Redpanda's Fucking Awesome Pasta Salad
I made pasta salad last night that easily, without any effort at all on the part of said pasta salad, kicks the ass of all other pasta salads in existence. In fact, this pasta salad is so freaking good, and there is so damn much of it, that I would like to extend the invitation right now to anyone who happens to be in the area and perhaps has a hankering for some Fucking Awesome pasta salad to come by and be my guest for an evening filled with Pass the Pigs and Pasta Salad. After the first helping of pasta salad, the game of Pass the Pigs will be thrown aside, pigs strewn helplessly about, forgotten in everyone's haste to make it to the kitchen and get a second helping of pasta salad.
It's just that good.
In case anyone is a lazy bastard and just doesn't feel like coming out to have a plate of Fucking Awesome pasta salad, I'll even provide the recipe, so you can make your own at your leisure. However, you must refer to it as Redpanda's Fucking Awesome Pasta Salad. If you don't, I will both find and cut you.
It should be noted that this particular recipe is SeanSafe, meaning that if you happen to have in your residence a picky, food-pushing-around Sean, he will even eat the pasta salad, although not necessarily with the amount of gusto reserved for things like plain baked chicken and sticky rice with soy sauce. That would just be silly.
It should also be noted that all measurements are approximate as hell, seeing as how I don't measure a damn thing. Taste it and see if it needs more.
Ok, so without further ado:
Redpanda's Fucking Awesome Pasta Salad
1 (or so?) box pasta (I used 1/2 a box of whole-wheat rotini and 1/2 box of tricolor fiori--switch it up, says I!)
1 bunch asparagus
1 wee can black olives
1 big honkin' red pepper
olive oil
balsamic vinegar
capers
basil (fresh)
italian seasoning
ground oregano (or, whatever)
garlic powder
dijon mustard
parmesan cheese (however much is left in the bag, or the can, or whatever)
red pepper flakes
Wash and slice the red pepper into about 2" chunks. Put on a roasting pan or cookie sheet that has been pre-sprayed (I recommend olive oil spray). Drizzle with just a wee bit of olive oil. Put under broiler until skin starts to blister, +/- 3 minutes. Flip and allow the other sides to blister a bit. Remove, place on a plate, and stick in the freezer to cool off.
Wash, trim, and cut the asparagus into 2" or so pieces. Blanch in boiling water for +/- 3 minutes, just till the color brightens. You don't want it to be mushy, ewww! Immediately place cooked asparagus in cold water to cool it off and stop the cooking process.
(I used a steamer attachment and used the same water I blanched the asparagus in to cook the pasta!)
Cook the pasta, al dente if you please, and drain/rinse with cool water.
Rinse olives.
Dump pasta in a big bowl (no, not that one, you'll need a bigger one.). Add blanched asparagus, olives, and chilled roasted peppers. (Cut the peppers smaller if needed.) Add capers to your liking, I probably used about 3 tbsp. I LOVE me some capers!
In a smaller, seperate bowl, combine olive oil (I used about 3 tbsp?), balsamic vinegar (I used +/- 1/2 cup?), dijon mustard (about 1 tbsp?), seasonings (italian, red pepper flakes, whatever), and garlic powder. Whisk the fuck out of it until it's all combined.
Dump over the salad. Mix it all continously for a good amount of time. Realize you didn't make enough dressing. Make more.
Add parmesan cheese and torn fresh basil (I just happened to have some on hand, it's not really THAT crucial I guess...). Stir some more.
Serve and watch faces light up!!!
Other things, most of which are NON-SeanSafe, that I could have added (and think would be waaay yummy!) but didn't include:
artichoke hearts
tomatoes of some kind
cucumbers (jury's still out on how the cukes would've been)
spinach (This IS SeanSafe, I just didn't happen to have any on hand)
Feta cheese (again, probably SeanSafe, but didn't have any)
Yum! Give it a whirl! Change it up, as long as you still acknowledge that it is, in any form, still Redpanda's Fucking Awesome Pasta Salad.
Perhaps you could even invite me over for some. I'll bring Pass the Pigs.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Shamelessly Exploiting My Own Junk Mail
Having ripped open the XXX! Jenna Jameson poster!, I was greeted with a very special report. I knew it had to be for me, because the glossy flyer looked rather like a medical file (right down to the manila-ness) and had "CONFIDENTIAL" stamped across the top of it in red letters. Whew! Good thing it was confidential. If there's one industry you can trust, it's the adult toy and video industry.
I will now quote for you, verbatim, the contents of this glossy "folder". However, take note--to avoid lawsuit (not that anyone of any consequence actually READS this, but it's nice to cover one's ass), I will refer to the advertised product in question not by its given name, but as Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx. Understood? Good. Let's proceed. (For simplification purposes, the quotation marks around the following are implied.)
Another Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx Success Story.
Remarkable New Pill Reported to Help You GET BIGGER...BETTER...LONGER!
RESULTS:
*Increased Length
*Increased Thickness
*Rock-Solid Erections!
*Long Lasting Erections! Why "Rock-Solid" got a dash and "Long Lasting" did not I'll never understand...
*No Need for Prescription!
(Open Booklet...)
"Every time I saw Diane my heart started to pound. those eyes, those legs, those huge perfect breasts"... (picture of what can only be "Diane" in a bikini top displayed to the right of that message)
"Man, I wanted to approach her. But I knew, even if I had a shot with her...if I was lucky enough to get her in bed...I was facing a catastrophe.
After All, I've Been Ridiculed For Years About The Small Size Of My Penis. (To the right of this message is a picture of what can only be our hero in utter small-penis misery, his head in his hands--wait, is that a wedding ring???)
It was frustratiing. I'm not a bad looking guy. Many women are attracted to me...but it always ended the same way...with a dissappointed (sic) look and an excuse to leave. I hated my curse of a small penis, but there was nothing I could do..Or so I believed"...
(Next Page)
"Then I read about Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx --an amazing new pill, reported to Dramatically Increase the Size of Your Penis. I was skeptical, but I knew I had to do something"... (Next to this is a picture of what must be our hero's doctor, looking very doctorly with his stethoscope and white lab coat.)
"So I made an appointment with my doctor and asked him for a prescription. He thought taking Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx was a terrific idea and said he had heard a lot of good things about it...
But the biggest surprise was, since Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx is 100% Natural - There's No Need for a Prescription. I ordered Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx immediately that day."
What Happened Next Was Truly Astonishing.
(Next page, on what is supposed to look like a Legal Pad...)
Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx Growth Diary
Aug 1st: Began taking Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx. My Penis measures a miserable 4.7 inches...embarrassing!
Aug 19th: I think I see some changes in the size of my penis..too soon to tell for sure.
Sept 8th: Definitely a difference today. Now 4.9 inches..Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx is amazing!
Oct 7th: O.M.G., It really works! I now measure a full 5.7 inches. Not huge to anyone else, but a "MIRACLE" to me!
Oct 28th: I am proud to say I am past the 6" mark (6.3" to be exact) and I'm ready to use it at last!
Nov. 29th: I saw Diane again today...she said there was something different about me, that I looked confident. SO I DID IT, I asked her out! At 6.8 inches, I AM confident!
Dec. 21st: Today was the big day. My date with Diane was finally here. I was ready...I measured a respectable 7.5 and really feel like a man!
Diane was mine!
But so was Cathy and
Brenda and Jill too!
I Love Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx!
(Next to that is a picture of a half-naked girl with the caption 'You are Amazing, "Hot-Boy". Love, Cathy'
Ahh. So all is well that ends well with our hero, thanks to Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx.
Take that, Mailman-Guy.
Having ripped open the XXX! Jenna Jameson poster!, I was greeted with a very special report. I knew it had to be for me, because the glossy flyer looked rather like a medical file (right down to the manila-ness) and had "CONFIDENTIAL" stamped across the top of it in red letters. Whew! Good thing it was confidential. If there's one industry you can trust, it's the adult toy and video industry.
I will now quote for you, verbatim, the contents of this glossy "folder". However, take note--to avoid lawsuit (not that anyone of any consequence actually READS this, but it's nice to cover one's ass), I will refer to the advertised product in question not by its given name, but as Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx. Understood? Good. Let's proceed. (For simplification purposes, the quotation marks around the following are implied.)
Another Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx Success Story.
Remarkable New Pill Reported to Help You GET BIGGER...BETTER...LONGER!
RESULTS:
*Increased Length
*Increased Thickness
*Rock-Solid Erections!
*Long Lasting Erections! Why "Rock-Solid" got a dash and "Long Lasting" did not I'll never understand...
*No Need for Prescription!
(Open Booklet...)
"Every time I saw Diane my heart started to pound. those eyes, those legs, those huge perfect breasts"... (picture of what can only be "Diane" in a bikini top displayed to the right of that message)
"Man, I wanted to approach her. But I knew, even if I had a shot with her...if I was lucky enough to get her in bed...I was facing a catastrophe.
After All, I've Been Ridiculed For Years About The Small Size Of My Penis. (To the right of this message is a picture of what can only be our hero in utter small-penis misery, his head in his hands--wait, is that a wedding ring???)
It was frustratiing. I'm not a bad looking guy. Many women are attracted to me...but it always ended the same way...with a dissappointed (sic) look and an excuse to leave. I hated my curse of a small penis, but there was nothing I could do..Or so I believed"...
(Next Page)
"Then I read about Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx --an amazing new pill, reported to Dramatically Increase the Size of Your Penis. I was skeptical, but I knew I had to do something"... (Next to this is a picture of what must be our hero's doctor, looking very doctorly with his stethoscope and white lab coat.)
"So I made an appointment with my doctor and asked him for a prescription. He thought taking Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx was a terrific idea and said he had heard a lot of good things about it...
But the biggest surprise was, since Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx is 100% Natural - There's No Need for a Prescription. I ordered Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx immediately that day."
What Happened Next Was Truly Astonishing.
(Next page, on what is supposed to look like a Legal Pad...)
Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx Growth Diary
Aug 1st: Began taking Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx. My Penis measures a miserable 4.7 inches...embarrassing!
Aug 19th: I think I see some changes in the size of my penis..too soon to tell for sure.
Sept 8th: Definitely a difference today. Now 4.9 inches..Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx is amazing!
Oct 7th: O.M.G., It really works! I now measure a full 5.7 inches. Not huge to anyone else, but a "MIRACLE" to me!
Oct 28th: I am proud to say I am past the 6" mark (6.3" to be exact) and I'm ready to use it at last!
Nov. 29th: I saw Diane again today...she said there was something different about me, that I looked confident. SO I DID IT, I asked her out! At 6.8 inches, I AM confident!
Dec. 21st: Today was the big day. My date with Diane was finally here. I was ready...I measured a respectable 7.5 and really feel like a man!
Diane was mine!
But so was Cathy and
Brenda and Jill too!
I Love Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx!
(Next to that is a picture of a half-naked girl with the caption 'You are Amazing, "Hot-Boy". Love, Cathy'
Ahh. So all is well that ends well with our hero, thanks to Promaxi-mum Wee-Wee Rx.
Take that, Mailman-Guy.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Providing Hours of Entertainment for the Friendly Neighborhood Letter Carrier
We've been convinced for some time that we have the Angriest Postman Ever. This is best demonstrated by the effort the postman in question clearly exerts in stuffing our mail into the mailbox in the manner that will crush it into as small a ball as is humanly possible. In fact, the glee with which the postman clearly folds and crumples our bills and magazines and credit card offers is matched only by the skill it must take to shove a quantity of mail, not vertically (this is key), but horizontally into the mail slot. In this way, even a single letter sitting by its lonesome can appear crowded.
Since the mail doesn't usually even come till 4:00 pm or later, we haven't had occasion to run into one of our illustrious letter carriers before. But today, on the way back from a last run to the grocery store before the cars start piling up in DNC gridlock never to be set free, I happened to be walking up the steps toward the door as the same time as the Mailman-type guy.
He was young and cheerful, and in an effort to try and extend the proverbial olive branch, I decided to be my friendliest. I shot him a winning smile to go with my: "Hi there! How are you today?"
He smiled in return and replied with a typical: "Good. How are you?"
"I'm fine." I grinned. "So, are they making you guys rush through and bang it all out before they start closing 93?" I asked, sympathetically, my face the picture of empathy and perhaps a pinch of please, please, for the love of GOD stop crushing my mail you mail-crushing freak.
"Yeah," he nodded, "We can't park on this street. The post office is right there, up the street, but we have to park on side streets. Not to get all political or anything, but I'm a Republican."
Sean had joined me by this time, and we both laughed the nervous laugh that you laugh when someone says something that you realize should be embarrassing to them (something like: "Yeah, my ass cream really isn't working too well today. I'll have to use a baking soda poultice later on...") but for some reason clearly isn't.
"Are you on the third floor?" He asked.
We nodded, and he handed us a stack of mail and said his pleasant goodbyes. We walked upstairs and Sean assured me that he would begin putting the groceries away while I checked my messages and washed my hands.
When all was finished, I joined Sean in the kitchen to help sort through the produce. "So," he began "Isn't it nice that now that mailman can put our faces to our names?"
I looked at him quizzically. "I guess. But I'm not sure if he is the evil mail crusher. I mean, you subscribe to U.S. News. That's pretty conservative..."
Sean grinned knowingly. "Look at the mail. Isn't it nice that now the mailman can put your face to your name?"
Annoyed, I looked down at the mail. A U.S. News, a bank statement, a credit card offer. All for Sean. "I don't follow. I have no idea what you're talking about---"
At this point, I lifted up the U.S. News and saw what was under it. That would be a big, glossy envelope, addressed to me, promising Jenna Jameson's favorite naughty treats inside! XXX for adults only! For a limited time! LAST ISSUE!! 25 Free Videos with order! Free Pin-up poster of Jenna inside!
Oh.
We've been convinced for some time that we have the Angriest Postman Ever. This is best demonstrated by the effort the postman in question clearly exerts in stuffing our mail into the mailbox in the manner that will crush it into as small a ball as is humanly possible. In fact, the glee with which the postman clearly folds and crumples our bills and magazines and credit card offers is matched only by the skill it must take to shove a quantity of mail, not vertically (this is key), but horizontally into the mail slot. In this way, even a single letter sitting by its lonesome can appear crowded.
Since the mail doesn't usually even come till 4:00 pm or later, we haven't had occasion to run into one of our illustrious letter carriers before. But today, on the way back from a last run to the grocery store before the cars start piling up in DNC gridlock never to be set free, I happened to be walking up the steps toward the door as the same time as the Mailman-type guy.
He was young and cheerful, and in an effort to try and extend the proverbial olive branch, I decided to be my friendliest. I shot him a winning smile to go with my: "Hi there! How are you today?"
He smiled in return and replied with a typical: "Good. How are you?"
"I'm fine." I grinned. "So, are they making you guys rush through and bang it all out before they start closing 93?" I asked, sympathetically, my face the picture of empathy and perhaps a pinch of please, please, for the love of GOD stop crushing my mail you mail-crushing freak.
"Yeah," he nodded, "We can't park on this street. The post office is right there, up the street, but we have to park on side streets. Not to get all political or anything, but I'm a Republican."
Sean had joined me by this time, and we both laughed the nervous laugh that you laugh when someone says something that you realize should be embarrassing to them (something like: "Yeah, my ass cream really isn't working too well today. I'll have to use a baking soda poultice later on...") but for some reason clearly isn't.
"Are you on the third floor?" He asked.
We nodded, and he handed us a stack of mail and said his pleasant goodbyes. We walked upstairs and Sean assured me that he would begin putting the groceries away while I checked my messages and washed my hands.
When all was finished, I joined Sean in the kitchen to help sort through the produce. "So," he began "Isn't it nice that now that mailman can put our faces to our names?"
I looked at him quizzically. "I guess. But I'm not sure if he is the evil mail crusher. I mean, you subscribe to U.S. News. That's pretty conservative..."
Sean grinned knowingly. "Look at the mail. Isn't it nice that now the mailman can put your face to your name?"
Annoyed, I looked down at the mail. A U.S. News, a bank statement, a credit card offer. All for Sean. "I don't follow. I have no idea what you're talking about---"
At this point, I lifted up the U.S. News and saw what was under it. That would be a big, glossy envelope, addressed to me, promising Jenna Jameson's favorite naughty treats inside! XXX for adults only! For a limited time! LAST ISSUE!! 25 Free Videos with order! Free Pin-up poster of Jenna inside!
Oh.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
A Very Special Blog
Today's entry is brought to you by my illustrious Best Friend Since Birth, one Brandy. It began in e-mail form, appearing in my inbox today with the subject line: "farts and the farting farters who fart them".
I knew then that it was going to be a good e-mail, one that made me chortle unselfconsciously and perhaps lean way back and point at the monitor, but I was totally unprepared for the level of "good" that this e-mail was.
It was so good, in fact, that I felt that I couldn't in good conscience go on living unless I had shared it with all of you. So, without further ado, I give you my guest blogger of sorts, Miss Brandy.
I must thank you, Redpanda, for your recent blog. My
co-workers looked on in wonder as I turned fire-engine
red, snorted, drooled and guffawed my way into an
aneurysm. See, I laughed so hard that I don't even remember
how to spell that word!
It took me over 2 years before I would fart...scratch
that, it took me 2 years of living together before I
would fart in front of my boyfriend. By then, we'd already
been dating for 3 years before that.
Guys, farting is just one of those things that women
like to make men think they don't do. Belching!? Well,
that just means we've enjoyed a delicious meal. Why, in
some middle eastern cultures it's consider polite to
belch. But farting! Well, that would imply that we
have a gastrointestinal tract and actually have to
shit. Shitting, c'n'est pas chic! We'd like you to
think that that food we chew so cutely while stroking
your leg with our foot just burns right up in our slim
bodies.
So men must forgive women for not wanting to cross the
line of public farts. In fact, we find them quite
hilarious. Pre-teen girls have been known to sit
around at slumber parties and have contests for the
loudest, wettest, most rumbly or most high pitched
farts. Extra points go to the girl that can scare the
dog out of the room. Hours of fun, I tell you.
But please, be careful what you wish for. Once we
girls break the vow of anal silence, you may be sorry.
Today's little non-farting china doll may just turn
into a gas-blasting bitch with a penchant for
dutch-ovening kittens and passers-by.
Thank you, Brandy. All kittens in the Redpanda-Sean household will be safe this night. From me, anyway.
Today's entry is brought to you by my illustrious Best Friend Since Birth, one Brandy. It began in e-mail form, appearing in my inbox today with the subject line: "farts and the farting farters who fart them".
I knew then that it was going to be a good e-mail, one that made me chortle unselfconsciously and perhaps lean way back and point at the monitor, but I was totally unprepared for the level of "good" that this e-mail was.
It was so good, in fact, that I felt that I couldn't in good conscience go on living unless I had shared it with all of you. So, without further ado, I give you my guest blogger of sorts, Miss Brandy.
I must thank you, Redpanda, for your recent blog. My
co-workers looked on in wonder as I turned fire-engine
red, snorted, drooled and guffawed my way into an
aneurysm. See, I laughed so hard that I don't even remember
how to spell that word!
It took me over 2 years before I would fart...scratch
that, it took me 2 years of living together before I
would fart in front of my boyfriend. By then, we'd already
been dating for 3 years before that.
Guys, farting is just one of those things that women
like to make men think they don't do. Belching!? Well,
that just means we've enjoyed a delicious meal. Why, in
some middle eastern cultures it's consider polite to
belch. But farting! Well, that would imply that we
have a gastrointestinal tract and actually have to
shit. Shitting, c'n'est pas chic! We'd like you to
think that that food we chew so cutely while stroking
your leg with our foot just burns right up in our slim
bodies.
So men must forgive women for not wanting to cross the
line of public farts. In fact, we find them quite
hilarious. Pre-teen girls have been known to sit
around at slumber parties and have contests for the
loudest, wettest, most rumbly or most high pitched
farts. Extra points go to the girl that can scare the
dog out of the room. Hours of fun, I tell you.
But please, be careful what you wish for. Once we
girls break the vow of anal silence, you may be sorry.
Today's little non-farting china doll may just turn
into a gas-blasting bitch with a penchant for
dutch-ovening kittens and passers-by.
Thank you, Brandy. All kittens in the Redpanda-Sean household will be safe this night. From me, anyway.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
The One in Which I Fart in My Sleep
SETTING: An apartment in the suburbs of Boston, MA. REDPANDA and SEAN, a twentysomething couple, sits on their couch, laughing and engaging in a conversation while the TV drones in the background.
SEAN (excited): I keep forgetting to tell you! You farted in your sleep the other night.
REDPANDA (aghast): I what?
SEAN: Farted. In your sleep. (Snorts.) It was really funny!
REDPANDA: I farted in my sleep?
SEAN (still laughing): You totally farted in your sleep! It was so funny!
REDPANDA: Farting in my sleep does not count as farting!
SEAN (still laughing): You totally farted in your sleep! It was so funny!
REDPANDA: What night was this, anyway?
SEAN: The other night. You totally farted! In your sleep!
REDPANDA: Was it really really loud? Like, a big booming tooting fart like a tuba or something?
SEAN: No. You totally farted, though!
REDPANDA: Did it smell really bad? (laughing) Did I give you a Dutch Oven?
SEAN: No, it didn't smell at all. So, no possibility of a Dutch Oven.
REDPANDA (seems disappointed): Oh.
(pause)
REDPANDA: So, what did it sound like? Like, AWWWOOOOGAH? Or what?
SEAN: Kind of just ppphht-phhht-phhht. At first, I thought you had cracked your back. I was going to wake you up and say "Nice crack, honey!". But then I realized it had gone on too long to be a crack. It HAD to be a fart!
REDPANDA (incredulous): So you didn't even recognize it as a fart at first? That's so lame! What a waste of a fart!
SEAN (defensively): It's still really funny! You've never farted in front of me before!
REDPANDA: I'm not sure that farting in my sleep "counts" as farting in front of you. Especially if you weren't even sure it was a fart.
SEAN: It was a fart! You totally farted in your sleep! It was really funny.
REDPANDA: ---
SETTING: An apartment in the suburbs of Boston, MA. REDPANDA and SEAN, a twentysomething couple, sits on their couch, laughing and engaging in a conversation while the TV drones in the background.
SEAN (excited): I keep forgetting to tell you! You farted in your sleep the other night.
REDPANDA (aghast): I what?
SEAN: Farted. In your sleep. (Snorts.) It was really funny!
REDPANDA: I farted in my sleep?
SEAN (still laughing): You totally farted in your sleep! It was so funny!
REDPANDA: Farting in my sleep does not count as farting!
SEAN (still laughing): You totally farted in your sleep! It was so funny!
REDPANDA: What night was this, anyway?
SEAN: The other night. You totally farted! In your sleep!
REDPANDA: Was it really really loud? Like, a big booming tooting fart like a tuba or something?
SEAN: No. You totally farted, though!
REDPANDA: Did it smell really bad? (laughing) Did I give you a Dutch Oven?
SEAN: No, it didn't smell at all. So, no possibility of a Dutch Oven.
REDPANDA (seems disappointed): Oh.
(pause)
REDPANDA: So, what did it sound like? Like, AWWWOOOOGAH? Or what?
SEAN: Kind of just ppphht-phhht-phhht. At first, I thought you had cracked your back. I was going to wake you up and say "Nice crack, honey!". But then I realized it had gone on too long to be a crack. It HAD to be a fart!
REDPANDA (incredulous): So you didn't even recognize it as a fart at first? That's so lame! What a waste of a fart!
SEAN (defensively): It's still really funny! You've never farted in front of me before!
REDPANDA: I'm not sure that farting in my sleep "counts" as farting in front of you. Especially if you weren't even sure it was a fart.
SEAN: It was a fart! You totally farted in your sleep! It was really funny.
REDPANDA: ---
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Saturday, July 17, 2004
In the Wee Hours, Pt. II
There was a strange buzzing in my dream. It made no sense at all, really--there was no reason that the parking garage in my dream should have been buzzing. But it buzzed and buzzed, and then buzzed and buzzed some more, until finally I started to seep back into a state of semi-consciousness.
But I could still hear the buzzing, coming in short spurts like an insistent bumblebee.
I rolled half over, opened one eye a narrow slit.
The buzzes were still coming.
My hand reached out, sliding against the parts of Sean that were entangled with me. "What's that?" I asked in a slurring mutter.
"Mmmph.", was his reply.
A few more buzzes asserted themselves before Sean finally raised his head the smallest iota. "It sounds like the doorbell.", he mumbled sleepily.
Yes, it did. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Of course. It was the doorbell. I looked at the clock. A digital "4:28 am" flashed at me in red L.E.D. Why was someone ringing our doorbell at 4:30 in the morning?
"You'd better go down." I offered.
Sean looked at me blankly. "It's probably just some kids..." he protested. The buzzing continued.
"So. Go down and be 'Old Man Hussey'."
He swung his legs over the bed, waiting to see if the buzzing would continue. It didn't.
But the phone rang.
Sean disappeared to answer the phone while I lay, trying to bridge the gap between consciousness and unconsciousness.
After an eternity, he reappeared in the bedroom, pulling shorts and shoes and a shirt from various parts of the bedroom. "What's up?" I asked.
He sighed tiredly. "It's the police. Someone hit my car. I have to go down."
I looked at him blankly. "Did they stop?"
"I'm not sure. I guess so, or they probably wouldn't have known it just happened."
"So they hit a parked car?"
"I guess. Go back to sleep. I'll be right back."
"Wait. Do you want my camera?" I stumbled into the hallway, groping around for the table where I had last seen it. "Too bad your digital is still in the shop."
Camera in hand, Sean began his descent. I lay with my arm thrown over my head, not asleep and yet not not asleep, either; until Sean's footsteps on the stairs and the great groaning creak of the door announced his return.
I opened one eye the smallest bit in an attempt to appear lucid. "How bad is it?" I asked.
"Pretty bad. It's not driveable."
"It's not? How could it not be driveable? What?"
"The side is scraped up pretty bad, but it's the rear drivers'-side tire--it's bent in at a really sharp angle."
"Your wheel is bent in?"
"Yeah."
A beat passed.
"What happened? Was the guy drunk?"
"I don't think so. He said he swerved to miss a raccoon and lost control of the car. He scraped up our neighbor's jeep a little bit, too. He was parked right behind me."
"A raccoon? He hit a parked car because he swerved to miss a raccoon?"
Sean nodded helplessly.
"Did he have insurance?"
"Yeah. I've got all his info here."
"What kind of car was it?"
"What?"
"His car. What kind was it?"
"Some kind of camaro thing. Let me see..." Sean flipped through the papers in his hand. "A 1981 Chevrolet--"
"Some guy in a twenty year old car hit your car?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. My. God. I bet he has really crappy insurance! We're so screwed!"
"It says....some kind of crop insurance."
"Some kind of crop insurance?" I flopped back onto the bed. "Oh well, I guess we'll get it sorted out..."
"Yeah, that's what I told them. No one was hurt, we could deal with it tomorrow. A bunch of our neighbors were there. The guys across the street called the police for him. And the woman next door--you know, the one with the other Beetle?--she said she heard the whole thing. The screech and the bang and all that."
Eventually, we fell into an uneasy sleep. We awoke around 8:00 (Or rather, Sean did. I slept for some time after that.) so Sean could help Super-Moglia move (Super-Moglia because, my GOD, you should see the man move stuff! He is an icon for movers all over! His picture should be displayed on the sides of moving trucks, him smiling a wry and ironic grin while making a little A-Ok symbol with his index finger and thumb. Moglia loves to do cutesy little things like that.) to his newest digs.
Since I was now providing transportation for Sean (who still hasn't learned to drive a stick), I got to see our poor little wounded Gunther firsthand this morning. And let me tell you, you have never seen anything like it. The front of the car? Pristine! The front drivers'-side of the car? A mere scrape! The rear drivers'-side of the car? A more severe scrape, but that's it. The rear drivers'-side tire? FUCKED. And I do mean FUCKED in the most FUCKED sense of the very word, "FUCKED". The rim has a giant piece missing, sloughed off like extra reptilian skin. The wheel well is scraped and dented. And the tire--oh, the poor tire. It's bent in at a most unfortunate angle, looking not unlike Joe Theismann's leg all those years ago.
How the feat of leaving almost the entire side of the car unscathed while mashing in the wheel like a bendy straw was accomplished, I have no earthly idea.
I have a terrible feeling that it's a terminal injury, and that the insurance company will try to say that it's not a terminal injury, just because the car is so new. (Gunther is a baby still--only 7 months old!) But a tire at that angle just screams "BENT FRAME" to me.
For now, Gunther the Passat is very, very ill. I will keep you posted as to his condition as more information becomes available.
Freaking 4:30 am.
There was a strange buzzing in my dream. It made no sense at all, really--there was no reason that the parking garage in my dream should have been buzzing. But it buzzed and buzzed, and then buzzed and buzzed some more, until finally I started to seep back into a state of semi-consciousness.
But I could still hear the buzzing, coming in short spurts like an insistent bumblebee.
I rolled half over, opened one eye a narrow slit.
The buzzes were still coming.
My hand reached out, sliding against the parts of Sean that were entangled with me. "What's that?" I asked in a slurring mutter.
"Mmmph.", was his reply.
A few more buzzes asserted themselves before Sean finally raised his head the smallest iota. "It sounds like the doorbell.", he mumbled sleepily.
Yes, it did. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Of course. It was the doorbell. I looked at the clock. A digital "4:28 am" flashed at me in red L.E.D. Why was someone ringing our doorbell at 4:30 in the morning?
"You'd better go down." I offered.
Sean looked at me blankly. "It's probably just some kids..." he protested. The buzzing continued.
"So. Go down and be 'Old Man Hussey'."
He swung his legs over the bed, waiting to see if the buzzing would continue. It didn't.
But the phone rang.
Sean disappeared to answer the phone while I lay, trying to bridge the gap between consciousness and unconsciousness.
After an eternity, he reappeared in the bedroom, pulling shorts and shoes and a shirt from various parts of the bedroom. "What's up?" I asked.
He sighed tiredly. "It's the police. Someone hit my car. I have to go down."
I looked at him blankly. "Did they stop?"
"I'm not sure. I guess so, or they probably wouldn't have known it just happened."
"So they hit a parked car?"
"I guess. Go back to sleep. I'll be right back."
"Wait. Do you want my camera?" I stumbled into the hallway, groping around for the table where I had last seen it. "Too bad your digital is still in the shop."
Camera in hand, Sean began his descent. I lay with my arm thrown over my head, not asleep and yet not not asleep, either; until Sean's footsteps on the stairs and the great groaning creak of the door announced his return.
I opened one eye the smallest bit in an attempt to appear lucid. "How bad is it?" I asked.
"Pretty bad. It's not driveable."
"It's not? How could it not be driveable? What?"
"The side is scraped up pretty bad, but it's the rear drivers'-side tire--it's bent in at a really sharp angle."
"Your wheel is bent in?"
"Yeah."
A beat passed.
"What happened? Was the guy drunk?"
"I don't think so. He said he swerved to miss a raccoon and lost control of the car. He scraped up our neighbor's jeep a little bit, too. He was parked right behind me."
"A raccoon? He hit a parked car because he swerved to miss a raccoon?"
Sean nodded helplessly.
"Did he have insurance?"
"Yeah. I've got all his info here."
"What kind of car was it?"
"What?"
"His car. What kind was it?"
"Some kind of camaro thing. Let me see..." Sean flipped through the papers in his hand. "A 1981 Chevrolet--"
"Some guy in a twenty year old car hit your car?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. My. God. I bet he has really crappy insurance! We're so screwed!"
"It says....some kind of crop insurance."
"Some kind of crop insurance?" I flopped back onto the bed. "Oh well, I guess we'll get it sorted out..."
"Yeah, that's what I told them. No one was hurt, we could deal with it tomorrow. A bunch of our neighbors were there. The guys across the street called the police for him. And the woman next door--you know, the one with the other Beetle?--she said she heard the whole thing. The screech and the bang and all that."
Eventually, we fell into an uneasy sleep. We awoke around 8:00 (Or rather, Sean did. I slept for some time after that.) so Sean could help Super-Moglia move (Super-Moglia because, my GOD, you should see the man move stuff! He is an icon for movers all over! His picture should be displayed on the sides of moving trucks, him smiling a wry and ironic grin while making a little A-Ok symbol with his index finger and thumb. Moglia loves to do cutesy little things like that.) to his newest digs.
Since I was now providing transportation for Sean (who still hasn't learned to drive a stick), I got to see our poor little wounded Gunther firsthand this morning. And let me tell you, you have never seen anything like it. The front of the car? Pristine! The front drivers'-side of the car? A mere scrape! The rear drivers'-side of the car? A more severe scrape, but that's it. The rear drivers'-side tire? FUCKED. And I do mean FUCKED in the most FUCKED sense of the very word, "FUCKED". The rim has a giant piece missing, sloughed off like extra reptilian skin. The wheel well is scraped and dented. And the tire--oh, the poor tire. It's bent in at a most unfortunate angle, looking not unlike Joe Theismann's leg all those years ago.
How the feat of leaving almost the entire side of the car unscathed while mashing in the wheel like a bendy straw was accomplished, I have no earthly idea.
I have a terrible feeling that it's a terminal injury, and that the insurance company will try to say that it's not a terminal injury, just because the car is so new. (Gunther is a baby still--only 7 months old!) But a tire at that angle just screams "BENT FRAME" to me.
For now, Gunther the Passat is very, very ill. I will keep you posted as to his condition as more information becomes available.
Freaking 4:30 am.
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