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Jun. 14th, 2006 08:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plonqWe stopped at the butcher shop on our way home from work yesterday and picked up a couple of thick, juicy, bone-in cuts of prime rib. Intention: barbecue!
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atara cut up some zucchini, mushrooms and a green pepper for grilling while I set things up and preheated the barbecue. Everything went smashingly at first. I tossed the vegetables into the grilling wok and tossed them occasionally to make sure they got properly singed around the edges.
Me: I think the veggies are almost done.
Her: Yum!
BBQ: [whump]
Me: Uh oh...
BBQ: [whump whump POP]
Me: Oh. Damn.
BBQ: ...
I had planned to refill the tank after this cookout anyway, so I guess my estimate was pretty close. I considered running over to the nearest propane outlet for a quick refill, but "nearest" is a relative term in this case. I would have been looking at a 30-minute turnaround time in good conditions, and the traffic guy on the radio was screaming "ZOMG APOCALYPSE" and hiding under his dashboard every time they asked him about traffic conditions.1
We broiled the steaks in the oven and they were... edible. To be honest, I nearly cried when I saw those lovely cuts of meat sitting on the broiler pan. I'd been eagerly anticipating the savoury delight of seared meat all day, and once you have tasted the succulent fruit of barbecue, the broiler just doesn't cut it.
Which brings me to the subject of pants.
Well, no. It doesn't bring me to the subject of pants, but if I dwell on the previous subject any more I may break down again.
I've seen and experienced a lot of things in this odd little city since I moved here in the early 90s, but what happened on Monday was a first for me. I was walking to the car after work when a, er, ethanol-enriched gentleman approached me, holding an unmarked plastic bag. The following story is true - only the characters have been changed to anthropomorphic metaphors to protect the innocent....
Plonq moved through the crowded urban street in the same way that he did at this time every day, with his tail tucked in close to his legs, his briefcase clutched tight against his chest, and his eyes resolutely avoiding any contact with the gauntlet of panhandlers through which he wove his path. In earlier, more naive years he would toss a few coins to each beggar, but his company's safety committee had issued dire warnings against that.
"If you give them money it only encourages them, and we can't have people being encouraged. Why the next thing you know, they'll rediscover dignity and spirit and the like. Besides, they only spend the money on drugs, booze, and kitty porn. Also, if you give money to one, you have to give it to all of them, and if you don't carry enough with you, it can lead to hurt feelings and indignation. You don't want to hurt them, do you?"
It was easy to spot the new panhandlers among the veteran ones. The new ones always seemed to be ashamed of their position, often sitting on the pavement with their heads bowed in shame, holding out an empty hat for charity. The veterans invariably had an angle; they needed the change for the bus, or for the phone, or because they had driven into town to visit their estranged sister and their car had been impounded, and their wallet had been stolen, and they only wanted enough to get their car back so that they could get home. The worst were the hopeless ones, though. For the most part they sat on their haunches, or on the edge of planters. They reeked of stale alcohol and urine, and though they usually just stared blankly through you when you passed, their eyes acted like photo-sensors that activated their mouths when they noticed motion.
"Hey buddy, can you spare some change?"
The little snow leopard finally cleared the beggar zone, and was just relaxing his guard when a voice rang out to his right.
"Hey buddy. Ya, you with the tail."
Against his better judgement, Plonq looked around to see who was calling. The source of the voice was immediately obvious as he saw a burly badger cutting a path directly toward him across the flow of pedestrian traffic. The badger was heavy-set, but not fat. His half-lidded, glassy eyes bespoke a life of hard drink. He wore ragged jeans and a plaid button-down shirt that had seen better days. He was clutching a plain, white plastic bag in his right paw which he held up in the snow leopard's direction as he neared. "Hey, do you want to buy some pants?" he asked as drew up before the cat.
"Pants?" mewled Plonq in a tone that, he hoped anyway, conveyed the clear message that he was not the least bit interested in buying pants of dubious origin from a questionable stranger. The badger either missed his tone, or had become to enured to rejection that he found encouragement in any form of acknowledgement. He shook the unopened bag to show that it was not empty, and held it up for inspection.
"Ya, pants," he said. "They're really nice. Practically new."
"I'll just use my x-ray vision to confirm that for myself," thought the little feline sardonically. Out loud he simply said, "Sorry, but I'm not interested." The badger seemed to be temporarily taken aback by the his response. His eyes lost focus for a moment while his brain frantically processed this new development. It almost looked like an important connection was being made when a few neurons exploded in protest and reset the circuit.
"They're pants!" he said. "Everyone needs pants."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not interested," said Plonq more firmly. The badger sensed that he was losing a potential sale and decided to take desperate measures.
"Here, look, they're nice pants," he said, finally pulling back the bag to reveal a pair of jeans inside. True to his word, the pants appeared to be practically new, and they were a decent name-brand. The cynical side of the snow leopard immediately concluded that they were either found, or stolen. Even if they had been legitimately come-by, he had no interest in buying pants from a stranger in the street. He was about to repeat that he wasn't interested when another tack came to mind.
"What size are they?" he mewled slyly. The badger seemed confused by the question at first, but moments later he was frantically inspecting the pants for a label.
"Here," he exclaimed, triumphantly shoving the tag in front of the feline's muzzle. "Forty-eight waist, thirty leg."
"Oh, that's too bad," said Plonq with affected sympathy. "That's much too long for me. I trip over anything longer than a twenty-eight inch leg."
"Really?" said the badger in a tone of disbelief. "You don't look like a twenty-eight to me."
"Actually I'm only a twenty-six leg," said the snow leopard, gladly peeling himself away from the "vendor". "You need to find somebody a bit taller," he called over his shoulder as he walked away. As he scurried away across the street, the badger called out after him.
"I dunno, you look like a thirty to me."
Every word of it true. Very surreal encounter.
1Eat more fish!
atara cut up some zucchini, mushrooms and a green pepper for grilling while I set things up and preheated the barbecue. Everything went smashingly at first. I tossed the vegetables into the grilling wok and tossed them occasionally to make sure they got properly singed around the edges.Me: I think the veggies are almost done.
Her: Yum!
BBQ: [whump]
Me: Uh oh...
BBQ: [whump whump POP]
Me: Oh. Damn.
BBQ: ...
I had planned to refill the tank after this cookout anyway, so I guess my estimate was pretty close. I considered running over to the nearest propane outlet for a quick refill, but "nearest" is a relative term in this case. I would have been looking at a 30-minute turnaround time in good conditions, and the traffic guy on the radio was screaming "ZOMG APOCALYPSE" and hiding under his dashboard every time they asked him about traffic conditions.1
We broiled the steaks in the oven and they were... edible. To be honest, I nearly cried when I saw those lovely cuts of meat sitting on the broiler pan. I'd been eagerly anticipating the savoury delight of seared meat all day, and once you have tasted the succulent fruit of barbecue, the broiler just doesn't cut it.
Which brings me to the subject of pants.
Well, no. It doesn't bring me to the subject of pants, but if I dwell on the previous subject any more I may break down again.
I've seen and experienced a lot of things in this odd little city since I moved here in the early 90s, but what happened on Monday was a first for me. I was walking to the car after work when a, er, ethanol-enriched gentleman approached me, holding an unmarked plastic bag. The following story is true - only the characters have been changed to anthropomorphic metaphors to protect the innocent....
Plonq moved through the crowded urban street in the same way that he did at this time every day, with his tail tucked in close to his legs, his briefcase clutched tight against his chest, and his eyes resolutely avoiding any contact with the gauntlet of panhandlers through which he wove his path. In earlier, more naive years he would toss a few coins to each beggar, but his company's safety committee had issued dire warnings against that.
"If you give them money it only encourages them, and we can't have people being encouraged. Why the next thing you know, they'll rediscover dignity and spirit and the like. Besides, they only spend the money on drugs, booze, and kitty porn. Also, if you give money to one, you have to give it to all of them, and if you don't carry enough with you, it can lead to hurt feelings and indignation. You don't want to hurt them, do you?"
It was easy to spot the new panhandlers among the veteran ones. The new ones always seemed to be ashamed of their position, often sitting on the pavement with their heads bowed in shame, holding out an empty hat for charity. The veterans invariably had an angle; they needed the change for the bus, or for the phone, or because they had driven into town to visit their estranged sister and their car had been impounded, and their wallet had been stolen, and they only wanted enough to get their car back so that they could get home. The worst were the hopeless ones, though. For the most part they sat on their haunches, or on the edge of planters. They reeked of stale alcohol and urine, and though they usually just stared blankly through you when you passed, their eyes acted like photo-sensors that activated their mouths when they noticed motion.
"Hey buddy, can you spare some change?"
The little snow leopard finally cleared the beggar zone, and was just relaxing his guard when a voice rang out to his right.
"Hey buddy. Ya, you with the tail."
Against his better judgement, Plonq looked around to see who was calling. The source of the voice was immediately obvious as he saw a burly badger cutting a path directly toward him across the flow of pedestrian traffic. The badger was heavy-set, but not fat. His half-lidded, glassy eyes bespoke a life of hard drink. He wore ragged jeans and a plaid button-down shirt that had seen better days. He was clutching a plain, white plastic bag in his right paw which he held up in the snow leopard's direction as he neared. "Hey, do you want to buy some pants?" he asked as drew up before the cat.
"Pants?" mewled Plonq in a tone that, he hoped anyway, conveyed the clear message that he was not the least bit interested in buying pants of dubious origin from a questionable stranger. The badger either missed his tone, or had become to enured to rejection that he found encouragement in any form of acknowledgement. He shook the unopened bag to show that it was not empty, and held it up for inspection.
"Ya, pants," he said. "They're really nice. Practically new."
"I'll just use my x-ray vision to confirm that for myself," thought the little feline sardonically. Out loud he simply said, "Sorry, but I'm not interested." The badger seemed to be temporarily taken aback by the his response. His eyes lost focus for a moment while his brain frantically processed this new development. It almost looked like an important connection was being made when a few neurons exploded in protest and reset the circuit.
"They're pants!" he said. "Everyone needs pants."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not interested," said Plonq more firmly. The badger sensed that he was losing a potential sale and decided to take desperate measures.
"Here, look, they're nice pants," he said, finally pulling back the bag to reveal a pair of jeans inside. True to his word, the pants appeared to be practically new, and they were a decent name-brand. The cynical side of the snow leopard immediately concluded that they were either found, or stolen. Even if they had been legitimately come-by, he had no interest in buying pants from a stranger in the street. He was about to repeat that he wasn't interested when another tack came to mind.
"What size are they?" he mewled slyly. The badger seemed confused by the question at first, but moments later he was frantically inspecting the pants for a label.
"Here," he exclaimed, triumphantly shoving the tag in front of the feline's muzzle. "Forty-eight waist, thirty leg."
"Oh, that's too bad," said Plonq with affected sympathy. "That's much too long for me. I trip over anything longer than a twenty-eight inch leg."
"Really?" said the badger in a tone of disbelief. "You don't look like a twenty-eight to me."
"Actually I'm only a twenty-six leg," said the snow leopard, gladly peeling himself away from the "vendor". "You need to find somebody a bit taller," he called over his shoulder as he walked away. As he scurried away across the street, the badger called out after him.
"I dunno, you look like a thirty to me."
Every word of it true. Very surreal encounter.
1Eat more fish!
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no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 02:43 pm (UTC)This patient, let's call him Willy, had been brought in because he was found drunken and passed out in the street. This is nothing new to the ER. We get multiple drunks in every night who need to be medically cleared, most of whom we are on a first-name basis with. No such thing as a drunk tank in our county anymore due to laws - so we get em all. Very entertaining, or very time-consuming, take your pick.
Willy was lying on the stretcher, his right eye mostly closed, but he kept his left eye open, looking at me. I called his name and he opened his name, and sat up. He refused to help me get him undressed, so I had to unbutton his shirt, pull of the layers of sweaty cotton and get his pants off. We do this for our own safety - we had a patient pass out in a room a few years ago with pockets full of large skinning knives. Bad juju.
Anyway, so Willy is sitting up, eyes half open, occasionally looking at me with that inebriated stare. He then lay back on the stretcher. As I was about to cover him with a blanket and let him sleep it off, he did something that surprised me so much it took my breath away.
He reached up, put his thumb into his left eye, popped out his prosthetic eye and held it out towards me in his fingers, like he was letting the eye get a better look at me. Oggle oggle oggle.
I just about wet myself.
Only when he put the eye in his mouth to wet it and then popped it back in his head did I gain enough composure to state, "Well, I can see you've got your eye on me."
True story as well. :) Ethyl Alcohol FTW.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 05:13 pm (UTC)*nods*
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 05:56 pm (UTC)LOL @ Plonq's kitty tale and the eyball both. Wow.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 06:21 pm (UTC)Then I went back and finished reading of course
no subject
Date: 2006-06-14 08:44 pm (UTC)I have to say I have great envy of your being nice to him. Im not like that to people that insist on things that i am not wanting and don't take my first nice answer to there questions.
Eat more Stake!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 05:41 pm (UTC)