Hungovercast

It's raining, and I can still taste the beer and cigarettes in my mouth, like one last lingering goodbye kiss.

See you around, Kansas City.

Adventures in Craigslisting, Part 1: Difficult Questions

In a vain attempt to sell my car, I put an ad up on Craigslist. Within minutes I got replies. I was a bit confused, though, when several of the replies were simply phone numbers. A couple were literally just the numbers, but a few tried to spruce up their messages with actual words:

Please call me at [redacted]

I want to try and buy your car u can call me at [redacted] or [redacted]

i'm interested in your car could you give me a call @ [redacted]

These were honest inquiries, mind you. They were emailed to me, not texted, so I can assume that the writers had access to a full, standard QWERTY keyboard. I can also assume, with some reservation, that these messages were not written by elementary school children. These messages came from people of legal driving age (and most likely, old enough to vote), and they could not even form enough of a coherent thought, let alone express that thought with proper English, to ask any relevant question about the car itself or how they could go about obtaining said car.

I decide to give these people the benefit of the doubt, though. I hoped that perhaps they were busy and hurriedly firing off emails, and, despite having utilized the internet to find and contact me regarding my item for sale, they chose to disregard this medium of communication because their questions were so detailed and intricate that they were incapable of being translated into the written word.

This was false hope.

When I called some of these people, the most detailed questions I received from any of them were one, if not all three, of the following:

What color is it?

How many doors does it have?

What was wrong with it?

These seem like reasonable questions when you don't take into account that there were four color pictures -- one, a full-length side-view depicting two doors (so one could assume that there is an equal amount on the other side) -- at the bottom of the Craigslist ad that explained, in detail, that there is a major leak in the coolant system. In short, they only wanted to ask me questions to which adequate answers were already available.

As it turned out, not one of them was interested in buying my car. Just wasting my time and cell phone minutes.

Adventures in Craigslisting, Introduction

a typical Craigslist user

I've been attempting to sell some things on Craigslist recently, due to my impending move out of the state. The experience has been, if not lucrative, at least educational.

This simple act of trying to sell some goods has been vastly different from anything I could have ever imagined. You know in that movie Total Recall when Arnold goes to Mars, and living in the bottom part of the city are all these freaks and mutants, and there's the stripper with three boobs and the guy who has a crazy-talking, gross midget/baby poking out of his stomach? It's been kind of like that.

Craigslist is a great place. You can post your resume and look for jobs. You can buy furniture and electronics and sell your useless junk. You can even find a date. All of this is available, free, to anyone with a computer and an internet connection. The only downside is that the same people that you read about in newspapers because they kill themselves in stupid ways, the same people that necessitate instructions on individually wrapped cheese slices, the same people that Jay Leno interviews on the street who can't name the president -- yeah, those people -- they're on Craigslist, too. And not just some of them, apparently, all of them.

By posting an ad on Craigslist, you are essentially displaying a sign to the world that says, "Yes, I'll talk to you, crazy idiot people!" They come out of the woodwork, clamoring to say whatever stupid thing they have to say and asking whatever inane question their limited intellect can come up with. Half the time I don't even think they want whatever it is you're selling; I think they just have a quota of people to annoy and you put up a big, red target on yourself.

So, selling my junk on Craigslist has been more than just an experience; it has been a test. A test of my faith in humanity. That faith is failing. And I'm pretty sure humanity is doomed.

In several posts to follow I am going to share some of the more interesting inquiries I have gotten from average Craigslist users and my prickish replies along with some completely biased commentary. I do hope you'll enjoy.

• Clarification

1. Difficult Questions
2. The Jealous Boyfriend
3. The Low-Baller
4. What?
5. The Sob Story
6. Captain Obvious
7. Hard Bargains

McBastard's Last Week in Town

I've been wrapping up my existence here in Kansas City in preparation for moving to Chicago. I finished everything that needed finishing for my job on Wednesday. I said goodbye to The Magster. I had one last drunken bender with the old gang. Now I'm in the process of selling off some unnecessary possessions that I've been dragging around for years and packing up what I really need. In five days I should be ready to hit the road.

I'm finding that it's not hard to leave Kansas City (a little expensive, but not that difficult), but it is hard to leave the people. I've been trying not to make a big deal of my goodbyes, assuring people that I'm not disappearing, that they'll hear from and probably see me again. I give a wry smile and a shrug as if to say, "No big deal." But I'm sure even these cynical, emotionless eyes will mist up before I leave the city limits.

Can't a Guy Buy Beer in Peace?

Guess what short people with "baby faces" hear on at least a weekly basis, usually when purchasing legal, regulated substances?

Do you think it is "I've looked at your government-issued ID and I believe that you are the age you claim." Nope.

Do you think it's "I appreciate that you look young; I wish I looked young as well." Guess again.

Do you think it might be "I choose not to make a comment on your youthful appearance and/or demeanor." Way off!

It's actually "Are you sure you're old enough to buy [regulated substance]? You look like you're [insultingly low age]!"

Awesome! Now I hate you!

Hardly a week goes by that I don't have to practically apologize for looking young or explain that many people make the same mistake of thinking I'm younger than I actually am. I don't mind the actual question, though, so much as the absolute incredulity that comes along with it. If you're seriously in doubt of my age, don't sell me the product. If not, just shut the fuck up about it.

Other related things that annoy me:

• Bringing a friend/coworker over to gawk at the 15-year-old-looking freakshow (As if being mocked by one person isn't enough.)
• Triple- or quadruple-checking my ID after a waitress and a bartender (and possibly a bouncer) have sufficiently perused it (You're a bar manager, not the director of Homeland Security.)
• Telling me that you have a relative or friend that also looks young (Neat! Ask them how much I don't like you right now.)
• Ask me what my license number or my birth date is (I look even younger on my ID than I do in person. Why would I have a fake ID with a picture of someone even younger than I am?)

"What, like the back of a Volkswagen?"

Kat: im fricking exhausted
Kat: i was up until 6
Mr McBastard: doing?
Kat: having sex?
Kat: in the backseat of a car...
Kat: oh my dignity

Clothes

I own entirely too many clothes. This is not because I'm fashionable; in fact, I'm far from it. I actually just don't like doing laundry very often.

Moving to Chicago

Citing reckless immaturity and a lack of responsibility, I've decided to quit my job and move to Chicago. I've already put in my two weeks at work and made plans to stay with Stellar and her husband for a while. Now all I have to do is actually get there.

A couple months ago I had started looking for a new job -- mostly in KC, but I applied to a few in Chicago. I told myself that I wasn't going to start looking for a new apartment (My lease is up in May.) until I found a new job. I wasn't even going to consider Chicago unless I had a firm foothold there.

Well, I had gotten a little disheartened recently because I wasn't getting much of a response -- only one interview. But recently (as in yesterday) I decided that I was thinking about this whole job thing the wrong way: I had been looking for a career instead of a life in which I had a job.

This realization came to me during a conversation I had with Stellar as she tried to convince me to move to Chicago:

Stellar: The chicks are hotter in Chi-town
Mr. McBastard: oh yeah?
Stellar: It's a better city for getting drunk, watching live baseball, and wandering around the streets with all the other happy drunk fans
Mr. McBastard: i wouldn't mind hotter chicks or public intoxication, but it's the job thing that's driving me right now
Mr. McBastard: as i typed that i got kind of sad
Stellar: Why?
Mr. McBastard: i'd rather have my life based on chicks and booze than a job
Stellar: hahahaha
Stellar: Welcome to being a grownup
Mr. McBastard: this blows
Stellar: Indeed

And it's true. I'm not ready (Will I ever be?) to devote myself to my job and settle into a career. I'm not a care-free kid anymore, but I'm not exactly old either. I'll have the rest of my life to be serious about my work and make money. Right now, I just want to do something I don't absolutely hate and be with people I absolutely love.

It's not like I haven't done this is Kansas City already. So, why move? Well, why not? It's like that saying with the varieties and the spices and whatnot. I'll see what Chicago's like until I get bored with it, and move to the next city. Or maybe not. Who knows? At least I'll be doing something interesting.

So, to the people I'm leaving behind: Keep in touch. To the people I'm going toward: Get ready. And the the people every place else: Visit me some time; we'll do something rash and irresponsible together.

Photo Backlog

philly skyline 1

I didn't realize until this weekend that I had such a backlog of pictures on my camera; I had pictures on there from before Christmas. I finally uploaded them to Flickr. Here are some highlights:

• Christmas 2007:
• mom and puppy
• west plains sunset
• family on the couch 2
• My second twenty-fifth birthday:
• jr & his neighbor's daughter
• big smile
• typical pfaff
• pfaff, jr, and i
• Philadelphia:
• through the gate
• philly skyline 2
• joe and charlie
• statue 1
• read more graffiti 1

Good Ones!

• Gmail Custom Time
• Stuff White People Like Bought by Target
• OkCupid - Genetimatch Partnership

The Intarwebtubes Make You Stupid

Internetter 1: "Here is something interesting I found or perhaps a unique perspective on an observation."

Internetter 2: "That thing also interests me, and here is a comment about how I agree or disagree with your statement."

Internetter 3: "I think one or maybe both of you are wrong, and I can't possibly conceive of why your opinions differ from mine."

Internetter 1: "Instead of taking the time to address the points of either of your arguments, I will dissect your grammar and nitpick your choice of words, thus rendering your opinions invalid."

Internetter 2: "I will also avoid the original topic and will speculate on your sexuality, relationship with your parents, and your masturbatory habits."

Internetter 3: "I HAVE BEGUN TYPING IN ALL CAPS AND USING AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF PUNCTUATION!!!! I WILL MAKE THREATS OF VIOLENCE THAT I COULD NEVER ACTUALLY CARRY OUT TO ANYONE WHO DOESN'T VIEW THE WORLD EXACTLY AS I DO!!!11!!!"

Internetter 1: "Arguing on the internet is beneath me, and I refuse to take part in these childish ramblings, except to say that you are both dickweeds, I hate you, and fuck off."

Internetter 2: "Your avoidance of the issue at hand has frustrated me to the point of trying to find a parallel between what you have said and what Hitler and the Nazis might have believed. If you don't find this relevant, then you can bite my ass."

Internetter 3: "I FUCKED YOUR MOM!"

Sad in Pants

Religassholes like this make me sad in my spiritual pants.

Grow Up Faster

My brother turned ten years old. "Double digits," my mother said. "We'll should have bought a bigger cake to fit all these candles on!" I was jealous. I was still counting my birthday in this-manys.

"It's like Quantum Leap!" my step-father exclaimed. "You're growing up fast!" I was growing up, too, but it was just taking so long. My seventh birthday wouldn't be for another three months. That's three forevers in kid years.

My brother's tenth birthday was a big milestone in my life because that is the first time I can remember wanting to be older, to grow up faster -- a wish I now regret ever making.

Wishful Thinking

So, I went to 7-11 the other day looking for condoms. Wishful thinking, I guess. Anyway, I'm in the ailse with the medicines and tampons and stuff, and there's no condoms. I mean, this is 7-11. How convenient is it to not have any condoms in a convenience store?

So, I must have looked confused because the lady behind the counter asked me if I was looking for something. "Do you guys sell any condoms?"

"Yeah, I have them back here," she said reaching behind the counter.

She plopped down a big brown box in front of herself. "Wow," I said, "a whole crate? I'll take it!" She chuckled and I sidled up to counter and peered into the box. There were several dozen three-packs of all different kinds. I was kind of overwhelmed and a little embarassed of having to pick out my condoms in front of a stranger. "So many to chose from. Which do you recommend?"

"Well, uh, I don't know..."

"Sorry," I said, "that's a pretty creepy question."

"No, it's just that I have a girlfriend, so I really wouldn't know."

"Oh, well, there ya go."

So, the story ends with me not buying any condoms there, because obviously a three-pack won't be enough.

The Emotion Store

Mr. McBastard: why do you hate me?
Stellar: I don't hate you, I love you
Mr. McBastard: love me with hate!
Stellar: Nope, just love. I've tried hating you before, but it never worked
Mr. McBastard: you should have taken it back to the store and gotten a refund
Stellar: I did, but all they would do was give me store credit, and all they had in stock was love
Mr. McBastard: *rolls eyes*

Garfield Minus Garfield

The web comic garfield minus garfield is not just a parody of the famous Jim Davis newspaper strip, subtracting the titular beloved cat. It somehow transcends it's gimmick and intriguingly becomes an eerily accurate portrayal of the pathetic and lonely life of a hopelessly single man. To put it simply: It is pure genius!

Oil vs Ethanol

I didn't even think of the most obvious downside to relying too heavily on ethanol instead of oil.

So, what relying on ethanol gives us:

• Less dependence on foreign oil (making oil less expensive) BUT
• Increased water consumption (making water more expensive)
• Increased costs in feeding livestock (making meat more expensive)
• Less corn available for food (making corn more expensive)
• "Cleaner" car exhaust (debatable) BUT
• More fuel production plants (who knows what their by-products are?)
• Increased "consumer confidence" in an American market BUT
• Reliance on just as unsustainable a practice as relying on oil

Why don't we focus on the root of the problem -- consuming less fuel -- instead of developing quick fixes?

Long-term fixes:

• Don't bargain with OPEC to get them to sell us cheap oil (if people realize that it IS expensive, maybe they'll stop using so much)
• Promote using less fuel (if there was an iPod equivalent to a fuel-efficient car, you bet your ass people would want them)
• Tax breaks for those using less fuel, and increased taxes for those that want to use ridiculously more car than they need
• Limit the population increase in the US (less people, less consumers) -- a personal favorite, but not likely to go over well

Accomplishment

My once-and-present roommate and I sat next to the chimenea, I sipping on my Drambuie and Bushmills, and he tossing twigs into the blaze. The flames danced, the wood smoked, and the fire crackled, as fires are wont to do. The chimenea and my roommate took turns spitting, one, glowing embers, and the other, tobacco-flavored saliva from the dip bulging against his bottom lip.

We talked about where we were, where we were going, and why we were disappointed about not being there yet. In the silence in between words we'd alternately wonder at the complexities of the chemical reaction belching heat at us and at the expanse of the semi-obscured star field above. We discussed little, mostly rehashing previous days and past themes, and ultimately accomplished nothing. And I felt remorse that I hadn't accomplished more nothing in recent days.

But a me from the past -- whether distant or recent, I couldn't tell -- snuck up on me, shaking his head and signing, so disappointed. Why wasn't I what he'd envisioned by now? He'd had such high hopes for me; why had I dashed them? Had he worked in vain? Had he taught me nothing?

A cigarette glowed like a beacon, a warning, so close to my fingers and an inch from my lips. I flicked it into the flames and watched as it was eaten.

Would my future self disappoint me? I've got so many plans and ideas. Would he live up to my --

A reprimand shot back from the future and struck my cheek. Why don't you mind your own business and pay attention to what's happening around you? I've got enough to deal with up here without you bitching and moaning about how I'm not doing what you'd hoped. Did you ever think that maybe you are a disappointment to me?

I hadn't.

I lit another cigarette. I took another drag. I drank another swallow. I looked up at the sky and down at the fire. And I accomplished nothing. And I smiled.

It's True

Motorcycles are for assholes.

Good Bad Haircut

I don't like getting haircuts. It's not that I don't like the physical act of getting my hair cut -- I actually find it pretty calming, as long as the barber isn't trying to make me talk about whatever inane subject they happen to care about -- it's the result of the haircut that I'm not a fan of. Basically, every time I get my haircut I feel as though I'm paying someone to make me look stupider.

My hair and I have an interesting relationship. For the most part, I let him do his thing, and he lets me do mine. I water and bathe him regularly, and he ... Well, I'm not sure what he does for me besides keep my head warm, but I'm usually not too worried about.

I like to have my hair short in the summer and shaggy and curly for the rest of the year. When it gets too shaggy it starts to tickle my neck, so I know it's time for a haircut. This is where things start to go wrong.

I guess it's because I don't know the hair lingo, because when I say something to the barber about how I want my hair to look, they promptly ignore me and give me whatever the fuck haircut they feel like. I say something like "Cut the back, but leave the top long," or "Just trim up around my neck and ears." Invariably, I come away with about an inch of hair on the top and half that in the back.

I guess barbers just want to give my my money's worth by making my hair short enough that I don't have to come in for another three months. But seriously, I wanted shaggy hair. It might not be the best hairstyle, but it's what I wanted, and it took me a while to grow it out that way. Now it's short and I look like a tool. Thanks, barber. Here's your fifteen bucks.

So, exasperated by all of this, I went to a barber yesterday. I plopped down in the seat, and when she asked me how I'd like my haircut, instead of going through the whole rigmarole -- telling her what I wanted, her not caring, me smiling into the mirror and saying, "It looks pretty good," when I actually am wondering where all my hair went, and then paying her -- I just said, "Eh, just make it shorter."

I think she caught on that I have no idea what kind of haircut would make me look good. So, instead of asking me the regular barber questions that I never know how to answer ("What clipper guard do you want me to use?" or "Do you want a block or taper in the back?"), she told me what she was going to do. She looked at my head, ran her hair through my mop, and made expert decisions instead of leaving it up to me. She told me that I should cut the back to just under an inch because that's when it starts to get wavy. She told me I should get it tapered in the back because it matches my hairline. She told me that I should cut my sideburns to half-way down my ear to not hide my jawline. I just sat back and said, "That sounds good."

So, when all was said and done, I walked away not with the haircut that I wanted, but what I do have does look pretty good for what it is. I'd have to say that it's one of the better bad haircuts that I've gotten.