Weekend Woes

Back when I was a kid, I used to announce to the world that I was having the worst day of my life practically once a week. It’s become a bit of a family joke. (I was an elementary school pessimist.) So in the spirit of my childhood whininess, let me tell you about the past few days of my life….

Worst. Weekend. Ever.

Actually the fun (or complete lack thereof) started when I signed off Thursday night. I finished posting, and hustled out to my car, bound for the Elliott Smith show. Humming “Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands” to myself, I crossed the bridge to Newport, only to get lost in construction. Every time I go to Southgate House it becomes more and more complicated. I swear the orange construction cones are breeding in an evil plot to take over Northern Kentucky. So I finally found a spot a few blocks away, and parked the car, at which point it started to rain. NOOOOOOO!!! For once, my hair looked halfway decent and I was bound and determined to keep it that way for a while. Umbrella? Check. I joined the straggling parade of concertgoers and turned the corner to find – a line. A very long line. All the way down the steps and down the block. Shit. I stood in line, thankful that I had remembered the umbrella, since the mob of people didn’t seem to be moving and the rain was picking up. After about five minutes of standing there, going absolutely nowhere, one of the Southgate House employees came outside to let the soggy masses know that the sold was sold out and only ticketholders would be admitted. Arrrrgggghhhh.

(“Thank you for buying your tickets in advance” echoes through my head. I didn’t even know Southgate House did presales.)

That’ll teach me to buy my tickets in advance. I guess I underestimated the drawing power of a folk popster who gets no mainstream airplay. Guess my tastes aren't as obscure as I like to pretend they are.

As I walked back to my car trying to figure out my next plan of attack, I realized that the guy I’d been standing behind was someone I used to go to swing nights with. Sorry, Jason. Hope you had fun…you lucky bastard.

OK, fine. I decided to go to Spy Club and catch up with Nash. He probably wasn’t there yet, but I’d surprise him this way. I’d just pop in, have a drink, and wish him a happy birthday. All I had to do was find a parking place and…

Hey, what are those flashing lights behind me? Oh, it’s a police car. Terriffic.

I pulled over, presented my license to the police officer, and tried to figure out what the heck I’d done wrong. All my lights were working, I’d signalled when I changed lanes, I was wearing my seatbelt. Turns out that my license plate was illegally placed (it’s in the back window due to an accident that destroyed the frame that holds it on the back bumper). Mind you, the plate’s been in the back window for six years, and this is the first time anyone has ever told me that it’s illegal. But I didn’t end up getting a ticket out of it; the officer shook his finger at me, and sent me on my merry way.

Friday evening was uneventful. Since the Dulcify show was cancelled, Roger Mexico was going to hang out with a friend, and give me a call when he was home. He called and I went over to his house to watch The Terminator. We considered starting Goodfellas, but I reminded him of how long it was, and the fact that he had to work on Saturday. Another night, perhaps.

Saturday. Supposed to go to Paramount’s Kings Island with Zappagirl and Timmy. Waited all day for them to call. Finally called her at 7:45. They were eating dinner and had completely forgotten. She promised to call me back after they returned home, and we rescheduled the roller coaster outing for Sunday. As far as I know, they’re still waiting for their food at Fuddrucker’s, since they never called back that night or the following day.

That night I had a dream that everyone I knew had moved and left no forwarding address. I kept trying to call people and all I would get was that annoying tone and mechanical woman’s voice telling me that the number I’d dialed was no longer in service. (I have discovered the technical term for my weird aloneness paranoia. It’s eremophobia. Thanks to whoever wrote the Phobias course on Learn.com.)

Oh well. At least I still had The X Files season premiere to look forward to, right? I threw on a pair of shoes and made a quick run to the convenience store for snacks (United Dairy Farmers rather than the hippie store, since I had a craving for ice cream). I’d be back in plenty of time.

Well, that is, if my car would start. Which it wasn’t, of course. After a minute or two of cursing a blue streak, I headed over to the pay phone. Who to call? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? Too far away, and they were supposed to be moving stuff from Rosencrantz’s old house. JohnnyB? Still at his parents’ house (I assumed), since I hadn’t heard from him since Halloween. Zappagirl? Still at Fuddrucker’s as far as I knew, and too far away. Mom and Dad? Way too far away. Roger Mexico? Maybe still at work, but possibly on his way home. I dialed his cel phone. No answer. Still at work, then. I started walking home, trying to figure out what to do if I couldn’t get my car started. I was parked at a meter, and would be ticketed in the morning, or worse yet, towed. I couldn’t afford either of these at this juncture.

I finally got ahold of Roger Mexico, and he drove me back to my car, where we determined the problem was a dead battery. Of course, neither of us had jumper cables. (I used to, but the loser that broke into my car on Christmas Day last year made off with them, as well as all my holiday CDs and JohnnyB's Christmas cookies.) We drove back to the theater where he works, and borrowed a set from another crew member. He jumped the battery (which was so dead it would barely hold the charge), added a quart of oil and some antifreeze, and figured out what’s been wrong with my idle for the past two years. We ditched my car, went back to his apartment for an anti-stressing beer, and arranged to have him take me out on Friday to get a new battery.

If I haven’t mentioned this before, Roger Mexico rocks. He’s had an equally crappy week, between working 80+ hours and having to deal with the whole band fiasco, and was on his way to Vertigo to meet up with friends, but still took time out to save my butt yet again. Dude, if you’re reading this, I owe you big time. You’re racking up major points on the good karma scale.

So I’m taking the bus this week, which is a good thing because it’s saving me money, but is a bad thing because I have to get up early to walk to the bus stop, which is a 15 minute walk uphill. And I am not a morning person. I try to take the bus when I can, but usually the idea of an extra thirty minutes of sleep wins out over the idea of being frugal with my paycheck. But that option is sitting motionless in the parking lot, so the snooze bar will remain untouched this week.

Of course, this means I either need to find a bus that runs past my voting location or I’ll have to get up super early tomorrow to voice my opinions on the future of America.

I checked my ratings on Bloghop today, and have discovered that someone hates my journal. I wonder who? Someone having a bad day who happened to stumble across my ramblings at the wrong time and place? Vindictive ex? Someone who accidentally clicked on the wrong teeny tiny ratings box? Since the ratings are anonymous and provide no room for comments, I guess I’ll never know who it was or what they disliked. Actually, I feel a little bit better about the lousy rating, if that makes any sense. My first crappy reviews! I feel like such a misunderstood artist! (On the other hand, thanks to all of you who continue to show me love with your positive comments. It’s nice to know that someone out there is reading, and actually likes what I have to say. I need an ego boost every now and again.)

So I guess this week can't be any worse than last week, right?

Time will tell. At least I have ice cream in the freezer.