For Your Health! (part 8)

So.

The nuclear stress test came back clean.

Aside from one ER doctor's dubious interpretation of an EKG (which was summarily ignored by my "team" of cardiologists), my heart has passed every single test it was given.

This leads me to the inexorable conclusion: there is nothing wrong with my heart.

So.

What now?

Well, now I'm pretty sure I have some kind of panic disorder.

"But Tyler! You've never been an anxious person! In fact, you're the most laid-back, chill, easy-going, sexy person I've ever known!"

Yes, that's true. But, from what I've read, that don't mean shit. Panic attacks don't happen because a person is nervous, or because "sumthin' bad happend." To quote this document I'm reading in another window, "Researchers are not sure what causes panic attacks."

"So, that's great! Sounds like you need a vacation! LOL! Maybe just do some deep breathing next time or something, pussy! LOLOL!!!"

I've tried that...both the "vacation" and the "relaxation." Neither worked. I'm having an intense physiological reaction to...something. And it's fairly non-specific...which is why I think it has complicated and delayed an actual "medical diagnosis."

I don't know why it happened. I don't know how it happened. But I'm sure that something has happened, and that it's not getting better.

Luckily for me, these "mind" problems can be treated. There's an entire industry that has sprung up in recent years (called the "pharmaceutical" industry, apparently) that is solely dedicated to fixing brain problems. That sounds like that's my next stop. And if that don't fix it...then it's back to the drawing board, I suppose.

But...do you know the shitty thing? This whole thing is embarrassing. Like...super-duper embarrassing. Not "shut up and stop blogging about it" embarrassing...but it's close.

I've been ping-ponging around to hospitals and doctors' offices, getting my blood drawn, racking up hundreds of dollars in copay bills, totally convinced that I'm dying. I've been detailing my health issues to all of my friends and family...worrying people who are too far away to help. I've been moping around the house, scared to be "active" because I might have another attack. I've convinced myself, and everyone around me, that I've got some kind of serious medical issue...and that the goddamn doctors just aren't seeing it.

(and for the record, I might still have an issue...it's probably just not heart-related)

But the reality just might be that I'm having some kind of mental health issue -- something is just misfiring somewhere in that beautiful brain of mine. Countless hours have been spent analyzing bodily fluids, measuring organs, and monitoring my electrical pulses of what appears to be a perfectly healthy (if a little overweight) 32 year old dude. If there's nothing "physically" wrong with me, there must be something "mentally" wrong with me.

Anyhow, that's the next step. And since I'm 8 parts into this goddamn saga, I'll continue to update you all on my mental health trials and tribulations. You'll read every goddamn minute of it, and love it all...damn you.

FAQ

I've decided to write an FAQ. The only problem is, very few people actually ask me questions...and I'm not sure I've ever been asked the same question with anything that would qualify it as being "frequent" (though I have been getting the "Oh my God, is that a goiter?!" question quite a lot lately).

So FAQ might be a misleading title. It should be more like a "Stuff You Might Be Curious About Put in the Style of a Question and Answer Blog Post" (SYMBCAPSQABP) (prounounced "Sim-bee-cap-squab-puh)

Here goes:


So, Tyler, why did you start this blog?

Shut up. Next question.


What?

No. Seriously. Shut up.


Whoa, why are you being such a dick?

I'm not being a dick, I'm just being real with you, Mayor McCheese. And, honestly, for reals, I just want you to shut the hell up and leave me alone.


Jesus. Fine. I don't care about your stupid FAQ anyway.

Good. And that wasn't a question.


Well, last time I asked a question you just yelled at me, and told me to shut the hell up.

No I didn't.


Yes you did. It was, like, the first thing you said.

Was that me?


It was.

I don't remember that.


You can just re-read this blog post. "Shut up" was literally the first answer you gave.

Well I didn't say "shut the hell up." You're making it sound worse than it actually was.


You said that in the second question.

No I didn't.


I mean the third question. I was all like, "Man, why are you being such a dick?" Then you said something about Mayor McCheese, and you told me to shut the hell up.

Oh, you're right. Sorry about that.


Sorry?

Yeah, I'm really sorry. I've just been pretty stressed out lately.


Well, why did you decide to write an FAQ blog entry if you weren't in the mood to answer questions?

Is that pronounced "Fack?" Or "Eff-ay-cue?"


Are you asking me a question now?

Sounds like it.


Umm...I think it's "eff-ay-cue."

Cool. Thanks. Can I borrow your bold?


My bold?

Why do you keep repeating me?


I don't know...that's just what I do to express incredulity.

Well stop it. It's hack-y.


Sorry.

It's fine. So, can I?


Are you going to start asking me questions, then?

I don't know yet.


Well, okay. You can have it. But can I start using italics?

Whatever you want.


Okay, cool.

Um...but you aren't going to use bold as well as italic, are you?


I guess not.

Thanks. I mean, I'm not trying to come off as some kind of control freak or anything, but y'know...I am borrowing your bold, and it wouldn't make sense if we were both still writing bold.


No, I get it. It's fine.

Thanks for being so understanding.


Were you going to ask me questions, then?

I guess I could. Um, so, why'd you get into acting?


Stupid question. And I already answered that in, like, a two part post that no one read.

I read it.


That's because you wrote it, brainiac.

Fair enough. Does it bother you when no one reads your blog?


No.

Seriously?


Well, I'll tell you two things I don't like, and I try not to do. The first is, I try to avoid apologizing for "not writing more often." Because usually I'm not sorry...I'm just lazy. And I don't want to apologize for being lazy, because I'd be apologizing all the damn time...and that's just not my style. The second thing I try not to do is: I try not to comment on the fact that the stuff I'm writing is not being read by anyone...because that's not why I write here.

Wait, isn't that the whole point of a blog? To have people read it?


I guess so...but I never expect people to actually read this stuff. I can't tell if that's low self-esteem, or just me being realistic. But, it's not like I'm writing anything particularly groundbreaking, provocative, or even interesting. For example, just re-read this post.

Well, why don't you write about more interesting stuff?


Interesting stuff is boring. Next question.

I don't know what that-


NEXT QUESTION!!!

Look. Dude. This...this just isn't working out.


What's wrong?

Well, for starters, the "ctrl-b" and "ctrl-i" shortcuts are really annoying, and inconsistent. Like, for some reason, every time I hit enter, ctrl-b, then ctrl-i to cancel my bold writing, and start italicized writing, Blogspot just makes the type both bold and italic.


Like this?

Exactly.


What happens if you just leave it, and don't press ctrl-b or ctrl-i?

This happens. It stays bold.


That's really frustrating.

Tell me about it.


Well, should we just wrap up this FAQ, then? Because it doesn't feel like we really got anywhere...and those technical problems are just frustrating you.

Yeah, maybe we should just stop. I doubt anyone's going to read this anyway. Oops. I mean...um...I don't know if I want people to read this. Yeah. That's it.


Are you going to post this to Facebook?

Sure. I guess so. Why not?


I feel like this is just going to bore a bunch of people...and you don't even know all of your Facebook friends that well.

Well, if they're interested, they'll click on the link. If not, then they'll just ignore it.


Are you ever going to do a real FAQ?

Maybe. Let's see how well this one is received and we'll go from there. I could. I mean...I'm sure there are people out there that I haven't talked to in a long time who are actually interested in the stuff that's going on in my life. But that could just be me projecting...because I'm always interested in the stuff going on in other peoples' lives. Maybe no one's interested at all...which is fine. I don't hold that against them...I've never thought of myself as particularly interesting to begin with. Especially not to strangers, or to people that I only know a little bit, or that I don't talk to at all any more. And those are the only people who might actually want an FAQ. I mean, all of my close friends already know what's going on in my life.

Wow. That last part got pretty serious, and boring. I thought this was going to be another one of those things where you gave funny answers to survey questions. Like this. Or even this.

Maybe next time.


Hey, shouldn't you post a picture here? So that the little thumbnail will be something that will make people want to read this blog?

Like, a girl in a bikini or something?


No, then you'd just get a bunch of dudes reading this. Maybe you should post a shot of some guy's six-pack abs, or something.

Probably still get a bunch of dudes. You're friends with a lot of gay guys.


Good point. Well...maybe I can come up with something in-between. Something like this:

Bike Crash! POW!

So, I got in my first "bike crash" today. Pretty big milestone for me -- I had a paper route for 3 years, and I've been riding here for about 7 months...and I'd never come into contact with another bike or car in all that time.

But I got it today. The brass ring. I got my ass run over.

Or...at least...my front tire.

It started off like any other Thursday morning, riding into work. As I pulled off of Glenoaks onto Buena Vista, I saw a line of cars stopped at an intersection. So, tucking myself as far right as I could, I started cruising past the stopped automobiles.

"Suckers," I thought to myself. "Bet you wish you could be me, all foot-light and fancy free."

However, annoyingly, one dude in a black Jeep started creeping into my lane...either because he saw me and wanted to block me in...or because he didn't see me, and he just sucks at driving. This happened at the "red X."



Either way, I motored past him and headed for the light. To my dismay, another motorist in a white car was creeping into my lane as well. I tried to speed up and pass her.

But she wasn't creeping, she was turning. Right. Onto the freeway on-ramp. I wasn't watching for an actual right-hand turn, because we hadn't reached the intersection yet -- she was using that little space between the "parked cars on the right" and the "intersection" to turn early.



Consequently, I didn't realize what was happening until too late. My front tire lost a "battle of tires" to her right-front tire, and I was launched about 10 feet off of my bike, onto the nice little grassy area between the road and the sidewalk.


Luckily for me, there was no limo parked there...so I had a nice, soft landing.

The first thing I thought was: "Shit." Not because I was upset, but because I had, apparently, Superman'd through a pile of dog shit, which was now all over the front of my green hoodie.

I started laughing, even as I was skidding across the grass. This was probably out of embarrassment...but also because it was kind of neat to slide across a patch of wet grass. I secretly hoped that it looked pretty cool to the other cars waiting at the stoplight. This is kinda' how I imagined it:



Now there is this weird moment in time, where a "vehicle" somehow magically transforms from an "obstacle to avoid" into a "human being." It's a really bizarre thing...and anyone who's been in a car accident is probably familiar with this transition. It's jarring. One moment there's a car that's somehow drifting into me...at the next moment, there's a very nice, older woman standing next to me telling me "I'm sorry -- I didn't see you there. Are you okay?" with an indeterminate eastern European accent.

And I was. Okay. The bike was...well...beaten up, but it looked like it hadn't been too damaged, structurally. The tire was bent, but not extremely so (I was still able to ride it, once I'd disengaged the front brake). But the fork, brakes, handlebars, pedals, and gears all seemed to come through with minor scratches. Heck, my clothes even came through unscathed...unless you count the smear of feces down the front of my hoodie. But my newly-purchased khakis didn't have so much as a grass stain on them.

But I ran into another problem: "So...what now?" It's not like we could exchange insurance info (that's part of the reason I ride a bike -- no insurance). And it's not like she's on the hook to pick up the tab or anything. I mean...I suppose she is legally...but it's not like I was going to file a claim with her insurance or anything. It was just a stupid little bent wheel.

"Oh shit," I thought, smelling poop, "was this my fault?"

I went over the accident in my mind. Squeeze past asshole in Jeep. Approach intersection. Try to squeeze past car turning. Bike tire squished. Flying. Shit.

This is officially collision type #7 on the bike safety checklist...it's also known as "The Right Hook, Pt. 2". Of course, legally, I was in the clear because she hit me, not the other way around. According to Johnny Law, she should have checked her blind spot before turning right.

But, realistically, I was not in the right. I should have slowed down to the speed of traffic once the light turned green. I should seen and recognized her turn signal. I should have known the on-ramp was coming up. I pride myself on making it so that I don't even give cars the opportunity to hit me (called: "Ride as if you're invisible"). But this time I totally failed.

Which meant that, as she was giving me her contact information, and taking mine...and as she offered to pay for the repairs (a very nice woman, like I said), all I wanted to do was apologize to her for being an idiot, and a terrible cyclist. It reminded me a lot of this:



But I just rode off instead, only issuing a lame, half-assed warning to her that she should be watching for bicycles. As I was about a half-mile down the road, she called me and apologized, asking if I needed a ride to where I was going (as I say, she was a very nice lady). I called her back and told her that I was fine, and thanks for calling.

Suck it, Travelocity: Part 1

I'll start from the beginning. If you get bored, then feel free to skip ahead to the "good stuff." Or hell, just go read something else; jerk. Might I recommend "The Scarlet Pimpernel"?

Anyway, on with the banality...

So, for Christmas last year, I decided to get my wife a "trip to New York." Because, well, I knew she'd like it, and it's something we've dreamed about doing since we started dating, 7 years ago.

So, to present the gift, I purchased one of those "recordable cards," where you have 10 seconds to record a personalized message. My 10 second message was a clip from the song "New York, New York." Because, well, it was on my iPod, and it was about New York. I know, I know; I'm incredibly clever, and handsome, and tall, and strong, and handsome, and handsome.

She opened it, and loved it.

Which was awesome for me, too. Seeing my wife happy is just about the best thing in the world, and I try to experience that feeling as much as possible.

We started planning right away. She looked at museums and Broadway shows she wanted to see. I looked at how (exactly) to get to New York, and where we'd stay once we got there.

Eventually we settled a date; early April. Once that detail was set, I could start pricing tickets. JetBlue had some very good rates, and I'd heard good things about them, so I decided to give 'em a shot. They also happened to fly regularly out of the Burbank airport, with direct flights to JFK. This was perfect, because Burbank Airport is much closer to our house than LAX, and the airport is just all-around awesomer than the stink-hole that is LAX.

I wanted to book through the JetBlue website, but for some reason it kept kicking out an error when I tried to pay. I called the airline directly, and found out that, if I wanted to purchase tickets over the phone, I had to pay an additional fee. "No thanks," said I.

In retrospect, I should've just paid the stupid fee...but I can be horribly impatient sometimes.

Because I just wanted to get the damn thing paid for, ASAP. This is how my mind works -- if I put it off, I'll just forget about it; I have to utilize any momentum my procrastination-friendly brain gives me. To accomplish this, I went to Travelocity.com to book my tickets, which meant that I'd be paying a third-party to book my seat for me, giving me a way around the frigging error message.

I booked the tickets, and proudly sent the confirmation e-mail to my wife, once again feeding my "Make Erika happy" addiction. With plane tickets out of the way, I could focus on all of the "fun stuff we could do once we got there."

Which we did, for a couple of weeks.

Then my wife got cast in Twelfth Night.

And guess what. They performed at the beginning of April, right when we were planning on being in New York.

Crap.

Guess that means I have to move the reservation, huh?

Yep.

Okay. No problem.

So I went back to the JetBlue website and entered in my confirmation code -- they've got a great little site when it's not broken. I attempted to change my reservation, and everything was working fine as I clicked through the options. At the end, right before confirming, the site gave me a "total cost" for the change, and I found out, to my delight, that since the fare on our new date of our departure was over $100 less than the original fare, the change was totally free! As Mr. Carroll would say: "Callooh! Callay!"

But once again, when I tried to "Confirm," I got another damn error message. Oh, JetBlue...you're a crafty little bastard, aren't you? With your silly little malfunctioning website.

So I called JetBlue and got through, after 30 minutes on hold. I gave my details to the lady on the other end, and as she was entering the info her computer froze. So she put me back on hold as she spoke to "tech support." After 10 minutes she came back on the line and informed me that her computer was broken, but she'd queue up my call to four of her "buddies" around the office, and once they'd finished their call, they'd take mine. She begged me not to hang up, apologized profusely, and implored me to "Not hate us forever." It was, actually, kind of adorable...and it made it pretty impossible for me to be mad. She put me back on hold, and I waited another 10 minutes before I hung up (because I really, really needed to pee).

After peeing, I called back and spoke with another friendly woman. She entered my data, and discovered that, in order for me to make the change I had to go through Travelocity.

Gah.

Okay. Fine.

So I called Travelocity, and (of course) spoke to a man at a call center in India. Now, I have nothing against the good people of India. They're, typically, much smarter than we are, and generally far more attractive. However, this particular operator happened to be a bit of a tool. And I had a hard time understanding him, due to his accent. And he had a hard time explaining himself because English was not his primary language. And he kept getting irritated with me, because I wanted to understand what was going on, and (frankly) I couldn't, because of the aforementioned issues.

But what I found out, eventually, was that Travelocity charges $30 per ticket to change dates. Fine. Whatever. That was on the stupid confirmation e-mail, somewhere in the fine print. Okay. But, in addition to that, they informed me that JetBlue charged an additional $100 fee to change tickets, and I'd need to pay that too.

"But, um," I muttered, "the new tickets are cheaper, right?"

"Yes."

"So, doesn't that mean that they use the difference in fares to pay the change fee?"

"No. They don't allow us to do that."

"Oh. Um. Okay."

He asked me if I agreed to forfeit the difference in pricing...which was a strange question. I mean, did I have a choice? If I said, "No," would they just make the change anyway and not charge me? Of course not. It was either forfeit the difference, or cancel the reservation entirely. So, lamely, I agreed.

I gave him my credit card number, and he charged the $260.00.

Then I hung up.

Then I got really mad.

Because, basically, I was being massively punished for using Travelocity. My original tickets cost $700, which means the "fee" was just over 1/3 of the cost of the original tickets. If I'd booked through JetBlue (like I'd wanted to), I would have paid $0. In fact, there would have been $6 in credit left over, that I could have used for any future travel with JetBlue.

So, all told, because of my impatience, and Travelocity's duplicity, I was out $266.

That my friends, it total bullshit. So, casting off my usual "compliant meekness," I decided to fight back.

Which I will do...in PART TWO

Loathing and Loathing in Vegas (days 2 & 3)

(Part 1 is here)

Day 2

I don't know how many of you have experienced a "hang-over," but let me assure you, it is not pleasant. The hangover I had on Saturday was…fairly epic. The three of us agreed that we should all go out and get breakfast of some kind…and about thirty paces from our room, we regretted the decision to leave the safe, darkened confines of our hotel room at the Tropicana.

So, and hour later, bellies filled with cheap Vegas food, we were all back in the room… napping fitfully. Koby and Chad wanted to lay some money on the UFC fight, and with much hemming and hawing (a nasty habit I picked up from somewhere), I decided that, hangover be damned, I was going go with them.

Dripping with malaise, we shuffled past the blinking lights, the musical chirping of the slot machines, and the afternoon-drunken masses. After visiting two hotel Sports Books, Koby and Chad finally found the "good odds," and they laid their money down on some very promising underdogs. Not being up to date since Dan Severn applied a textbook keylock to Dave Beneteau to win UFC 5 (they're up to 86 now) I was in no position to risk my depleted cash funds. But, after their surefire bets were laid, we moped over to the MGM Grand. Koby and Chad thought that "breathing oxygen" and getting their shoulders hooked up to an electrical circuit might help them get their heads correct. I thought that losing more money at blackjack would help me. Turns out the oxygen would have been cheaper, and more helpful. Oops.

We met up again, and sat on a bench, and waited for an hour in a glum, hung-over near-silence until the fight started.

The view from our hang-over hang out.

Finally, it was time for them to depart, leaving me to my own devices. So…taking full advantage of my newfound freedom, in a city full of sin and depravity, I went back to the room, and the full scope of the shittiness of my situation started to affect me. After hrrming and hmming in my room (because hemming is stupid), I decided…dammit…I was going to find myself a poker tournament. And I did just that…over at the Planet Hollywood Casino.


Me...having a shit-load of fun in Vegas.

Now, I just wrote a long, eight-paragraph long description of my game…but I decided that probably only about two people (looking at you Don and Matt) could really appreciate it…so I deleted it. C'est la vie. Anyhow, the long and the short is, from a tournament of 69 people, I finished 9^th place. Now, in the tournament I was in, only the top 8 players got money (8^th gets $123, 1^st gets $945), which meant that I was the last guy to get eliminated without winning any cash. It's called being on "The Bubble," and it really, really, really sucks to be knocked out when you're on "The Bubble." But luckily one of the players there had asked everyone seated at the final table to throw in $10 to "pay the bubble" when the final table was pared down to 9. Since that player was me, I left with a cool $90 (after my $60 buy-in). As one of the players put it, "Hey, it's better than a sharp poke in the eye with a stick." Yes, yes it was.

After that, I met up with Koby and Chad (whose surefire underdog bets had somehow, amazingly, failed to pay off), and we choked down a late dinner at an awful steak house. We walked around a little bit more, not really feeling like drinking or gambling...but too ashamed to admit defeat and call it a night. We wound up at the Hooters Casino (simply because it's next door to the Tropicana). We walked sullenly through the place (which looked suspiciously like any other casino in Vegas…except one of the blackjack dealers was wearing the Hooters outfit – the rest were sporting the standard Vegas dealer vest-and-black-pants combo), and wound up moping about in the bar…choking down a couple of Miller Lights and playing one of those bar-side video poker machines before retreating to the safe, darkened confines of our room at the Tropicana.

Video Poker. Pwned.

Day 3

So my amazing wife (don't know if you've seen her, but she's gorgeous too) had booked a flight home for me the previous day, and I was scheduled to leave early Sunday morning. I'd set my alarm for 9:00 AM, but right around 8:40 AM she called me…I'm assuming to make sure I didn't miss my flight. She apologized for waking me, and asked me how much I was expecting to get paid from my Sprite commercial. "Five hundred dollars…but…after the agent commission, probably about four hundred. Why's that?"

"The check came today."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. It's for two thousand sixty-seven dollars."

Stunned pause.

"Seriously?"

So…that was that. Of course Vegas wasn't going to pay me off – they were the bastards who got me into this mess. Nope, it was up to the good folks of Los Angeles to come through in the clutch, and pay for my automobile repair. Remarkable.

I figured I was on a roll…so after flying down to Phoenix for my connecting flight, the gentleman at the desk informed the group that they were over-booked on the flight, and asked for volunteers to give up their seats for a free flight anywhere in the US. Well…I was in no hurry, and karma demanded that I be paid for my misfortune, so I volunteered. Sure, I had to wait a long-ass time for my next flight, but the price was right.

Finally, after waiting around the awful Phoenix airport for an extra 5 hours, I made it home where my very attractive wife picked me up at the Burbank airport. Not exactly the return that I had planned, but an admittedly still-pleasant one.

Epilogue

Things didn't go too smoothly after that. The repair shop called on Tuesday, asking what time I needed the car. I told them that I was back home, and that I wouldn't be returning until Friday to get the car. "Good," they said, "The part will probably be arriving on Wednesday, so your car should be ready on Thursday."

Only, it wasn't. They called on Wednesday, and told me the car wouldn't be ready until the following Monday. At the earliest. I realized, too late, that I gave them an inch, and they took 6 days. Fine. Whatever. Luckily for me, there was no cost for me to reschedule my flight through United Airlines (a fine, fine corporation), so I did so.

Early Monday morning, a little queasy from drinking too much at Erika's birthday party the night before (family: I promise you I haven't become some creepy drunk since my move to L.A...this was just an unusually high time for booze), I boarded a United Airlines flight, made a connection in San Francisco, and cruised back into the evil city of depravity.

I got $100 out of the airport cash machine, and caught a cab across town driven by a man who (thankfully) spoke not a word the whole drive over. He pulled into the repair shop, and I saw that my car -- instead of being "fully repaired" was still sitting in the garage...being worked on. This...scared me. But it wasn't so bad -- they just needed to test-drive the car, the new transmission had already been dropped in.

The car was tested...and passed. I paid the man. Got in my car, and headed for the gas station down the street to fill up for what would (hopefully) be an uneventful trip back to Los Angeles.

As I was pulling in, I saw a Charles Manson look-a-like rummaging through a dumpster at one corner of the station. It was about 100 degrees that day, and he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans -- his presence made me a little nervous (as happens to me around most homeless people), but I pushed that aside and continued to the pump.

Now, I still had $40 in my wallet, so I decided to prepay with the entire $40 (reminiscing, as everyone does, on how I used to be able to fill up my tank for $10). After I'd prepaid the attendant, I went back to my car and started pumping...and I looked up and noticed that Mr. Manson was making his way over to my car. Dammit. I pretended to make a phone call so I wouldn't have to brush off a money request -- and to his credit, he didn't interrupt my pretend phone call, he just sat on the curb next to my pump. After I finished pumping gas -- still feigning a phone conversation -- I realized that the total was $32.00, and I would have to go inside to get change. Once I'd gotten my money from the attendant, I looked out and saw that, unfortunately, Charlie was still sitting right next to my car. There were plenty of other cars filling up at the other pumps around the station, but he'd staked out my crappy 1990 Prizm as a sure-fire money-maker. Dammit.

I headed out in the blistering heat, back to my ride, and suddenly got really mad at myself: "Listen up, asshole...what's wrong with you? Yes, this was the most trying time I'd had in a long time, but you're healthy...you've got good friends, a radical family, a great wife, a place to live, a semi-steady job, and a functional automobile. The guy sitting out by my car in the blazing heat just finished looking for lunch in a gas station dumpster. At no point was he rude or aggressive to you; he just looked exhausted and dirty, and as bad as your situation is...his was...well...you know."

I'm sure it wasn't that coherent...but you get the idea.

Anyways, I walked up to him, and before he even noticed I'd returned to my car I gave him all of my change. He was young -- probably about my age, if not a few years older. And when I handed him that eight bucks, he looked at me with a strange, confused look. For an instant I thought I was offending him by giving him the money -- maybe he wasn't actually homeless, he just wanted directions or something. But then his face lit up and he said:

"Hey, you knew I was going to ask, didn't you?"

"Don't worry about it. Take care."

"Thanks, man. Thanks."

Then I got in my car, turned south onto North Rancho Drive, and did the only logical thing I could think of -- cried my stinking eyes out. I don't really know why, I guess it just sorta' snuck up on me. It's not like I'm a terribly charitable dude who gets viscerally affected by seeing poverty and the like (I'd only given money to a homeless person one other time) so I'm pretty sure I wasn't crying because of Charlie's situation.

Part of me wanted to believe that I was crying because of the horrible week that I'd endured...but, again, as bad as it was, it wasn't really that bad. I still have plenty of money saved up, and I'm very hire-able should I decide to rejoin the work force at some point.

Maybe I'd just been penning up a lot of bad feelings, and I was a little pissed off that the world had swooped in and relieved me of a couple thousand dollars. So to do something that made me feel genuinely good inside opened a flood gate somewhere, filled with tears. But really, it was only eight bucks...and I knew that it wasn't really going to change the guy's life in any appreciable way...

Then again, maybe I was just crying because I needed to cry. I get like that occasionally. I don't like crying when other people are around, and even now I'm massively uncomfortable blogging about it...but it happened. And damned if I didn't feel a lot better about things once my sissy emotions started pouring down my cheeks.

Luckily, I managed to control myself by the time I merged onto Interstate 15 southbound. The ride back home was uneventful -- I would cringe at every little shudder, gear shift, or shimmy that the car made, but nothing untoward occurred. I pulled up to the apartment around 8:00 PM -- just in time for some "So You Think You Can Dance," and a Coke Zero.

Loathing and Loathing in Vegas (day 1)

The plan: drive to Vegas early Friday morning, arrive around 12:00 noon (or so), gamble a little, meet up with Koby and his buddy around 5:00 PM, carouse, crash in Koby's hotel room, get up at the crack of noon, and drive back to Los Angeles. I figured, at most, I'll lose my entire $100 gambling allotment…maybe spend $30 on food and booze…plus the $40 in gas to get there and back. Put those together, and it meant I'd spend a great day in Vegas for an underwhelming $170 and change.

The beautiful blue chariot that would carry me triumphantly into "The Vegas."

Now that was the plan. However, as my dear friend Robert used to say, plans should best be left to either mice or men (who are very good at planning, apparently). Inevitably, my four-month good luck streak came to a catastrophic halt about 70 miles outside of Las Vegas, where my car gave what could best be described as a "shudder," followed by a "severe reduction in power." My first thought was, "Dang, Erika's supposed to be using this car for a background gig next week. She's going to be so mad at me." My second thought was, "Wow, if my car breaks down, I'll be stuck in the middle of the desert with a busted engine and very little money."

Luckily, the engine was able to crank out a couple of horsepower -- albeit much less than would be considered "normal freeway drivin' power." So I was able to continue on my way, but there was a persistent deafening whine coming from the engine…more specifically, the transmission (not that I could tell at that point). After a gut-clenching hour on the asphalt, I managed to nurse my busted ride into Vegas proper. I was headed toward the nearest repair shop when, with very little pomp (and a good deal of circumstance), my little blue car decided that it was tired of running on a broken transmission, and stopped. I asked nicely for the car to give me just one more little mile, but after a protracted argument (wherein I tried out every position on the stick shift – none of which, save "Park" and "Neutral," did what they were supposed to) the car won.

So I glided to a stop in a right-hand turn lane, threw on the emergency flashers, and called Mr. Chad Evans, who gave me the number of a local towing company (and thanks again, Chad…for keeping a cool head, and being there to Google around for me).

The site of the epic break-down.

The tow truck driver arrived in typical fashion (weird facial hair, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), hooked up my car, and took me to the nearest "transmission specialist."

Two of my new best friends. The tow truck driver, and the weird guy in a black tank top who watched the whole thing.

He assured me that the repair shop was near all the "good titty bars," and he had spent more than a few lunches with the company truck parked in the lot (which had gotten him in trouble with his boss, apparently). We got to the run-down repair shop, and the decrepit septuagenarian mechanic informed me that, as it was a holiday weekend (Memorial Day), they would not be able to look at the car until Tuesday…at the earliest. And he assured me, in a very uplifting way, that most repair shops in town would be closed for the weekend. And then he punched me in the testicles and charged me $80 for the favor. Honestly, I think that punch (had it actually happened) would have improved my day at that point.

But luckily for me, Mr. Tow Truck Driver had a mug full of repair shop business cards, and he managed to find a gentleman across town who was able to look my poor busted ride right away. Okay, good. Off we go.

After an uncomfortable, depressed 30 minute ride, we pulled in to Master Transmission Specialists about well outside of Las Vegas. The heavy-set former marine tending the desk assured me that he'd be able to look at it today…but the actual repair would have to wait until Tuesday. Fine. Whatever. I envisioned myself crashing at Koby's hotel until Monday (when he was scheduled to leave), then holing up in a nearby roach motel on Monday night, eating on the cheap, and bugging out of town as soon as the car was patched up – probably late Tuesday, if I'm lucky.

My lovely car's new home for the next couple of weeks.

Now, at this point, Vegas had got me for a $72 tow truck fee, plus the $40 for gas to get there. I figured it was going to be expensive to fix up the car, but a 1990 Geo Prizm? Looking online now, it appears that the car sells for roughly $1,800. How bad could it possibly be?

Well…bad. I asked the guy if he could provide me a rough estimate for a patched transmission. He hemmed…hawed…punched some numbers into a calculator…looked up some parts information on his computer…and told me flatly, "Twenty-three hundred."

"Wait, two hundred…um…"

"No, two thousand three hundred dollars."

I was floored. I didn't think the car was even worth that much fully repaired. And I tell him this…which sets him hemming and hawing again…after which he tells me that they might be able to get a low-mileage used transmission, that that'd cut down on the costs. Okay…how much for that?

More hemming…hawing…he makes a phone call…punches more numbers into a calculator…mumbles to himself…answers some questions from my increasingly annoying (and lingering) tow truck driver about a dune buggy he's working on…then finally…the total.

$1,500…before taxes. Rounded out to $1,650 after Uncle Sam's had his cut. So, tack on the $72 tow, and the $40 gas, before I've even hit the tables, I'm down $1,762. Crap. Crap crappity crap. Crap crap crap crap-crap crap. Craps? No. Crap. Better, but still...crap.

He offered to give me the weekend to think about it. Well, what choice did I have? In the meantime, he connected me with the good people at Hertz, who sent a kind, effeminate Asian man in a brand new 2008 Hyundai Elantra to come pick me up. Since my car was in the shop, I was elligible to get a rental car for $20 a day. For 4 days? Holy smokes! 80 bucks? I'd have spent about that much money just on a cab ride from the mechanic to the strip! Things are looking up for ol' Liz Lemon! I mean, yes, things are sucking very heavily...but finally there was some good news.

After a little paperwork, I'm cruising down the Vegas strip in a fully pimped out, brand new Elantra (IT HAS A CD PLAYER, FOLKS!!!!!). Vegas now has me for $1,842…which will soon be $1,942 – the extra $100 are what I'd planned on losing gambling. She may set my poor wallet ablaze, but she will not prevent me from enjoying myself.

My super-phat new ride. It would spend the entire weekend in the casino parking lot.

Because, you know what? Vegas owes me, dammit. That's right, Vegas…I'm talking to you now. I did nothing to deserve this – I drove from Seattle to Los Angeles in that same old ancient Prizm that you gleefully destroyed. Suddenly, my ol' reliable blue bomber can't handle a little 4 hour jog over flat desert terrain? Really?

So I tried to decide how Vegas was going to pay me back. Naturally, I thought the best way would be with slot machines. Damn you Vegas, and damn your slot machines…but that's where the Jackpots typically come from. When you see pale schlubs from Nebraska light up the "JACKPOT" after hours of dropping nickels into a machine.

Since I was destined for a bunch of easy cash, I dropped $40 into a Texas Tea slot machine, and eventually that adorable scamp who just lives to build oil derricks in Texas reimburses me with a whopping $20! That's right, Vegas…I'm the boss of you! You're not getting your filthy mitts on that $20 dollars! That's going straight into the "Help Tyler Fix His Car" fund. Thank you very damn much.

Then, flush from my huge win at the slot machines, debauchery. In the form of one "Koby," and one "Chad." I hooked up with these two ne'er-do-wells and started the drinking. They actually did Jagermeister shots – a total throwback to my college years, but I've got almost $2,000 worth of angst to forget about. Jager is a drink that has brought me nothing but grief in my brief history with it; and one that harkens back to my headier days, huddling in my crappy apartment in off of Alabama street in Bellingham, playing Dynasty Warriors late into the morning hours with my former roommate Matt.

The devil's brew...sitting innocently between these two guys.

After our introductory drink, we hopped a cab to the Hard Rock Casino. We discovered (quickly) that that casino sucked, so we hopped yet another cab back to a locale that was more our style – the Casino Royale. On the way there, the Jamaican driver offered us a ride and free admission to a boobie-viewing establishment. We feigned interest, because we were pretty well trashed at that point, and it seemed pretty funny. Once we finally arrived at the Casino Royale, we ingested our third drink of the night (another round of Jagermeister shots).

The night becomes a bit of a blur after that point. There was something about a game called "Blackjack Switch" that took a good chuck of my gambling bankroll. After that drunken defeat, I got a ham sandwich from Subway (where Koby and Chad made fun of me for only getting the 6" sub…which I thought was very cruel). Back on the streets, I grabbed about fifty of those little cards from the friendly Hispanic gentlemen on the sidewalks of Vegas offering…well, differing levels of female companionship (we were planning on playing "Go Fish" with them later at the hotel room, but that game never materialized). Koby forced me to drunk dial a friend of his from work. Somehow we stumbled down to the Wynn Casino, and got lost leaving the place...wandering around parking structures and back streets. After we found our way again, we blundered into a casino where a terrible cover band was playing, and our waitress offered Koby the opportunity to touch her "private bits" for the bargain price of $100. It was there, at Bill's Gamblin' Hall and Saloon, that I experienced an unpleasant bout with emesis.

Well Cousin Carroll…couldn't sneak that one by you, could I? Lousy nurses. Anyway, for those of you without a background if fancy-dancy medical terminology, I threw up. On the floor, next to the band. I was pretty incomprehensibly drunk at that point, so Koby practically carried me back to the Tropicana, where I collapsed in a drunken, mumbling, ague-coated heap. Then, like a true Florence Nightengale, he made sure I found my way to the bed, and promptly went back into the bright lights out to continue the party.

Stay tuned for part two...where you all get to learn a valuable lesson about "what happens after you drink heavily then fall asleep." It's a real doozy.

You can read all about it here:

http://japesandjibes.blogspot.com/2008/06/loathing-and-loathing-in-vegas-days-2-3.html