Keep Calm and Don't Worry, Be Happy

Chicken wings have become all that ties together a group of friends. It used to be Magic: The Gathering (a nerdy-yet-very-competitive strategy game based off building decks out of a huge pool of cards, then playing the decks against an opponent), but with the closure of the local gaming shop, I've been unable to keep up with the crew via the game. Instead, I see them mostly on Wednesday evenings, 6:00, when a local eatery has a chicken wing special.

This past Wednesday was no exception, and the crew gathered, ate extreme amounts of cheap wings, and conversed about Magic, Memorial weekend plans, and work. Three of them all work at the same hardware/home improvement store, which provides as many entertaining stories as that Dane Cook movie would have you believe. Do yourself a favor, you don’t have to watch that movie, just take my word for it. Nobody needs to see any more Dane Cook.

After my bill was settled up, I stood up to leave, saying I've got yard work to procrastinate on, but Moped was studying two of the bills: hers and that of her boyfriend, Kaiba. It appeared that despite having two less wings than he, Moped was charged nearly a dollar extra. Whatever, we got cheap wings on special, Kaiba was paying for it all anyways, no big deal, right?

Guess so. When our artsy-hippy chick server (I say that most lovingly) returned, Kaiba brought up the discrepancy. The poor girl was already having a rough night; every table of the restaurant was filled and the pressure already manifested in some minor ordering errors (I’m not going to complain, those errors had resulted in me getting some free wings). So she exasperates “That’s because she’s got BBQ wings and you didn't, and since they aren't part of the special there’s an extra charge. Really, I undercharged you.” I laugh at Kaiba, who did in fact have BBQ wings and just talked his way out of a discounted meal. Our server comped the drinks and rang the bills up fresh for them, and I figured the issue was resolved.

Moped wasn't satisfied. She studied the subsequent slips with as much skeptical scrutiny as she did the prior bills. “Where does this dollar come from?” Those of us at the table explained that it’s the upcharge for BBQ sauce, just the way it works there, and how it’s been since we've all started meeting there for wings. She was not content, as the dollar charge did not appear on Kaiba's bill, despite him having BBQ sauce as well.

I was already standing to leave, and had to laugh at the situation. “Is that dollar worth all the stress and worrying you’re doing about it?!” A few others agreed with me. I just hope they left the poor server alone after that… and a tip, too.

It’s an interesting point to consider. Is a dollar worth your well-being? What is the cost of giving a fuck?

DGAF: Don’t Give A Fuck. It’s a philosophy I first heard of from some of my friends’ more underground stoner hip hop artists from Subnoize Records (Kottonmouth Kings, et al). Think about it, though. How often do we allow ourselves to get worked up over nothing? How many extraneous fucks are we giving over mundane or benign experiences?

Giving fucks is dangerous at times. Scenario: you’re driving a carload of friends to a concert. Music is playing, windows down as there’s always that one guy in the back smoking a cigarette, traffic all around you as you arrive to the metropolitan center of wherever. You’re paying attention to the cars around you, doing your best to not become tonight’s news story. The guy next to you is scouring road signs for your exit, but then that joker in the back seat is makes some wise crack and you’re watching him do his best Jack Nicholson impression through your rear view mirror. Suddenly you’re astute and observant navigator shouts “That’s our exit! Go right!!” Do you A) swerve across a lane or more of traffic in a sudden jerky of the wheel to cut through the yellow lines and narrowly avoid the retaining barrier of the exit, or B) not give a fuck and say “We’ll take the next exit and double back.”?

Damn. I just realized that probably nobody does Jack Nicholson impressions anymore. Um… Arnold works, right? Stallone?

There are times where giving a fuck is important, too. Most of them fall under human decency: family member or friend diagnosed with cancer, huge tornado devastates Oklahoma, that huge project is riding on your shoulders and deadline was three nights ago and clients are calling you up hourly for status reports. Shit yeah, give a fuck, and get your shit taken care of! Every once in a while there’s some story of people giving many fucks that just redeem my faith in humanity. Whether it’s Christian Bale dressed as Batman visiting a dying fan in the hospital, or kids comfortable in their homes at their computer screens setting up VPN connections for people in Libya or Syria so that they can continue to use social media and the Internet to organize and report on their social uprisings against oppressive governments who have otherwise blocked net access to their nations. I've seen people track down the perpetrators in a video showing puppies being inhumanely tossed into a river for sport and that allowed the local jurisdiction to bring them to justice (of course, though, we've seen with the Boston Marathon bombings that internet vigilantism can backfire extremely easy as well).

I encourage everyone to steady their knee-jerk reactions to events that happen to them just long enough to ask yourself if it’s worth getting worked up over. I don’t preach any Zen Buddhist meditation or anything, just a few breaths and a moment to reflect before reacting.

Some idiot cuts you off in traffic but there was no risk of collision? Someone yells “Run faster, fatty!!” while you’re out jogging? A dollar charge on your bill that’s already barely over $5?!  Give no fucks, let it slide, don’t stress out, and your life will be much more valuable without that dollar.

Mosquito Musician

So last Thursday night I downloaded the Twitter app and resolved to increase my usage of the popular social media outlet. I noticed one of the new tweets came from Felicia Day, that adorably cute geek goddess from The Guild, and it espoused her involvement with Geek and Sundry, which is basically a collection of nerd-culture vloggers talking about nerd-culture things.

Of the recognizable featured vloggers, I was drawn to Nika Harper, known for her League of Legends videos. Her first entry was about short story challenges, topics of discussion suggested and completed by participating viewers. One of the suggestions was "mosquito musicians" and that got the gears cranking.

I wanted to shirk the expected answers of tiny winged drummers and guitarists and a skin-piercing needle nose waving above a microphone as a mohawked mosquito sang some buzz-rock song. I borrowed a bit from Prey (by Crichton) and Akira, so I went from one cookie-cutter story to an amalgamation of two others, but hey, it was an interesting exercise and my blog's first work of pure fiction.

Enjoy, as disturbing as it may be!

***

Mosquito Musician

A short story exercise

The vibrant hum in the air changed pitch as Pietr lifted one palm up a few inches higher. Before me the air was a shifting sandstorm of mosquitoes  all the bugs from eyesight concentrated above and ahead of us in a dense sphere two meters in diameter. Individual mosquitoes swarmed amongst themselves in acrobatic display of systemic chaos, but at many times large numbers would drop unexpectedly, wings no longer flapping, for brief beats, and the accompanying note change from this buzzing orchestra never failed to make the hair on my arms raise in goose bumps.

Just how Pietr commanded his bloodsucking legion was beyond my attempts to theorize. The closest I could consider is some sort of telekinetic comic book power over the local air currents, corralling the tiny terrors in buffered winds, confining them to our immediate line of sight. Or maybe he exhibits some sort of control over the tiny minds and wings of these unwilling musicians. He was from some snow-bound hell in northern Russia, where children of the 70s grew up bending spoons and staring at goats.

The chorus reached a crescendo, and it became recognizable as some work of Bach – who can remember all those names and movements and keys – and Pietr conducted with his arms raised high, the swarm accommodating his wishes all at once with a loud increase of buzzing, until he dropped his arms suddenly, only catching them near the bottom of their fall. The swarm all dropped in sudden silence a few inches, then exploded into action for the large ending. The well-defined sphere dissolved immediately as 100 square yards’ worth of mosquitoes dispersed to and started swarming above us as normal mosquitoes do. They showed no sign of distress or discomfort  from their ideal, except that they all seemed to want to land on us at once to feed, but Pietr immediately slouched down to near collapse, breathing heavy and wiping sweat that beaded his wide brow from the exertion. However he does it, it takes a lot out of him.

The few of us watching all erupted into praise-filled exclamation. “That was incredible!” “How’d you do that?” “I don’t believe my eyes!” Two of the six of us social outcasts had already started playing back the recording they took on their cell phones, though the darkening eve doesn't allow the tiny camera lens to capture clearly the astounding feat and the future YouTube comments would call hoax and shenanigans.

Pietr dismissed himself in his heavy Russian accent, and though the crowd encircled him like a chattering peace-strike, we all stepped aside before he even lifted his eyes or his feet or even indicated a direction. I felt the slightest urge in my left foot to step back, and before I recognized that the command didn’t come from my polite manners, I was opening a space for Pietr to walk through.

Pietr sat where he normally sat in 7^th period Social Sciences class, way in the back corner, surrounded by the sleepers, the chewers with their soda can spittoons hidden from sight, and the other malcontents who desired no attention from the instructor. Pietr shrank into himself, sitting hunched over and arms folded within him, willing himself to be as small and unobtrusive as possible. At 5 foot 2 inches and barely 100 pounds, it would work, if his immediate neighbors gave him a moment’s respite from their constant teasing and bullying.

This particular day Joey Nichols produced an empty .75 vodka bottle and mimicked his father’s alcoholism, all while donning the worst attempt at a Russian accent since Chekov and egging his friends to laugh on. Pietr shrank further within himself and silently endured the unbidden punishment for the minute it took for Mr. Connors to take notice and storm to his rescue.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” he yelled. “What is that?!” Swiping the bottle, a disgusted look crossed Connors’ face. “Oh Christ, this is White Eagle! IT’S NOT EVEN RUSSIAN, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! You’d think your deadbeat father would have taught you better than that!”

Connors was a young guy who cared to not let a decade of political correctness cover up his frat boy vernacular. It was effective; rarely did he have to intervene twice in a class period, and usually only once a week was all it took to silence his rowdiest of students.

I saw Pietr look up meekly at Mr. Connors in appreciate, but as soon as our teacher turned back to the front of the classroom, Pietr’s demeanor turn evil and his eyes fell on the back of Joey Nichols’ head. Almost as if he felt it, Joey turned around with a silent sneer and met the Russian’s gaze. He mouthed “After school” and stereotypically ran his thumb across his throat. I could only roll my eyes at the cliché.

After school naturally meant after football practice, and it was near 6:00 when I saw Joey Nichols and his posse of wanna-be thugs march past my house. I was in the front yard greasing the chain on my bicycle when they stopped at the fence gate and shouted at me.

“Do you know where that little bitch Pietr is hiding?! We never got a chance to give him his welcome to America!!” Maxwell Patrelli stood to the left, and Chris Johnson, standing at Joey’s right shoulder, pounded his fist in the most intimidating way that his goofy gorilla body could muster, his face strained red and squinted in an anger that threatened nothing but the massive pimples on his nose. Puberty can be so harsh sometimes, but never was there a more deserving asshole for a hemorrhoid.

“I don’t know where he is, you imbeciles! Why don’t you take your little play date inside – oh, wait, I bet you don’t want to be home when Daddy gets drunk!” My words stirred the hornet nest, and these buffoons nearly vaulted over the fence to get at me, but I knew the safety of my father was behind me. He exited the garage, grease-covered wrench in hand, polishing the stainless steel. He coolly leaned against the garage door frame, a veritable Casey Jones, 6 foot 4, amongst a small clan of Foot Soldiers. The site of him halted the marauders’ advance and they stepped off the fence back to the sidewalk. My dad said nothing, just watched them sneer at us and grumble as they started along the street and around the corner, out of sight.

“You know, even though those kids are worth nothing right now, it’s not all their fault, and alcoholism is no laughing matter.” my father lectured me. “Did you see the small cut on that Joey kid’s right cheek? The result of a back-hand slap from a drunken dad. I know, we've all seen the bruises on his mother, too, but they’ll both deny it if anybody asks. It’s best to take pity on kids like these. Protect yourself, for sure, and if it comes down to them starting a fight, you finish it. But before then, show some mercy and compassion. K, kid?”

I nod understandably.

“Now they are looking for that Russian kid, right?” Nod. “Do you know where he is?” Nod. Dad hefts the wrench up between us. “Do you know how to use this tool to put that tire back on your bike?” Nod. “Do you know how to use it to end a fight?” Smile. Nod. “Dinner will be in an hour. Clean up when you get home.”

Pietr was right where I expected him, and mounted on my bike, I found him before Nichols and Johnson did. He was sitting on the ripped and unsafe trampoline his host family had in the back yard, but he didn’t jump. He just huddled there. There was no alley behind his house; the yard ran to the edge of a swamp. It was getting darker earlier these fall days, and already I was swatting bugs out of my face when I biked past the house and towards Pietr.

Pietr looked up with dull, sad eyes. He recognized a friend and answered “Da” when I asked if I could join him. As I climbed onto the treacherous trampoline, he noticed the wrench sticking out of the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, and inquired about it.

“Dissuasion technique” I answered and the intent did not elude him, though his limited grasp of the English language means the word did. He only nodded in return, and then both our attentions were drawn to the street.

“There’s that little suka!” Joey Nichols yelled, proud to show off his ability to Google Russian curses. “Oh, and he’s with that nerd Emmerson! Let’s get them, boys! Daddy isn’t here to save you now!”

I start to get up from my seated position on the trampoline but a hand reached out and held me back. The gang of third-line football rejects started running their fat bulk at us through the yard, between the houses. I glance back at Pietr, imploring why he wouldn’t want my help or the help of a couple of pounds of stainless steel, but I saw the answer in his eyes. The diminutive Russian boy glared ahead at his assailants, and his eyes turned a deep, dark crimson.

My jaw dropped open and my hand released the wrench I was holding when I felt the springy tension of the trampoline lessen, as if one of the two bodies previously sitting on it was lifted.

Pietr, still cross-legged, floated above the trampoline and hovered forwards.

Head down, black-blood eyes piercing forward, Pietr unfolded his legs as they crossed over the boundary of the trampoline and set his feet on the ground. The sparse blades of grass trembled as small balls of dirt rolled away from Pietr. The very air around him surged with energy.

The advancing army of future drop-outs stopped dead in their tracks. It took a moment before their brains processed what they saw, and then their feeble brains handled it the only way they could. Silently, without a look or a word, all four boys’ minds erased what they saw as inconceivable, and in synchronous movement they all started forward to press their attack.

Pietr stood between them and me, almost glowing in the darkening even, hair and shirt rustling in a breeze on an otherwise still night. He raised his arms to the advancing horde and immediately a thrumming seized the air and overtook us from behind. Above my head I saw a shadowy mass flow like a ribbon through the air and with a downward thrust of Pietr’s hands, descend upon the four would-be attackers. A thick fog of mosquitoes enveloped the four boys, covering them from head to toe, blotting them out of sight until they were four humanoid splotches of black against a dusky backdrop. Immediately the screams rose from all four boys to join the cacophony of horrible buzzing. This was no symphony. This was a slaughter.

The boys scratched and clawed at their faces, their eyes, choked on bugs that poured into their open mouths and down their throats and into and out of their nostrils. What skin that briefly appeared visible among the black cloud was spotted and bleeding. Gasping breaths turned ever more ragged and desperate.

“Pietr, that’s enough!” I shouted. I clambered off the trampoline and stood yelling at this, this… things’ back. “You’re killing them! That’s enough!” He turned his head on me and silently held my gaze: mine imploring and pitiful, his sinister and dreadful. He turned back to his torturous composition and raised his arms. The four shrouded figures began to rise, and the mosquitoes' buzz reached a crescendo. Arms and legs dangled lifelessly from the masses, inches above the ground, the victims giving signs of life more infrequently now. Pietr wasn't going to stop. Pietr was going to kill them.

I wrapped my hand around the wrench and held it high. I was behind Pieter, slightly, feeling the crackling energy emitting from his form, and he didn't see me swing. I connected with skull just behind his temple and above his ears. He and the boys toppled to the ground like string-cut marionettes.

Immediately, the bulk of the swarm lifted off the boys’ bodies, nearly all of them bloated with blood. What was left under that blanket of death was a grotesque sight. No square millimeter of exposed skin was unmarred. Eyes puffed and throats coughed in futility for air, only to expel more mosquitoes into the atmosphere. Chris Johnson didn't breathe at all.

I could only stand and stare, mouth agape, as the multitude of deadly insect assassins flew back into the swamps behind me. I have no grasp of time passing, just standing there, breathing heavily in shock and exertion, with Pietr crumpled at my feet and the four bullies clinging to what was left of their life just 6 feet away from me.

It only occurred to me that it was nearly pitch black outside when the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles pulled up. How the ambulances omnisciently knew to appear, I don’t know, but suddenly I’m enveloped by a blanket and rushed to the street out front.

Pietr never appeared in school again. The house with the swampy back yard and the rusted, ripped trampoline was vacated before sun’s light. Chris Johnson had died, but the only thing the news reported was a tragic bee allergy. None of the other boys returned to class until after Christmas, and none of them spoke a single word about their departed comrade, or the missing Russian boy. None of them made so much as eye contact with me, and never a word was spoken about the mosquito musician or his vampire symphony again. 

Not by the hair on my chinny-chin chin!

An uncharacteristic knocking roused me from my lazy lounging on a Sunday afternoon. Rarely does the front door get used, lest I order delivery food. This soft knocking belied an apprehension in my unbidden visitor's tentative fist.

I clambered out of bed and paused my movie - The Expendables 2, which is a fun romp through my childhood nostalgia - to greet my guest. I realized all too late that my black tank top and baggy plaid cargo shorts presented a less than flattering first impression of myself. Not to be outdone by my laundry-day uniform, my hair was practicing being understudy to Gary Busey's mugshot mess. The door was already opening, no turning back now, I just hope it's not the Swedish Bikini Team bus from Dumb and Dumber...

I was greeted by an unsure question by a woman near my age. In the car on the street sat a younger girl, presumably a daughter. The knocker stood on the step below the door, practicing the manners one employs so as to not seem to be pushing through the door and intruding into the house. At least she's not selling vacuum cleaners.

"Is this place for rent?"

Flashed through my mind was the recent vacating of two bedrooms in my home. Barely had anybody moved out (and in fact I still housed my former roommate's possessions in the garage) and I had inquiries to the rooms. Perhaps Myth mentioned it to someone he knew and trusted that I had a vacant pair of rooms. Maybe he was just trying to help me fill them and gain some income. Nah, I wiped the ludicrous thought away. I'm enjoying my solitude and freedom. I didn't plan on renting the rooms out for a while, nor have I led anyone to believe that I did.

"It's on Craigslist for rent, $800 per month."

I informed my front door caller that I in fact owned the house, and have for 15 plus months now, and that no, the rooms nor the house were for rent.

"This is the third scam today!" she exasperatedly exclaimed. "You didn't put it up for rent?"

I again denied all involvement, and declined her further offer to show me the posting. After seeing her off, I loaded up the Duluth/Superior Craigslist housing ads, and it didn't take long to find mine:

THE BIG BAD WOLF WON'T BLOW THIS ONE DOWN!

Brick walls: check
3 bedrooms: check
2 baths: check
2 fireplaces: check
plenty of storage: check
photograph of my house: check

This ad mirrored the realty listing I had found when I first looked at the house! The photo was easily identifiable as 2 years old or older: the tall pine near the drive has since been felled, leaving only a stump, and the butterflies on the front of the house were promptly removed when I occupied it.

Aside about those butterflies: made out of wood and hand-painted  they have seen some years. Now, I'm not exactly a butterfly person. However, I saw my new neighbors, who I knew to be a couple in their 60s or 70s, had similar decoration on their porch. Here I thought I could make a good gesture and add to their collection. Turns out, I'm informed as I stand at their door, that the gentleman I live next door to actually crafted those butterflies himself, and they stood sentry on my house for multiple decades! I'm so glad they didn't judge me solely on that failed venture, giving them back the butterfly decorations that have been there for years, only because I'm a young punk kid with no taste!

This ad is in front of me, and Rambo - I mean, Stallone - is mumbling something incoherently on the screen as Jason Statham expertly slices and dices some nameless and country-less Asian thug stereotype into Julienne fries. So I do the only thing there is to do.

I answer the ad as a prospective renter.

Below is a transcript of the conversation, with little commentary interspersed here and there.

Me: I'm extremely interested in renting this house! Could you tell me how many bedrooms it has? Can I schedule a visit?

(I play as casual as I can, brevity being my weapon against giving anything away. I don't take the precaution of using a new email address, and the one I use can be matched to my name as property owner, if this scammer actually looked up public record. I did not think of retaliation until it was too late, so I just went with it.)

Gf Qw (the name of the respondent): Dear Friend,

I must confess that I am very very new in this landlord business..However, My name is HANNA DAVID,I own the house located at (redacted). is still available for rent at US$800 monthly, we request first month deposit and security fee of US$700 before move in, you can drive by the house, and if you like it you can write us back or if you have access to call internationally via this #+2347045690791. We just move down to Lagos, Am a Medical Doctor, I work for American UNICEF. I just want you to get notice that the keys are here with me in Lagos, you can only view the house from the outside for now! If you drive by the house you may see a sign there, you have nothing to worry about it belongs to our previous agent so you have absolutely nothing to worry about and you don't have to call them because they do not have access to the house anymore! In other to proceed on sending the keys and  document to you, I'll like to know few things about you and your family such as below:-

Air Conditioner Dishwasher Walk-in Closet Refrigerator Vaulted Ceilings Washer/Dryer Cable etc...

3 Bedroom 2.5 Bathrooms
Sq ft    2,343 
Pet Allowed.                             


                          RENTAL APPLICATION FORM

1. Your Name and Names of people moving in with you?
2. Age and sex of each person?
3. Your current house address / Cell number / home number?
4. What is the best time to call and why relocating?
5. Length of previous tenancy and occupation of each person?
6. Do you have pets and cars, how many? Please describe Breed, size
7. Do you run a business from home, If so what kind of business?
8. When do you plan to move in, please write exact date?
9. How often do you do your current house cleaning?
10. Are you a section 8 applicant?
11. Can we trust you and our house safe keeping in your hand? 
12.How soon can you put down deposit?
13.Do you work late night and do you smoke and drink? (We just wanna know don't get it twisted) no hard feelings

Please have this in mind that you are talking to a very nice and God fearing family, if you find any of our question inconvenience please don't be offended but answer it because we want and like to know the kind of family that will be living in our house from day one so nothing from them will be strange to us again.

Thank you and Stay Blessed.

(How fortunate! This house has all the amenities I would look for if I were on the market to buy a house! Oh, wait...)

(Ignoring the obvious breach of multiple anti-discrimination laws, there are plenty of other clues that this is a scam. I mean, Lagos is in Nigeria, and my late distant relative the Prince told me that everybody in Nigeria is trustworthy and honest! So I can wire that money over, right? Maybe I should call that international number on my own dime to ask some more questions, but nah, I'll just fill out this form they sent...)

Me: Hi Hanna!

1. Your Name and Names of people moving in with you? 
(Myself)

2. Age and sex of each person?
29 male

3. Your current house address / Cell number / home number?
(I give a fake address and my Google Voice number here)

4. What is the best time to call and why relocating?
Call any time.

5. Length of previous tenancy and occupation of each person? 
16 months. I work in IT.

6. Do you have pets and cars, how many? Please describe Breed, size
No dogs or cats (I start getting worried about retribution now. I don't want anybody coming after my dog as she plays in the yard).

7. Do you run a business from home, If so what kind of business?
None

8. When do you plan to move in, please write exact date?
Need a place by June 1, 2013

9. How often do you do your current house cleaning?
Weekly

10. Are you a section 8 applicant?
No

11. Can we trust you and our house safe keeping in your hand? 
Yes (SO tempted to answer "No" here...)

12.How soon can you put down deposit? 
Immediately

13.Do you work late night and do you smoke and drink? (We just wanna know don't get it twisted) no hard feelings
I drink occasionally but do not smoke

If you're in Lagos, how do I send you the money? Should I wire it or mail a money order?

Thanks!

Gf Qw: Thanks for your quick response about my house am very happy that am renting my house to a God fearing family and also i want you to know that your application form is accepted by us and you are welcome to your new home.....please once again i want you to take good care of the house as if is yours.

1) How long do intend to live in the house?

2) When do you intend making the payment so that i can forward you the detail that you will be making the payment to?

3)Are you ready to make the payment?

RE-CONFIRMATION OF THE DELIVERY ADDRESS :

RECEIVERS NAME?:_________________
DELIVERY ADDRESS?:_________________
RECEIVERS NUMBER:?_________________

Here are the contents of the document.

1) Entrance and the rooms Keys
2)Paper/Permanent house form(Containing your reference details)
3)The house documentary file...
4)Payment Receipt........
5)Full address and description of the.


NOTE: THE SECURITY DEPOSIT AND RENT IS REFUNDABLE IN-CASE YOU DON’T LIKE THE HOUSE.

Please note that the deposit and rent made is fully refundable should in case you finally gain entrance into the house after receiving the keys and documents and feel unsatisfied or uncomfortable with the interior,but i am giving you a benefit of doubt that you will love everything about this lovely and beautiful home and is ready for move in. And also i will like to act fast because there a lot of rentals are out there okay.

(How kind of them to offer a refund on my money should I not like the house I rented sight-unseen!)

Gf Qw (again): Thanks once for giving us assurance that you are going to take good proper care of our property and also i try to call you but you are not picking up below is the information you need to wire the money to us just locate any grocery store outlet or any wall-mart around and send the money asap so that the keys can be send immediately okay.

Here is the Western Union Information to send the Money in any Grocery Store..

Recivers name :HANNA DAVID
Adress (redacted) bungalow street

State :Lagos

Country:Nigeria

Zipcode:01234

text quest:TO WHO

Answer:My wife.

 Please get back to me with the information giving to you by western union.Which includes the following

Senders Name................?
Amount...........................?
City.................................?
State...............................?
MTCN #...........................? (MONEY TRANSFER CONTROL NUMBER)
text quest:TO WHO?
Answer:My wife.


Thanks we await your response...

Best Regards.

(I'm not sure about the Nigerian post but they have astoundingly similar zip code systems to the US! Oh, look, how lucky for Lagos to be in a zip code numbered "01234"! It's sure as hell more catchy than 90210!)

(Here's where I get a little squirrelly with them)

Me: I drove past the house and saw a truck in the driveway, so I stopped and knocked on the door. The guy says he bought the house a year ago and it's not for rent! It's the same house as the pictures.

What's the deal?

Gf Qw: Yes he rent the house a year ago but is rent is gonna due on the 10th of this month okay.

(Desperation to get my money sets in now)

Me: So I drove by on my lunch break again. The guy wasn't home, but it looks like the roof might be really old. The shingles look buckled and old. I'm afraid that it might even be leaking. Do you have plans to replace the roof this year? I would not want to rent it for a year if I'm going to have troubles this winter.

(I figured what the hell, let's make 'em sweat it out a bit)

Gf Qw: Okay you can change if it is linking and also once you repaired you will deduct your money from the month okay and now i want to know when you will making the deposit?

(English is getting more broken the tenser they get. These last emails were all rapid fire, nearly in real-time. I could imagine excited desperation in their words.)

Me: So the guy who lives in the house says he's owned it for over a year now and it's not for rent.

What's the big deal? Which of you is lying?

Oh, yeah, I know the answer: you are lying. I know this because I own this house, and I live there, and it is most certainly not for rent. 

You are horrible people. There is no honor in scamming people for money. Die in a fire and find whatever hell your religion holds for you.

(AND THE BOMB DROPS!)

Honestly, though, my conclusion wasn't as punchy and exciting as I thought it might be. I had in the meantime posted an ad in the same Craigslist page warning of the scam, with several more responses from people who had been looking for a house to rent, or who owned houses that are posted. I had posted a note on my door explaining how the house was NOT FOR RENT and I had even been told of my neighbors shooing away pesky snoops who were casing the joint through the windows! I had been in contact with a local Realtor company that explained how their properties were being listed fraudulently as well, but they were told that there's little to be done about it. I felt safe in ending the charade, confident I wasn't going to get anything more out of it than emails that make my inner Grammar Nazi cringe. I hadn't received a reply for a week. The jig was up and they knew it. On to the next property.

My finale was a feeble attempt to shame them (ha, as if!) and to provide some potential climax to this story, but it's kind of hard to come up with some insult that might be understood by someone in Nigeria! I feel that if they had any respect for honor, they'd not be scamming in the first place, but maybe they would understand "Go to hell!"

I've heard that it's really creepy to have my "privacy" invaded like this. I disagree; there's nothing "private" about it all, unless you count those folks peering into my windows. The information and photo of the house are out there on the internet from realty ads, and anybody could (from the street) take photos and peer into my windows without disrupting my rights to privacy.

Taking it a step further, I pointed out that I have a Facebook account, and Myspace before that. My life has been bought and sold wholesale for many many years. Anybody with due diligence could find out just about anything about my life, and guess what, we could do the same for you as well. I hold no illusions about the limits of my privacy. I'm as big an advocate for privacy as a man with a Facebook and a blog can be.

This episode does not even begin to approach the feeling of invasion I felt when my car was broken into a few years ago. Perhaps I'll tell that story soon, or any number of myriad stories that came from the three years I lived in the house on the alley between the ghetto and the bars. But for now, in my nice neighborhood with protective and caring neighbors, I'm quite secure and content in my house. And it is not for rent.

Unless you're a member of the Swedish Bikini Team.

Stay on Target!

It’s probably a damn good thing I worked in Electronics rather than the Men’s department during my 3 and a half years at Target.

A good fashion model I did not make.

Those of you that know me cannot argue: I’m a big man. I worked at this particular Target for 4 holiday seasons (like grizzled war vets who count their time in hostile territory by tours, our deployment dates were Black Fridays). I’ve always been as tall as I am now (a respectable 6’4”, just tall enough that the benefits (reaching the top shelf, and seeing the stage from the concert floor) outweigh the nuisances (every ceiling fan and door frame installed too low)), but I’ve not always been as heavy. Working at Target, I think I was probably around 280, maybe even 300 pounds, I don’t remember. Three summers of working at a Dairy Queen were not kind on my body. No, rephrase that: I was not kind on my body during three summers working at DQ. But free ice cream and soda (and whatever fries you could sneak out of the bin when no one was looking)?! I’ve actually held my head under the soft serve machine and cranked it open. I’m out of breath just thinking about how unfit I was. While I catch it, someone please tell that baby to kindly locate itself into my stomach.

The Target uniform of red and khakis were our own responsibility; good thing we get a discount at a department store that happens to carry red shirts and chinos! So I would wear the Mossimo short-sleeve polos and long-sleeve shirts the only way I could: like the Hulk exploding out of Bruce Banner’s street clothes. Sleeves ended well above my spindly wrists, collars comically tight and ultimately unbuttoned lest I asphyxiate. Chinos that push the limits of “fit” around the waste hung like a loose parachute off my ass, and though my legs are more tree trunks than tent poles, these pants still found excess fabric enough to house a small orphanage around my calf.

Between then and now, I had somehow found myself at 355 pounds (that’s 25+ stone, which has got to be one of my favorite units of measurement). If you worked at a fast food joint nearby during those years, I’m sure you saw me. I also ate junk at home. Those Little Debbie snacks I would beg the neighborhood nanny for at snack time? Shit, I went through Nutty Bars like Tyrion Lannister goes through whores (I started watching Game of Thrones recently, can you tell?)! Portions were always monstrous, and self-control non-existent.

If you’ve read any of my past entries, you’ll know I was a self-loathing Jabba the Hutt, and not even the cool Jabba from Jedi with sexy slave girls, the respect of Boba Fett, and a kick-ass Rancor to feed my enemies to, I mean an Episode One Jabba who has to live knowing he was shoe-horned into the film only to serve Lucas’ sucking at the teet of his fans’ wallets.

So let me fast forward a bit (which, kids, was the way we had to do it before DVDs and your DVRs) and move past the parts where I used alcohol and food as a crutch to hobble my way through unhealthy relationships and get to patting myself on the back.

Nearly two years ago I migrated my social news and discussion outlet from Fark.com to Reddit. I subscribed to many sub-reddits, among them both /r/loseit and /r/malefashionadvice, Reddit’s sub-forums for weight loss and clothing advice, respectively. I started making changes to my eating habits, and even more recently, started working out on a regular basis. I also learned how clothes should fit and realized that the shirts I require (19.5” neck, 37-38” sleeves) are only found in the Big and Tall section of stores, and are truly both “Big” and “Tall”. They are long enough to tuck in, but the shoulders reach middle bicep and I could smuggle basketballs out of a sports store inside them without straining the buttons (alternatively, because I’m not sure what provides the funnier imagery: I could stretch them out like batwings and sail through the air like a flying squirrel)!

Now arrives this delayed Springtime weather and I find myself in need of summer clothes. I’ve got frat-boy douche-shorts that I bought two summers ago, baggy plaid numbers with cargo pockets and cloth belts that came with each pair. They work well enough for 14-25 year olds, but I needed plain good-looking shorts that fit well and look adult. As I’ve lost weight and inches, I’ve been positively swimming in my shirts as well, so I wanted some solid polos and lightweight button-downs to wear for work that will keep me cool and still office-appropriate.

I was in town and wanted to scout out Target for their /r/mfa-approved Merona brand tees. I walked to the back with low expectations. This Target wasn’t “my” Target; it was the same address but the section I was shopping in was nothing but an empty shell of a building under construction when I was last there, working overnight guard shifts, doing Sudoku and playing Game Boy. Since those days, I rarely paid any attention to the Men’s clothing department. Sure enough, though, they had their Spring/Summer selection out and prominent: tees both solid and graphic, shorts galore, tanks and flippy-floppies.

I grabbed some shorts (46" being their largest size) and some tees and polos at XXL and headed to the fitting rooms. Shirts first: the tees were a bit too tight to be worn by themselves, and a bit short for undershirts, so I had to put them back. The button down collared shirt I had grabbed nearly fit well, but it was a bit short. To wear it I'd need to add another button as the lowest button was level with my belly button, and nobody wants to see my hairy belly hanging out below my shirt. No tucking this shirt in, either. But look, the shoulders fit well and it was slim on my body without hugging me tightly, so that was great! If they carry a XXL Tall on the website, those will be mine! My spirits started to lift. The polo next.... Bam! Fits damn near perfectly! The shoulders and arms have a little room to fit into as I build muscle, the length and fit is just right! Score! 

The shorts? 46" waist.... TOO BIG! I eagerly got dressed (another thing no one wants to see: a fat man running through a department store in his boxers) and ran back out to the racks to grab some 44" shorts. I put them on back in the fitting rooms and found a perfect fit! I can buy clothes at Target again!!

My future relationship with Target is starting to mirror the many times I broke one of man’s cardinal rules: once an ex, always an ex. However, this time I’m working harder than ever to meet my end of the deal, exercising and lifting weights to fit into regular-sized clothes again. This time I’m not going to go back to working there nor will I combine finances (Would you like to save 10% by signing up for a Target Red Card? – I feel that if I go to hell, it’ll be primarily for helping others ruin their credit ratings by whoring these cards out every day). And unlike my ex-girlfriends, my break-up with buying clothes at Target was a blame resting solely on my gluttonous shoulders. If I can keep this up, I’ll be able to buy more and more clothes there and hopefully not have to date more distant stores ever again!

There. 1300 words of patting myself on the back.