This is what happens when my friends go watch tennis....

Knock and Beware

I work for a big company, and as such, because of job and stature, have been provided an office. I like to think my hard work and great contributions resulted in the office being provided, although chances are everyone above data-entry person gets one here since we have a big building. Regardless I am the Donald Trump of my area, or so I tell people.

Every once in a while, I need to close the door to my office. Whether its to eat lunch, work on confidential projects, talk to someone on the phone, whatever the case. Everyone has their reasons.

What is perplexing to me is how often someone actually comes and knocks on the door even if it is closed. So lets think about this for a second. Door is open, people can come in and I can go out. Since my door is more often open than closed, its should be obvious that when its closed, privacy is required. Door is closed means do not disturb. If I wanted to be disturbed, I would not close the door.

I know, petty blog, but it baffles me how often this happens. And every time someone knocks on the door (which is almost daily), the first comment out of their mouth is "Sorry to bother you". No you're not. if you were sorry, you would not have knocked. Was I away the day they taught people that respecting people's privacy means respecting when a door is closed? Now if the building was on fire, or someone was injured, sure, knock on the door. Today, it was "can I borrow your stapler?" I guess everyone with open office doors do not have functioning staplers.

I think its time to be quiet now.

"9 TIMES, BABY"

I know people. Rusty is a bad blogger. Sadly, I am not very consistent in my posts, but when I post, I like to put some time into it. We've all seen blogs where it looks forced. Not me baby! I slave over my blog like I'm baking a cake, icing it perfectly, popping in the candles. OK, bad example for a dude, but you know what I mean.

So I went to the drive-in for the first time in years. The last drive-in I went to magically burned down due to a gas explosion in the plant next door, and that was at least 10 or more years ago. I seem to recall watching something with Catherine Zeta-Jones (who my Dad continues to describe as phhhheeeeennnnnommminaaaal) and Sean Connery (is he still alive?). It was a while ago for sure.

Its always fun to check out the retro snack bar, sit out in the fresh air, crimp your neck at strange angles and watch a few flicks. It was a triple-feature night, so theoretically, I could have stayed there for a week watching movies and eating stale unbuttered popcorn. Driving into the lot, I was pleasantly surprised to see the ground was not gravel, but rather actual grass and some semi-paved lanes. It was a hot night and a weekend to boot, so I knew it would be busy. Best to get there a bit early and find a nice spot where nobody else was parked - since I'm quiet and all you know.

Unbeknownst to me, this drive-in has an area for cars, and a bigger area for trucks, vans, planes etc. Dummy me heads to the back (since I'm a back of the bus kind of guy), resulting in being in the Winnebago and Partridge Family bus circa-1976 zone. And you know some yahoo with a monster sized truck was going to park in front of me. By the time I realized my error, all the small vehicle spots were full, so we sucked it up and tried to watch between the monster trucks.

I decided to line-up for food in a line-up the size of an American Idol audition. It was moving quick, but I did not anticipate the intriguing banter of the people around us. There were 3 teen-aged ladies in front of us. I put them at maybe 17. Somehow, their skuzzy 17 year old boyfriends got them to stand in line while they stayed back in the van to do homework or pray or something. So the ladies are chatting about the fun they had the night before, and the topic of intimacy comes up. I am by no means one of those sickos who eavesdrops, but it was hard not to hear as the larger of the girls (see fuller-figured) is tutoring the smaller girls on techniques, while resting her arms on the little girls shoulders. No joke!

I'm really trying hard at this point to not pay any more attention. I'm watching the stray dog taking a leak by the garbage can, the older couple with funny binoculars, anything to not hear this conversation. Then the larger girl bursts out with "9 TIMES BABY!," and I'm pretty sure she is not talking about arithmetic. "YOU'LL GET THERE TOO ONE DAY GIRLS!" she tells the little ones, all motherly. The littlest one, who resembled Winnie Cooper from the Winder years (left), ran back to the van, saying something about needing more money. For all I know, she was trying to catch-up. Who knew.

Working my way back through the parking lot maze, and I thought about was how I was clearly too introverted as a teenager to come across girls like the ones in line. Even the second-hand pot smoke and annoying moths could not change my thought process. Both movies sucked, and I will likely not rush back to the drive-in, but at least now I know how much it has changed.

Unusual Neighbours Continued...

Most recently, since I've moved into my not so new townhouse, I've had a couple of neighbours on one side and the same neighbour on the other. The couple who have been here with us the whole time seem quite nice. They have barricaded their backyards with tall trees, shrubbery and lattice fencing to ensure nobody, us included, can see in. I find this perfectly normal. They have a cute little terrier dog, who actually only barks when she is outside, so its nice for the most part. Either that, or he has insulated his walls on the inside to mask "Sparkie's" barking. The dog wants to be a rooster, so we can always tell when its time to wake up too which is an added bonus. We hardly talk, so being the quiet guy that I am, works great for me.

On the other side to me was a friendly elderly couple. We share "doors", meaning they can see our back door and vice-versa. Any time I'd come home, the husband would be outside watering his lawn or flora which adorned his townhouse. He was religious about watering, minimum 4 to 5 times per day, for multiple hours at a time. He would personally see to it that every plant on his yard, and all 6 neighbours, had plenty of watering done. If there was a chain-smoking for waterers, this guy was the winner. He was a German fellow, and his English was not great, but we could always tell his intentions, as he walked around everywhere with his water jug looking to feed some plant. We would snarl at me any time we did NOT water our lawn at the same time as him. When we looked across the backyards of all the tenants, you could always tell which yard was his - his grass was green, plush, consistent. The rest looked like typical yards with patches of green and brown, odd shaped divots etc. I called him the "Water Nazi", in a polite way of course.

The Water Nazi moved away (likely to some pasture somewhere which he could turn into Central Park), but his place was sold very quickly. I would learn that the new couple were also retirees, and the husband used to work for NATO. He would tell me crazy stories of espionage, hanging upside-down to retrieve prized gems, avoiding hidden laser beams....oh, that was Mission Impossible. Well that was what I was thinking, as he was telling he of his ventures to countries I've never heard of. But it was not his past career that makes him different. Nope, instead its that I think he's a peeping tom. He loves looking into our windows. Its kind of creepy. He's also one of those "always seems to be there" kind of people, meaning, the minute I go into the back yard, whammo, he comes out to chat. Now I can only talk for so long, especially if I'm BBQing or something, but he magically always pops up. I'd be driving into the garage, and there he is, waving. I go to pick up the newspaper, and he's there to hand it to me - ok not literally, but he's always out there. If I had higher fences, I would call him Wilson.

I have no idea why I get so many unique neighbours. Chances are as you are reading this, you might think that is perfectly normal. To me, living next to porn freaks, slutty sportscasters, wife beaters, water nazis, Fort Knox and Lookie-Lous is just another day too. I wonder what they all refer to me as?

Where are the Ropers when you need them?

I have an a great knack for neighbours. It goes back in time, but I swear if there was a prize for living next to unusual people, I would not only win, they would name the prize after me.

I used to live in an apartment on the basement floor. The day I checked the place out, nary a peep in the building, and the price was right. Of course, it was 10am, and most people were at work. Little did I realize both the walls and ceilings were paper thin, and you could hear everything.

Across the hall was another young guy, just like me at the time. Seemed to keep to himself - I always saw him coming back home on his bike with bags of groceries in hand. OK, so the guy liked to eat, worse things to have right? Well I guess my friend also fancied himself a ladies man, thinking he could bring the birds to the nest for a little alone time. Little did I know, alone time included watching adult movies every weekend - LOUD. Ever live beside someone who loved watching these flicks all night - changes you perception on quiet guys quite quickly. Thankfully, the landlord evicted little Larry Flynt, but the noises remain burned in my ear.

One floor up was one of the city's most famous female sportscasters. She of the pretty face, and great knowledge of all sports - she could talk the talk as well. I watched her on TV all the time, and thought she was a hottie. One day in the laundry room, someone had left their lady garments in the dryer. Normally, I would remove them and place them in the laundry basket on top, but these lady garments were truly the "undergarments" guys like me should not see (or I guess be privileged to see). Sure enough, not seconds after I shut the dryer door, along comes our sportscaster, top speed, to collect her stuff. We exchanged pleasantries, and I thought to myself, our hot sportscaster lives just upstairs and likes to wear frilly undergarments - score! I would watch the newscast with much greater attention over the next few weeks.

One night, I hear noises from outside my window. Its dark, but I can see its our sportscaster coming in the back entry after another late night. Now I can smell drunk better than most, and she was sauced. She was trying to climb over the 3 foot fence - normally a weak challenge for most - but she was stuck on the fence, hanging from her pants. Some football sized dude was trying to heave her over the fence, but she was caught. As her pants ripped, she fell head first on my side, laughing the whole time. Biff came over afterwards, even more trashed than her. They would scamper through the door and upstairs, where now I hear the frolic that was not the kind of sports you broadcast. So my dreamy sportscaster was Slutty Susan, bring home stray athletes to prepare for next days airing, or whatever they were doing.

She would move out eventually (must not have liked having to be hoisted over the fence so much), and was replaced by "Chester and Edna", the horny seniors. Lets just say their bed springs were likely as old as they were, but got good use nonetheless. Beside me was the landlady, who was more of a Harley-biker chick, who seemed to like finding the skuzziest guy out there to bring home. One night, I overheard a screaming match in the hallway. One of the sentences I overheard, which I am typing verbatim - "you can keep beating me up, but please don't f**king leave me." Ummm. OK. How do you deal with that?

To be continued....

I just want to dance...

<br/><a href="http://video.msn.com/video.aspx?mkt=en-CA&amp;vid=4651584c-add8-417d-a89c-d9a63ae25f4e" target="_new" title="Ridiculous Cheerleader Gives 110%">Video: Ridiculous Cheerleader Gives 110%</a>

Do I know you?

Everyone has seen someone and thought to themselves – I know that person. But where?

I’ve moved around a lot, and as such, I have that weird feeling all the time when I see someone who seems familiar. My Roladex of faces and names starts spinning. Usually, I identify them, but periodically, I go away scratching my head.

The other day, I saw a guy I remembered. Back as a teenager, I used to work at the amusement park. Everything you have heard about amusement parks is not true. We were normal kids with normal lives, not children of gypsies looking to cheat you out of your last buck so we could buy some dope. We’d buy dope and munchies too. Kidding. Still, to this day, I have crazy dreams, which somehow result in me popping up from a slumber screaming "Do you want to go faster?" No joke.

Working at an amusement park, you had a variety of characters. We had these maintenance guys, young guys who were responsible for fixing rides when they were broken. Now we are talking about the late 70's and early 80's when worker safety was not as prevalent. These dudes would swagger around the park in untied steel-toed boots and navy blue coveralls, climbing up and down various rides without any kind of safety gear or helmets. God forbid you mess up the killer mullet forcing the ladies to look elsewhere for the next Leif Garrett.

They would always be working with a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, or over their ear until they could put it in their mouth later (Ewww) and a backup pack rolled up their sleeve or in the breast pocket of their coveralls. They were always covered in grease and smelled like stale mini-donuts. Many of them spoke English poorly if at all, yet had names like Dave or Steve, which made no sense to me.

They were actually the nicest guys, but chances are, you would think the worst of them based on appearance alone. I’m pretty sure they ate other people’s leftovers in the park to minimize costs. Little kids thought they were park mascots.

So anyways, I’m near the park and I see the same maintenance guy I worked with some 30 years ago. He still had the mullet. He was still smoking. He still had that same cool-guy walkie-talkie dangling over his shoulder. Now after some cordial ice-breaker conversation, I simply ask him what he is up to these days.

Him: “Oh, I still work in the park – going on 34 years”
Me: “No way. You’ve got to be a Manager by now?”
Him: “Nope – still fixing rides. How about you?”
Me: “’I’m in Finance now.”
Him: “Cool – can you get me a job?”

He was not joking. Now you know why I moved around a lot.