. The taste was actually quite good, it was the texture that got me.

Like chewing gum, but without the gum.

Then with each mastication I could only think “pig’s blood, intestine, tripe, pig’s blood” like some strange voodoo ritual just inside my head.

I tried it – I ate it – I won’t order it again.

Nothing to fear execpt fear itself (and cars)

Some days are just like this I guess.

Driving to work this morning on the 110 freeway in Los Angeles, I came to a large section of stopped traffic near the end of the freeway. The traffic lights were out, and a traffic cop was directing traffic.

It was at this point, I noticed my car taking a serious lean towards the right. This is how I came to find I had a flat tire on the oldest, narrowest freeway in Los Angeles. No shoulder, nowhere to pull over – just 1 of 3 lanes.

I put on the emergency lights, hopped out and opened the boot grabbing the jack and spare tire. It’s quite the special feeling to have a half mile of cars behind you, all stuck until they can get by you as you change a flat. On the bright side, the flat tire was on the side of the car away from the other traffic, and there were the lights that weren’t functioning. This meant that traffic was moving at a crawl anyway, so the chance of being mowed over by someone putting on makeup or texting was very slight.

Well, I’ve lived through one of my greatest fears – breaking down on the freeway – and lived to tell. With that one off the list, I hope this doesn’t mean that an actual vampire is going to break into my house at night, cause that’s on the list of my greatest fears too.

Riddle Me This

I went for my naturalization interview yesterday.

After years and years of not even thinking about it, this last election season made me re-examine why I hadn’t done so earlier. Part of it was definitely not wanting to have any personal official document signed by the current president. And, at some point I would still like to go back to New Zealand. I think it’s just the fact that I’ve been very happy with my current state that it hasn’t been a pressing issue.

That said, I’ve also had more than enough of being hassled at customs due to my unique green card. You’d think, if you work for the government you should know the different types of green cards and immigration documents that are issued. You’d be wrong of course, but I guess it doesn’t mean that you still can’t think it.

My main worry had been the “test”. This consists of being asked a series of 10 random questions from a possible 100 – I'd been obsessing over the first 13 states, and the date the constitution was adopted. The rest were easy enough to memorize.

The government worker I got informed me my English was pretty good, so she was going to go fast. If I had questions, I should stop her, and then she barreled rapid fire into the questions.

1. What are the colours (sorry, colors) of the stars on the flag?
2. How many senators are there in the U.S. senate?
3. What are the three branches of government?
4. Who becomes president if the president dies?
5. Who is the current chief justice of the Supreme Court?
6. Who did we fight during the war of independence?
7. Who was president during the civil war?
8. How long is a member of the House of Representatives elected for?
9. What are the first 10 amendments to the constitution called?

AND...

10. What were the original 13 states called before they were states?

The last one ALMOST tripped me up, as I was wanting to rattle off the 13 names I’m memorized (in vain). But, I passed these questions with fly colors (still prefer colours).

Then she began to ask the questions that covered whether I was a drunkard or hired prostitutes or planned to overthrow any government. Perhaps America has had trouble in he past with drunk John's launching rebellion attempts. It sounds rather 1800's to me, but there you go. I guess it's best to learn from past mishaps.

Still when faced with absurd questions, there’s always that part of me that wants to answer “yes” and then launch into a very explicit explanation of why I did such a thing -

"Yes, I have frequented prostitutes while drunk, and OH the countries I would overthrow. Well, you see one night - after consuming 3 bottles of absinthe I ended up kicking Plantain out of the car, I didn't tip, well you know how that is. Prossies can so overcharge if they're just listening to you. I zipped up and thought about overthrowing Moldavia. Plantain asked for her bra back, "her" is the correct pronoun if they're transgender right? I forget. - Anyway, Moldavia is the country Michael Praed was from in Dynasty. I know it's not a real country, so I don't really think that counts as wanting to overthrow a government, cause it's a monarchy, but still, a pretend prince is better than not being a prince right? Sorry, what was the question again?"

– all of which would have been a complete fabrication, still, the urge is there.

I guess it's best that I didn't do any of that.

Jupiter's Ghost - 01/01/09

Paradoxical

My friend Mike and I were discussing ex's.

He mentioned that his ex has a lot of really ugly boyfriends in his past. Yet, his boyfriend thinks they were all cute.

And now, his boyfriend thinks Mike is really cute.

Is it a compliment to be told you're cute by someone with bad taste?

Does it call in to question how you view your own cuteness?

Let's hold hands

I’m leaving Trader Joe’s this evening, and I was walking behind a mum taking her 3 year old(ish) daughter out to their car.

I had just seen them inside; the cashier had offered stickers to the little girl. She had readily demanded them, and her mum took the time to inform her of the polite way of accepting such a generous offer of free stickers.

Anyway, the mother, like me, had parked across the road from the crowded TJ parking lot. As they reached the sidewalk the mum asked in a super cheery voice:

“Who’s holding my hand as I cross the road?”

“Not me”.

I swear, that’s what came from the 3 year old’s mouth. A very sullen "not me". As I love contrary children to a fault, I thought this was a superb answer, though I can’t say that I think her mum agreed with me.

“Look, it’s either my hand or the cart, which is it?”

When you get into a debate with a 3 year old, I think you’ve already lost.

Nice accent

So, I’m not English. I was raised in New Zealand, so have (currently) a curious mix of a kiwi and U.S Californian accent.

If you’re American, you can think of this as “British”. (If you're not American, then think "mutt".)

In America accents basically work like this; if you have fairish skin and don’t sound (American) southern, New York, Connecticut, or Californian, you are either:
a. Canadian, or,
b. British

If a & b don’t work, then in a pinch you are c. Australian.

That's it. Nice and simple.

This being the case, I wasn’t that surprised to receive a phone call from my agent saying he’d submitted me for a commercial on Thursday. It was an interstitial for Honda during the new season of America’s Next Top Model. They wanted someone to play a photographer, late 20’s through late 30’s, male, “think stereo-typical photographer”, oh, and British.

This was thrown in last minute. “Oh, and British”.

My agent explained to the casting director that I wasn’t “exactly” British, but (I was) from New Zealand.

Submit they said. So he did. And then he called to tell me.

Now, I can do a British accent, don’t get me wrong. But I’m more, “BBC English” or "Avon - from Blake's 7" rather than “lad about London” English.

Which is why my heart sank when I arrived at the audition and I felt as though I’d arrived in Chelsea in London – all the guys there were authentic “lads”. No BBC English in sight, nope, all lad about town, a little bit rough English.

Sigh.

Gone swimming!

I ran across this picture from my mother that she mailed me. Not sure what it says about my Mum when I'm not surprised to see her in a bathing suit on her car port roof in the local paper.



The local city council had used ariel photographs to assess who in the neighborhood had pools, and sent bills out accordingly. The only problem with the technology is that Mum had a car port, but no pool. The first time she just went down to the council and informed them of the mistake, the second time she called the paper.

Bliss.

Got any tips?

At the end of our day in Paris, Hide and I needed dinner prior to boarding the Eurostar for the trip back to London.

We crossed the road from the terminal and were roped into eating at a café right across the street. A swarthy European man with shoulder length hair pressed us first in French and then in English.

“I have English menu. It’s good, you’ll like it.”

Normally I’d need something more than this simple sell to get me into an eating establishment. Well, something more than that, or exceptionally cute wait staff – but I was tired, I’d been up since 4am in the morning, had been walking across Paris all day and just wanted to sit and something to eat.

So, his “hard sell” worked.

The wrangler passed us off to a server, who was an older French gentleman with white hair and a disturbingly waxed mustache. I say disturbingly as I haven’t seen a waxed mustache in person other than on film, and in historic photographs.

The place was reasonably busy, but not overwhelmingly so. The server took his time serving us, and he neglected to mention that the ice tea Hide ordered – not on the menu – would cost as much as the Kir Royale that I ordered.

I wouldn’t have been that annoyed, but, after making the international subtle gesture that we were ready for the bill, he sat and watched some television, talked with other wait staff and began waiting on other tables with people who’d just arrived.

The bill finally arrived, and I asked for change. To which he gruffly replied “Tip is not included you know.” To which I believe I replied “good”.

Living in America, I’m now ingrained in the tipping mode. If someone tells you the time nicely, I'll probably tip. In New Zealand last year I was tipping bartenders who thought I’d forgotten my change – the other meals I’d eaten in France didn’t have the servers asking for a tip. I believe it my obvious foreignness that had him thinking he was entitled to a tip. I just don’t believe in tipping for poor service, no matter the country.

Like I like you

Over the last month, I’ve become enamored of manga. Just certain ones – notably xxxHolic by CLAMP. xxxHolic happens to cross over with Tsubasa, and as I’m waiting for the latest installment of xxxHolic to be translated into English, I’ve started in on reading Tsubasa while I wait for 2009 to roll around.

So, I have the Tsubasa manga that I picked up at Borders during my lunch hour on my desk at work. We have several Phd’s on staff here at work, and he spotted it; which prompted the following exchange:

“Manga? Dude, you read manga?” – Dr
“Um, yeah. Do you like manga?” – Me
“Like manga? Well, I like it in the way I like 6-year old boys.” – Dr
“Excuse me?” – Me
“I mean, I like them, but wouldn’t pick them up, I wouldn’t take them home and I definitely wouldn’t bring them to work to have on my desk.” – Dr

Not sure what to make of that. On one hand, super creepy, and on the other, quite funny.

When a god passes

Artemis died on May 15, 2008.

I'd been expecting it, but not really. In the way you expect to win the lottery, but never really expect to win the lottery - if that makes sense.

I guess I'd almost be wanting it to happen too.

Well, before you get ALL up in arms about that sentence, he was 12, 3 months shy of 13. Around 68 years in human terms. In the last year or so he'd decided that he didn't really like to use the litter box to pee. For him, right beside the litter box was good enough, or failing that, on any nice soft thing. Towels, rugs, socks – any comfortable material item near the litter box was better than actually stepping into it. For Artemis, taking the trip inside the box was strictly for his number twos.

I'm not sure what changed in his mind about this, but I do know it was really frustrating. For the first few months when he made the decision to not pee in the box, I didn't realize he wasn't using the litter box.

I'd get home, and notice a pool on the floor around the box. At first I thought the litter box had a leak in it. I put down plastic, and then I attempted to try and find the leak in the box itself. I pressure tested it, searched for cracks and became quite flummoxed.

I even switched the box out for a new container, but it still kept happening.

Finally this precipitated the move of the litter box from the back hallway to the bathroom, as I figured a urine wash probably wasn't the best thing for hardwood floors, and tile was much easier to disinfect.

After the move, I discovered it was actually the old boy peeing in the litter box proximity. After an examination of him and the house I just gave in and bought some designated "Artemis towels". He'd use those to pee on and I'd wash them daily. This way he wouldn't feel the need to drag my pajamas or bathmat over to the litter box in the morning; it really worked out for both of us.

I guess this means I'll be going through a lot less bleach, and I can move the litter box back out of the bathroom. (Luna still being a lady does her business either in the great outdoors or in the coziness of the box.)

But I will miss his waiting by the door when I come home, and his insistence that one helping of dinner wasn't enough, or just one helping of breakfast come to that. The consummate fatman, he was already thinking about his next meal while he was wiping away the crumbs of his current feast.

I didn't like him getting up on the bed once he decided that he also liked to go outside during the day. After both cats discovery of all things outside on the deck, I stopped letting my cats into my bedroom. Artemis being a very fluffy cat would get very dusty outside, and during the summer he'd have a weekly bath. During the colder months I wouldn't bathe him, as it just didn't seem fair.

I bought him a bed of his own to sleep in that was nice, soft and cozy – but, in the mornings if I left the bedroom door open while I showered, I'd enter the bedroom afterwards to find him comfortably ensconced in the middle of my bed.

Now Artemis was always a large cat, and unlike Luna he has never been one to jump "up" on things. I was quite proud of his efforts to get on my bed that I just let him stay. I purchased a new bed this year and it is probably about a foot and a half taller than my old bed.

I got to witness his "climb" one morning – it was all brute strength and claws. He'd stand on his hind legs, and then like one of those crazy folks at 24 Hour Fitness climbing the rock wall, paw by paw he'd climb up the side of the bed until he could haul himself onto the flat, where, exhausted he collapse on a pillow for a snooze.

The crook in his tail, his really high voice, his blue eyes and chocolate points.

I guess I'll miss the companionship of these last 13 years.

Can you spot the difference?

Spring in California



Spring in Minnesota

Pretty Woman

So my former boss invites me out to a BBQ with her and her boyfriend last weekend. It was up the road from me, I had nothing else on so figured why not.

It was a Saturday afternoon, balmy and lazy. I was in shorts and a t-shirt, Annie picked me up – she was in jeans and a t-shirt. We located the house and walked up the path to the back patio where the BBQ was happening.

Their former roommate was there, and his friends, and then two girls. Well, ladies. And when I say ladies, I mean the “of the night” variety.

I didn’t pick up on it at first, but I guess their black mini’s and loads of bling should have tipped me off that they weren’t there for the BBQ meat. Sure, they were there for meat, but that’s too easy a pun.

Annie called their profession within seconds of arrival. I didn’t believe her at first, and by the time I did – I realized they weren’t the Julia Roberts type of working girl – these were more of the “cut a bitch” type of girl.

Anyway, they disappeared in the back bedroom for 2 hours – and emerged later wanting their payment. $250 to be exact.

I had dinner with coworkers later in the week, and there was a definite split on the sexes here. The women were all “that’s CHEAP!” – while the gents were “Wow, that’s A LOT!”

Private Gym

It was a beautiful Los Angeles Saturday afternoon. I arrived at my trainers' early, changed and was ready to go for my private workout session. At the start of the session, I was ordered into a weight vest, and my trainer got out a bicycle.

“Great!” I thought, I get to go for a nice bike ride on a sunny balmy afternoon. Which is when my trainer said “We’re going for a jog”. By “we”, he meant “me” – he got to ride the bike and I got to run.

After about a half mile we arrived at a local park; it had a large basketball court, bars and rings, green grass, swing set and sand pit. It was also packed to the gills with people.

I found myself being led to the chin up bar, which was about 7ft from the ground and in the middle of the park. A nice view for everyone there, which is probably why the bar was bereft of people. Normally I’d be able to jump up and grab a bar that high with no problem. However, that afternoon I had a problem – I’d just been running for a half mile, and I had a weight vest on. At this point, just jumping an inch in the air would have been a feat to behold.

My trainer wasn’t worried, “I’ll help you get up there, don’t worry. Then it’s a set of 10.” I felt rather like a 3-year old as I jumped and he grabbed my vest bodily hoisting me up to the bar. Then it was up and down, up and down – and I guess most people probably aren’t watching me – but it sure felt like it.

Next I landed on the ground and walked/stumbled and over to the grass for pushups. Where apparently my trainer mistook by back for an ottoman – as he began to sit on me to increase the resistance of the pushups.

This was the point where I collapsed face first on the grass and said “I had no idea that personal training also included public humiliation.”

He reassured me that no one was looking, and even if people were they’d just be thinking how strong I was, and what a great workout I was having.

None of which I believed in the slightest. I know if I was watching this particular scene from the sidelines “strong” and “great” would not be two of the adjectives I’d be using.

Of course he wasn’t done yet, and I had to endure another lifting to the bars for more chin ups prior to having to jog back out of the park past all the people who thought I was so strong and great.

Man About The House

An Asian lady came into Famima!! this morning. She had a hoodie shirt on, grey slacks, big dark sunglasses and a green frog-like purse. Very pretty, with a mysterious air.

She stood eyeing our Steam Bun display, obviously waiting for someone to approach her.

I gave her a cheery “good morning” and asked if she needed any assistance. Which is when, I was treated to the following.

Please keep in mind that she was never able to look me directly in the eyes, she had her hoodie up, with her black bob hair pocking out around her chin, her dark glasses were shading her eyes and she kept her hand up over the top of said dark glasses as though shielding her face from non-existent sunlight. (Perhaps the fluorescents were too strong…)

“The police told me to come here”.

I kid you not – this was the first thing she said to me. The Los Angeles police, told her to come here, to Famima!! There were several things wrong with this sentence, but I let them slide I mean, I’m paid to look after customers – even if they are sent by the LAPD.

“I have my own home, I’ve had it for over 3 years. There’s a Korean Christian man in my home.”

For me, the devil was certainly in the details here. I’m not sure why his being both Christian and Korean was relevant to what she was telling me, but there you go.

“I’ve tried to get him to leave for 2 years, but he won’t go. I can’t use my home because he’s in it.”

I responded with a murmured agreement of how awful that must be for her, not being able to use her home for two years as it’s being occupied by a Korean Christian man.

“So the police told me to come here. I’m in a homeless shelter, and I’d like some food. Do you have any food you can give me? I don’t have any money, and I can’t go back home because of the man. He’s got a knife.”

Now I know I should be feeling the milk of human kindness flowing forth from me at this point – but ALL I can think of is this TittyBangBang character. I want to laugh. I can’t laugh. Which makes me want to laugh more.

I’m winding up my tour of duty at Famima!!, and if this had happened a year ago when I started I’d’ve been getting a meal for her right then and there. Of course, since my beginnings at Famima!! I’ve been (specifically AT Famima!!):

1. Robbed
2. Fleeced out of $70 odd bucks (see earlier blog entries)
3. Threatened in person
4. Lied to
5. Insulted
6. Received obscene, threatening phone calls

So I no longer react to this sort of story as I once would have – for better or for worse. I politely explained that we didn’t have any free food, to which she replied:

“What, none today? Ok.” And left. That's it - just walked out.

During the week we often have free samples – and the key here is that they are FREE SAMPLES. No story needed.

Still, it was interesting. I mean, he had a knife.