Here’s a good old-fashioned Foldedspace post for you long-time readers who pine for them.

Last weekend I exercised my heart out. On Saturday I went for a 12 mile run and a 29 mile bike ride. Before my ride with Paul and Susan, I prepped my bike for the road.

“That’s strange,” I said as I futzed with the gear. “I can’t find my bike computer.”

“What’s a bike computer?” Kris asked. How long has she lived with me? And she still doesn’t know what a bike computer is?

“It’s a little square electronic device that straps to the handlebars,” Susan explained. “It tracks how far you’ve gone and how long you’ve been on the bike. It’s pretty cool.”

“And I can’t find mine,” I said. “Somebody has misplaced it.” I didn’t name names, but I knew that I had left it on the kitchen table, but it wasn’t there now. I went for the ride without it.

On Wednesday, I paid bills. Kris and I have gotten in the habit of paying our mortgage a month early (and we pay a little extra to principal, too). This makes us feel good. But it also means we received June’s bill in mid-April. That, too, I had left on the kitchen table, but now that it was time to pay it, I couldn’t find it.

“Do you know where the mortgage bill is?” I e-mailed Kris. “I want to pay it, but somebody has misplaced it.” I was pretty cranky actually. First the bike computer and now the mortgage bill. I looked online. I could pay the mortgage bill via the web, but it cost $11 to do so. Ugh.

“I wish I could find my bike computer and the mortgage bill,” I said every night for the rest of the week. “I sure wish I could find them.” I never named names, but I knew that Kris was responsible. I had checked everywhere for both items: my desk, my books, my pockets.

This morning I was preparing to go to the gym. Because it’s a glorious day, I decided to ride my bike into Milwaukie. “It sure would be nice to have my bike computer for this ride,” I said. “And where are my biking shorts, anyhow?”

“Your biking shorts are where they’re supposed to be. They’re where I put them. In your exercise drawer.” I checked the drawer. Sure enough, the biking shorts were there.

“Now all I need are the bike computer and the mortgage bill,” I said.

“Well, one out of three ain’t bad,” Kris said.

I sat down at the chair in my office to put on my socks. “Yes, I really wish I knew where the bike computer and the mortgage bill were,” I said. I wanted Kris to admit that she had misplaced them. Then, for no reason whatsoever, I opened my desk drawer.

“Huh,” I said. “What do you know?” There was my mortgage bill, exactly where I had put it. (But why had I put it there? That’s what I want to know.)

Kris looked at me and shook her head. “Two out of three ain’t bad,” she said.

“I guess I misplaced that,” I said, setting the bill on my desk. I idly began to clean up the gadgets in the far corner. “But I’m still missing my buh —”

I stopped.

There, underneath my Skype headset (which I had used last week to interview Tim Ferriss), was my bike computer. Just where I had left it.

“You know what I think is the best part of this story?” Kris asked. I didn’t really want to know, but she told me anyhow. “I wasn’t responsible for any of those.”

“I know,” I said, sighing. “But you’ll notice I never named you explicitly.”

“Oh, I know, but you were blaming me in your heart. I could tell.” She’s right. I was blaming her in my heart. I was certain she had misplaced the things that it turns out I had misplaced. But what have we learned over the years, dear readers? Kris Gates is always right. And that’s part of why I love her.

On Saturday, I got up for a long run in the woods. Normally I would have joined the marathon training group in Portland, but we were on our annual vacation in Sunriver, so I decided to be disciplined and run on my own. While my compatriots were scheduled to do a seven-mile road run, I tried to map out an eight-mile run on forest trails along the Deschutes River.

After a lot of fuss (I can’t seem to get out the door for a run without a lot of fuss), I left the rental house at 6:15. Before I headed out, I posted the following on Twitter:

On a long weekend vacation. Off for a solo 8-mile run in the woods. My biggest fear? Being eaten by a bear. I’m bear-phobic.

I was only half joking. I’m always worried of bears.

It was cold out. There was frost on the windshields of our cars. My breath was puffy. But I was bundled up against the elements, and knew that once I started running, things would be okay. I made my way along the paved roads to the beginning of the hiking path to Benham Falls. I had scrawled a rudimentary version of this Forest Service map to help me navigate the network of trails:

At first the run was difficult. Runs always seem to be difficult for the first ten or twenty minutes. The ground was a curious mix of too hard and too soft. Because it was below freezing, the dirt was crunchy. But the soil was also “airy”, with a lot of compression when I stepped on it. It was confusing &mdahs; my body was forced to make all sorts of micro-adjustments.

I followed my hand-drawn map along FS655 to FS600 and into the old campground. Everything was fine. I found the hiking trail along the river. But then things got a little hairy. There was snow on the ground. I continued along what I believed was the correct path, but found myself completely surrounded by a sea of white. There was not way to tell where I was or where I should be going. Yikes. I backtracked to a known landmark, and tried to figure out what to do. Eventually I found another path that seemed to go in the right direction and resumed my run.

I ran up the hillside and through the woods, occasionally having to deal with patches of old, crusty snow. (This stuff was icy, so I walked over it, and gingerly.) The brush along the side of the trail chewed up my ankles. I couldn’t really tell where I was.

Eventually I came to a long, wide straight path dominated by power lines. “This doesn’t look right,” I told myself. “I don’t think I’ve come far enough.” I pulled out my map. I couldn’t tell if this was the right place to head south or not, but neither did I have any better options. I couldn’t see that my current trail continued further. I followed the power lines south.

About ten minutes later, I encountered FS600 coming in from the side. “That’s strange,” I thought. “Aren’t I already on FS600?” I decided to have faith. I continued south on FS600. When it turned northeast, I continued to follow it. “Aha!” I thought. “This looks familiar.” I had run this path half an hour before. I now began to suspect that I’d taken the mini loop option marked on the map. (I was wrong, but I had the right idea.) But then I took a wrong turn and followed FS600 southeast to paved road 9702.

I was confused.

Ultimately I decided that I should just head north along the paved road, which I knew led to the campground. And it did. I followed the path up the hillside again and then southwest to the powerlines. When I went to pull out my map again, it wasn’t there. It had fallen out of my pocket. “Argh,” I thought. “I’m lost in the woods without my map.”

I wasn’t too worried, though. I knew that if I followed the Deschutes River west and south, I’d eventually come to parts of Sunriver that I knew. I was more concerned with continuing my run. Because I knew the powerline road had been wrong, I searched until I found another trail heading southwest. This trail led me to another confusing junction, but I was able to puzzle out the correct path, and then find my way back to the start.

I had run (and walked when confused) for ninety minutes. “I don’t think I’ve gone eight miles,” I thought. “Maybe I’ve gone five.” So I turned around and ran back the road I’d just travelled until I reached the river again. Then I ran home. It turns out my guess-work was about right.

When I returned to the rental house, I used MapMyRun to determine the distance I’d travelled. I had actually traveled 6-1/2 miles after ninety minutes. With my extra run to the river and back, I had brought the distance to 8.47 miles in one hour and 51 minutes.

Best of all? I hadn’t encountered any bears.

Last fall on our trip to Lincoln City with Mac and Pam, I witnessed one of those small perfect moments that linger in memory.

After clam chowder at Mo’s, we stopped at Cold Stone Creamery for dessert. It was about 7:30 on a Friday night, and the place was dead. We were the only customers.

We placed our orders with the young woman at the counter, While she scooped and folded our ice cream, I noticed her co-worker in the back room. This other young woman was making an ice cream cake, shaping it with a long spatula-like tool. As she worked, she sang to the music on the loudspeaker. She was completely absorbed in the moment: building the cake, singing with passion. She was unaware of our presence.

The song was a plaintive story of love and loss. The male vocalist had a thin, high voice perfectly matched to the subject matter.

“Who’s singing this?” I asked.

“I think it’s James Blunt,” Mac said. I had never heard of him. “Pam likes another one of his songs — ‘You’re Beautiful’.”

I continued to watch the young woman as she sang and built her cake. When the song was over, she set down the spatula, pulled off her gloves, walked to the stereo, and played the song again. She walked back to her work area, pulled on her gloves, and picked up her spatula. And she sang: “Goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend. You have been the one, you have been the one for me.”

This little scene occurred five months ago, yet I think of it at least once a week. What was the story there? Had the young woman recently suffered some sort of heartbreak? Or did she just love the song? Either way, the moment is burned on my brain.

This entry was written by Kris.

I’ll admit it: I’m obsessed with jars. I’m not a collector or anything, but I have a strange attraction to smooth glass objects, especially those I can fill with pickles or salsa, jams, tomato soup or summer fruit. Of course, canning jars are reusable, and J.D. and I have emptied many during our winter and spring meals, but I also gave about a hundred away last Christmas for various gifts and I wanted to replace them — cheap.

When our street had its annual garage sale last Thursday though Sunday, that was my quest: canning jars. I found a couple nice ones for $1 apiece up the road but they were “for pretty”, too old and irregular for actual use. I was still in need of jars for canning this year’s batches of goods when Amy Jo forwarded a Craiglist posting for jars for sale. I glanced through the ad — very detailed, lots of jars, decent prices — but it was farther than I wanted to drive. After deliberating, I decided to call anyway and see what was up.

“Hi,” I say “I’m calling about the jars you’re selling through Craiglist. I’m interested in buying some and wondered if I could come out today.”

“What kind of jars do you want?” asks a powerful male voice.

I explain that I want wide-mouth pints and half-pints.

“Fat chance,” he laughs, I’ve only got about nine cases of those — you better come today or there won’t be any left. How many do you want?”

Well, I want four or five cases, so it seems like there is plenty for me, but it makes me wonder: Are people thronging to this jar sale? Am I going to be left out?

Then he proceeds to quiz me on what I’m going to use the jars for. My answers (pickles, jams, salsas) meet only halfway approval. He is skeptical. I try to laugh it off and explain I also am interested in seeing some of his more decorative vintage jars. Again, I get the third degree.

“I won’t sell ‘em to you if you’re using them for wedding candles or something and are just going to throw them away. You’ve got to understand, these are jars of quality.”

I reassure him. I get long and very detailed directions to his house.

Then he tells me to bring boxes. And he tells me exactly what kind of boxes to bring: whiskey bottle boxes and chardonnay boxes — with dividers. “Stop at the liquor store on your way,” he orders. “I won’t sell you any jars if you don’t have the right kind of boxes. And if your boxes are dirty, you’re not getting any jars.” Wow. Okay, now I want more than ever to meet this guy with the jars. I tell him I’ll be there around noon. J.D.’s up for the adventure and we pick up Rhonda, who actually knows a lot about jars and has a varied collection of her own, and head east. [J.D.'s note: Rhonda actually has a book about jars, a price guide. She's the one who is obsessed.]

Upon arrival, I ring the doorbell. The three of us look up at a voice coming from the upstairs window and see a bearded face peering down. “I’m Kris,” I say, “I called about the jars.”

“Oh! You’re early! Let me put some pants on!” The time is exactly 11:53. We are seven minutes early.

Once he meets us at the garage, the jar-man’s first words are, “Let me see your boxes.” I cringe.

We have two boxes with dividers from my basement, but the boxes from the liquor store (which we were amazed was even open on a Sunday) are divider-less. For a moment, all hangs in the balance, and I fear he will turn us away. I hold my breath. But hurray, the boxes are at least clean and he permits us to stay and buy his jars.

For the next two hours, we hear more than we ever wanted to know about jars, lids to jars, boxes for jars, where to find old jars, how to clean jars, how to protect jars, what to use certain types of jars for, and so on. The jar-man knows jars. He is seemingly torn between the necessity of selling the jars (this appears to be his livelihood) and the overwhelming desire to keep every jar currently in his garage (which he numbers at 4000). We learn that Oregon is a much better source of old jars than his previous state of residence, California. And we learn why.

Boxes of jars and loose jars fill the garage. To show us the contents of any particular box involves moving the loose jars stacked on top of the boxes. When Rhonda and I try to help, he takes the jars from our hands. Wisely, J.D. (who is not clumsy), gets out of the way and assumes the task of carefully packing our purchased jars into our boxes according to the jar-man’s instructions (involving newspaper, strips of corrugated and brown paper sacks). We are not allowed to take the jar-man’s boxes, which are of a type that is not longer produced. I don’t really blame him, but it makes the purchasing and packing process very long.

Rhonda and I both choose some modern jars for canning and take a look at various types of run-of-the-mill vintage jars. The jar-man keeps a handwritten tally of our purchases.

After a while, the jar-man decides we are okay. He takes us inside to see the “good jars”. This is what Rhonda was hoping for. It appears he does actually have some rare collectible jars, but as he proudly shows them to us, one by one, he seems to decide they cannot be sold. Each jar is special and precious, and cannot be parted with. In the end, he does sell Rhonda two nice jars, not especially rare, but for a good price.

Time drags on and now I have seen enough to know which jars I want, but getting them is another story. It takes me almost another hour to wheedle and cajole him into releasing the jars. It is while he is tallying my purchases that I notice he is wearing two different shoes, both repaired. I can barely keep from laughing. Also, I keep noticing that for such an odd man, he appears to have surprisingly good teeth. I think at this point I am delirious for lack of lunch.

We make our way to the car but the jar-man follows, telling the tale of an old woman who has a monster load of jars, but she won’t sell them to him. “She thinks they’re worth way too much,” he sneers, “but wait till she drops dead. Her people will sell me the jars for cheap.” J.D. starts the engine, but the jar-man is still clinging to my open door. I make a move for the handle and he gets the message. I shout, “Thanks! Thanks for the great jars.” And I’m not kidding.

I am very happy with my jars; they are just what I was looking for, at a reasonable price, clean and in good shape. And although jar-man was odd, I sort of admire him. What a passion for jars! I imagine his frugal lifestyle, completely supported by jar commerce. Not a bad way to live. Now I really know what it’s like to be obsessed with jars.

[J.D.'s note: Two hours at the jar-man's house was far too long for me, especially since I hadn't eaten anything all day. I zoned out by taking in my surroundings. He had amazing tomato plants. And peppers. And nine eggplants. His home was sparesely furnished. The living room had red shag carpet, a seldom-used sectional, a stack of vinyl records, and boxes filled with rare jars. On the side of his fridge he kept a calendar on which he recorded the temperature three times each day, as well as the overall weather conditions and the amount of rainfall. The jar-man apparently did a lot of canning himself; his shelves were full of jams and jellies and pickles. His lawn needed to be mowed.]

When Kris and I lived in Canby, we had a summer ritual. During the evenings, when it was warm, we would take a walk through the neighborhood. We’d head down Sixth street, take a right on Fir, stroll over to Eighth or Ninth, and then head home once we’d reached the highway. It was a pleasant, familiar pastime.

It didn’t take long to become accustomed to develop rituals. Kris would stop to look at the gardens that particularly pleased her. I picked up flyers from in front of any home that was for sale. But our top ritual was the counting of the cats.

I’m not sure how we began, but soon after starting our walks, we discovered that there’s a certain part of the evening that might be dubbed “Cat Time”. After dinner, about an hour before dusk, when the heat of the day has begun to fade, the cats came out to take their ease. They sat in the grass, or under cars, or by the curb. In some places they would gather in twos and threes, but most often they would sit alone, watching.

We would count them as we walked. In fact, we would place bets as we started out. The first person would pick a number, and the second would call “higher” or “lower”. The fewest cats we ever saw during Cat Time was seven — the most was twenty-nine.

Kris would stop to pet her favorite cats. At one house on Ninth there lived a cat we called Cookie. Cookie was a whore. When he saw Kris, he would prance down the driveway and roll at her feet. I would sigh and sit on the curb as Cookie and Kris exchanged their affections. There were other cats who were glad to see her, too.

Cookie was not this cat’s real name. His real name was probably something like Tom or Mario or Bubba. We named him Cookie ourselves. We’ve always named the cats we meet if we don’t know what they’re really called. So, along our walk, we had names for the thirty-or-so various cats we encountered on a regular basis.

Spurge was the cat next door, so named because he was always in our yard, like a noxious weed. Thirteen was the beautiful orange cat that lived on Fir. He got his name because the first time we saw him, he was the thirteenth cat on our walk. Otot looked just like Toto. Dee and Dum were the twin Persians that lived near the Bemises. Sad to say, I can’t remember many of the other cats’ names, though at one time I knew all thirty.

I mentioned this story to introduce the concept of Cat Time. For fifteen years, we’ve been under the impression that Cat Time was about an hour before the sun set. Not so.

I’ve been rising at 4 a.m. for the past week. I tumble out of bed and immediately head out the door for a walk around the block. After seven days of this, I can assure you that Cat Time does not occur during daylight. Cat Time is 4 a.m. You would not believe how many cats I see in my sixteen minute stroll through the neighborhood. Where do they all come from?

This morning I passed a gang of cats. There was a cluster of five or six of them sitting in the middle of Arista, sitting near each other, but not too close. (Those of you with cats know what I mean.) They were having a meeting about something, and I could not help but think that their subject was me. “What should we do with the interloper? How can we get him to stay in bed? He’s violating our sacred hour! Let’s speak with Simon about it. Maybe he can do something…”

There’s good news and bad news on the sugar front. I made it through my week without sugar. So far it’s the most difficult thing I’ve done on my list of goals. It frickin’ sucked.

I allowed myself to eat fruit, but that was about it. No cookies, no candy, no cake. No white starchy foods. No condiments.

So I made it through that week of hell. That’s the good news. The bad news is that my wellness coach, Lauren, has asked me to do this for two weeks instead of just one. So, I’m just half-way through. Argh!

I just had a grapefruit for breakfast, which was a pleasing combination of sour and sweet, but it’s just not the same as a couple of delicious Sno-Balls, you know?

Kris told this story around work last week to the amusement of all her little friends. I’ll do my best to reconstruct how she told it, but no guarantees that it’ll be as funny.

One of my goals lately has been to “just say yes” when people ask me to do things. So long as the requests don’t violate my morals (no drugs, no sex with goats), and so long as I have the time, I’m giving new things a try. I’m not just saying “no” out of fear and trepidation.

Charlie Lam, my grade school soccer coach, stopped by work a couple weeks ago. He came by to evangelize his table tennis club. He tried to convince Jeff to join, but he wasn’t interested, so Charlie turned his sights on me. I’ve always like table tennis, and I have nothing going on Tuesday nights (except writing — but then I’m always writing), so I agreed to give it a try. “Just say yes.”

So I went to play table tennis a couple weeks ago. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. How good would the other players be? Charlie had assured me that most everyone was just a beginner. “Do you remember Danny Hunt?” he had asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “Is Danny playing?”

“No,” he said. “But Danny’s mom is playing.”

Playing table tennis with Charlie and his group brought back a flood of old memories. He was my soccer coach for four years (five?) when I was a boy. I was always intimidated by him, though I’m not sure why. His son, Torey, was a good friend of mine. They lived a half mile away, so we spent a lot of time together. I was on Torey’s horse when my brother Tony ran into it with a bike, causing the animal to throw me to the ground and step on me.

Anyhow, playing table tennis with Charilie and his group felt like old times. He took some time to teach me proper form on my forehand. I didn’t do a good job (and even at my second session the other night I was having trouble), but I tried. We did drills together. We played some mini-games in which other players and I competed to be “king of the hill” (or “king of the table”, in this case).

Eventually, we played some full games. The rules have changed in recent years, I guess. I was confused at first. For example, the serve alternates every two points now instead of every five points. There are infinite “lets” on the serve. The ball must be tossed into the air on service, and must be struck behind the table. The biggest change, though, is that a game goes to eleven points, not 21.

Anyhow, I did well. I won several games, which made me happy. Not bad for my first night. I drove home in a great mood.

“So how was ping-pong?” Kris asked when I got home.

“Exhausting,” I said. “But fun. I’ll go back next week.” I told her all about the night. I told her how I was able to beat a lot of the other players.

“That’s great,” she said. “Who else was there?”

“Oh, nobody you’d know,” I said, getting ready for bed. “It was mostly just a bunch of fifth- and sixth-graders.”

That, my friends, is the story that delights my wife. I don’t think it’s quite as funny as she does. Those kids are good. They’ve been practicing for a while. I’m just starting. Still, Kris yuks it up every time she thinks about me gloating over twelve-year-olds.

The phone is the bane of my existence. It rings all day long, especially at work. And since I’m the one charged with answering the phone, I have to stop whatever it is I’m doing to answer the damn thing.

Yes, I know I get paid for this, but it’s still frustrating. I’m thinking. My mind is at work. When the phone rings, it breaks my concentration. Sometimes, when we’re busy, the phone rings ten or fifteen times an hour. When this happens, I begin to curse.

Even at home, the phone bugs me. Send me e-mail! E-mail does not interrupt my work flow. I can answer it when I have the time. The phone requires my immediate attention. (Obviously, I don’t mind calls for certain things, but come on: a lot of things are better suited to e-mail.)

All of this is preface to another story.

J.D. and the Yellow Pages
Once upon a time, I had a bad experience with a company that publishes a Portland-area telephone directory. Before this time, I had basically been polite and patient with telemarketers who called about their various phone books. (And who knew there were so many? It’s crazy!) Since then, I’m an asshole, and I don’t care.

Just yesterday morning I received the third call in as many days from somebody with a thick Indian accent offering to update our free listing in the U.S. Business Yellow Pages. The first two times I politely asked to be removed from the list. Yesterday I was not so polite. I’m not proud of my behavior, but hey — I’m only human.

Anyhow: on Monday, Nick received a call late in the afternoon. It was a fellow named Raymond. He’s taking care of our account this year at the one telephone directory in which we choose to advertise. (There’s a new account rep every year, it seems.) Raymond was all chummy with Nick, telling him how much he looked forward to meeting all of us. Nick hates stuff like this. He told Raymond to call me Tuesday morning, but then he couldn’t get him off the phone. (Nick is not assertive.)

On Tuesday, Raymond called me. He told me that he had a lovely chat with Nick on Monday, and that he was pleased to be talking to me. He asked if he could come out to go over our yearly contract and to tell us about the company’s internet directory. “We’re not interested in the internet directory,” I told him.

“Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this, J.D.” he said. Whatever. I gave him directions to find the place. “Oh, I’ll bet it’s gorgeous out there,” he said. “I’ve never been out there. I look forward to seeing the country. And I look forward to meeting you.” Whatever.

Yesterday Raymond called just before our schedule meeting. “J.D., I’m running behind,” he told me. I said that was fine. I’d be here. Hoping the telephone would let me write in peace. “Great,” he said. “I really look forward to meeting you.”

“Man,” I said after he hung up. “That man is obsequious.”

“What does obsequious mean?” asked Jeff.

“Brown-noser,” I said. “Ass-kisser. He’s full of false flattery.”

Nick agreed. Then he had an idea. “Uh, I’m going to town,” he said. “I’ll, uh, run in the deposit. Bye.” He had no desire to be in on the meeting. Taking a hint, Jeff grabbed the loppers and went outside to prune trees. (Trees that have never been pruned before in nearly two decades.)

Raymond arrived. “Wow,” he said. “This is gorgeous country, J.D.. What an amazing drive. It must be special to work out here.” I gritted my teeth, first because of his painful saccharine-sweetness, and then because the grip of his handshake was hard enough to crack walnuts. We sat down.

“J.D.,” he said, “I want to show you our internet directory.”

“We’re not interested,” I said.

“I hear you,” he said, “but I think you should look at the changes we’ve made, J.D. We’ve had 60% growth in the past year.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “But we’re not interested. Nobody I know even uses an online telephone directory. They all use Google.” Even as I said that, I knew I’d make a mistake. I’d given him a concrete rejection, given him something he could reply to.

sigh

Raymond held up a finger. “Hold on. Let me show you something, J.D.” He leafed through a binder, hunting for a page he wanted to share. He couldn’t find it. He leafed some more. He leafed some more, and then turned the page a quarter of the way toward me, as if letting me look (though I could not see a thing). “Our customers have shown tremendous satisfaction with our online directory. It lets you target locally.” Blah blah blah.

Raymond talked for five minutes about his stupid internet directory. I just let him go. I sat there and nodded, but I was really thinking about my blogs, and about what I would write in the afternoon, if the phones ever stopped ringing. Blah blah blah.

“Now doesn’t that sound great, J.D.?” Raymond said, wrapping up the spiel.

“Look,” I said. “I told you before: we’re just not interested. We have no interest whatsoever.”

He was about to reply to this when there was a knock at the back door. It was the Schwan’s man. Actually, it was the substitute Schwan’s man. He’s a bozo, and I know it, but I was in a passive-aggressive mood. I played happy and cheery J.D. “Hi, how’s it going?” I said. “We don’t need anything this time. I’m sorry.”

The Schwan’s man said okay, and then he told me all about the awesome grilled cheese sandwiches they’ve begun to sell. “They’re great,” he said. “I love them. I ate a whole box by myself the other day.” (And he looked like it.) “If I could, I’d sit around and eat these cheese sandwiches and play video games.” He paused. “But my wife wouldn’t like that.” I laughed heartily, but not because I thought it was funny. I was just being mean to Raymond.

As I returned to the office, the telephone rang. It was a customer with whom I could joke and chat, so I played happy cheery J.D. again. But when I sat down to talk with Raymond, I was dour, serious J.D. He seemed to get the point.

“Well,” he said. “I guess we should sign the contract.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” I said.

I signed and initialed a couple pages. When we got to the last page, he said, “Now you’re sure you don’t want to consider the internet directory?” I had to look at his face to tell if he was being serious. He was.

“No,” I said. “We’re not interested.”

We finished the deal, and I led him to the door. “Thank you so much, J.D., it was a pleasure to meet you. It was great to get out here and see this beautiful land. You sure have a great business. Take care!”

I sat at my desk to process some quotes. I had been working for about five minutes, and was getting up to use the fax machine, when Raymond appeared at the door.

“Pardon me, J.D.,” he said, “But I thought I should let you know that you can change your mind at any time about the internet directory. It’s not like the print directory where there’s a deadline. We can insert your listing into the online directory any time.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He left. I finished my quotes and wheeled over to write up a weblog entry. I had been writing for twenty minutes when all of a sudden Raymond was by my side. “What the hell,” I thought to myself. What planet was this guy from?

“Pardon me, J.D. But I forgot to give you these flyers. This flyer describes your contract. It’s the same one you get every year. And this flyer describes the internet program. It’ll give you a better idea of what it can do for you and your business.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Look,” I said. “We’re not interested. That’s it. We’re just not interested.”

“Oh, I understand,” he said, though he clearly did not.

About five minutes later, Nick returned from town. “Is he gone yet?” I whispered to him.

“Who?” he asked.

“The phone book guy. He keeps coming back. He won’t take no for an answer.”

Nick laughed.

I told Kris this story this morning as we were getting ready for work. “Who’s going to take care of crap like that if you leave?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. “Nobody. Custom Box will just have a listing in the online yellow pages.”

Nick just came to interrupt my writing to read the following quote, which is from his favorite film of all time, As Good as it Gets. (Which apparently is not very.) Simon has just knocked on the door of Melvin, a writer who does not like to be interrupted.

Melvin Udall: Never, never, interrupt me, okay? Not if there’s a fire, not even if you hear the sound of a thud from my home and one week later there’s a smell coming from there that can only be a decaying human body and you have to hold a hanky to your face because the stench is so thick that you think you’re going to faint. Even then, don’t come knocking. Or, if it’s election night, and you’re excited and you wanna celebrate because some fudgepacker that you date has been elected the first queer president of the United States and he’s going to have you down to Camp David, and you want someone to share the moment with. Even then, don’t knock. Not on this door. Not for ANY reason. Do you get me, sweetheart?
Simon Bishop: It’s not a subtle point that you’re making.

I’m under the impression that Nick believes I’m like Melvin lately. He may have a point.

Barbers are natural-born storytellers. I love getting my hair cut because it’s guaranteed entertainment. Today my barber told me all about The Nam.

The conversation began as a discussion of teaching foreign languages in high school. The other barbers, and one of the customers, think it’s a shame that foreign languages aren’t required anymore. I commented that even when I was in school, they weren’t required, and that their presence has faded even more in the last twenty years.

This prompted my barber to mention that all he knows are some phrases in Vietnamese. (Warning: foul language ahead.)

“But my Vietnamese isn’t very good,” he said. “Once over there I found this gook on the side of the road and I pointed my gun at him” — my barber leveled his clippers at his own reflection in the mirror — “and I told him in Vietnamese to put his hands up. But he didn’t understand me. I said it again, and he still didn’t understand me, so I started shouting at him in English. I was scared. ‘You goddman flathead, if you don’t put your fucking hands up, I’m going to kill you.’ Well, apparently the gook’s English was better than my Vietnamese because he flipped me off and shouted back, ‘You fucking pig. I don’t do nothing. You fucking Marine.’ And I would’ve shot him, too.”

“They hated us over there, and they had every right. We Marines were trained to shoot anything that moved. And we did. We didn’t have a choice. I mean I went over there and told myself I wasn’t killing nothing, but all it takes is for those first few bullets to come flying at you, and you change your mind real quick. You kill your first man and it makes you sick. You throw up.” — here he pretended he was vomiting — “You feel terrible. But then after you kill a few more, you get used to it, you even get to kind of like it. You feel powerful. It’s a terrible thing, but it happens. That’s war. It’s how it works. You kill or be killed.”

“The thing is, though, it really fucks you up. When I became a civilian again — this would have been 1970 — I was really messed up. I went to a shrink at the VA and I told him that I was having dreams. I said, ‘Doc, I dream that a bunch of gooks are chasing me. They chase me to the edge of a cliff, and I don’t want them to kill me, so I jump off and fall to the rocks below. But I don’t break up. I bounce. I bounce off the rocks back up to the cliff where the gooks are and I flip them off. And then I jump again, but I bounce right back up. What’s wrong, Doc? I have this dream all the time.’ The shrink just laughed at me. ‘Son, you know what the matter is? You think you’re Superman.’ And you know what? He was right. I did think I was Superman. I had an attitude. I was always getting in fights. I loved it. I lived to mix it up. A good Friday night ended up with a fight at a bar.”

“This one time, when I first set up shop on my own, I pissed some guy off, and he got out of his chair and he was bouncing around with his fists in the air — you know, like in the cartoons — and he said, ‘I’m going to kick your ass.’ ‘We’re going to be here a while then,’ I said. And that just made him madder. ‘I’m going to hit you in the face,’ he said. ‘You’d better do it,’ I told him. ‘You look pretty goddamn silly bouncing around like that. You look like a kid.’ He never did hit me, which was lucky for him.”

“You get some crazy customers sometimes. In barber college, we used to give free cuts to the drunks. I remember one time this drunk came in and I took him in back to give him a shampoo. I’d never given a shampoo before — this was only my second or third haircut — but how hard could it be? I took him in back and lathered him up and began to give him a shampoo but his hair started falling out in clumps. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with your hair?’ The drunk freaked out. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he said, and he jumped up from the chair — soap still in his hair — and he ran out of the barber college. We had to chase him down and apologize. He came back, but he wouldn’t let me touch his hair.”

I gave the man a $3 tip on a $12 haircut.

I made some changes to this site’s RSS feed the other day. Could somebody who reads foldedspace via RSS please leave a comment (or e-mail me) so that I can verify things still work? Just a ping is fine.

Here’s an entry I’m able to post to three different weblogs! You gotta love that…

Rhonda called this morning. “There’s a garage sale near me where a guy is selling old comic books. They’re from the seventies. You might want to come take a look.”

I did want to take a look, though I knew it was dangerous business. One key to managing your money is to avoid temptation. It’s foolish to purposefully put yourself into a position where you’re likely to spend.

And yet I drove to the garage sale to look at the comics books.

I’ve collected comics since I was a boy. I used to collect the actual magazines, buying them at grocery stores and bookshops. I grew out of them in high school, and in 1989 I sold my entire collection for $100 to a comic book store near my university. I needed the money to take a girlfriend on an expensive date. (The collection I sold included many fine runs, including all of Miller Daredevil, most of the “new” X-Men, all of Marvel Star Wars — basically all the cool stuff from the late seventies and early eighties when I had been actively collecting.)

Most garage sale comics are woefully overpriced. People ask $5 for a common-as-dirt mid-nineties Batman, for example. Nobody’s going to pay that. But the garage sale I drove to today was different. The seller had two boxes of mid-seventies Marvel comics, all of which were priced at about $2 an issue.

He had Amazing Spider-Man from about 115-145. He had Fantastic Four from about 130-160. He had Incredible Hulk from about 180-200. He had various issues of Avengers, X-Men, Captain America, and Daredevil. There was a lot of great stuff here, and two years ago I would have offered $100 for as much as the seller would let me take.

I didn’t do that today. Today I leafed through both boxes, thanked the man, and left. Why? Two reasons:

1. I no longer collect the comic magazines themselves. I collect comic compilations.
2. I’m a better money manager than I was two years ago.

Would I have liked to have these comics? Absolutely. They would be great fun to read, especially since most won’t be collected in reprint volumes for another five or ten years, if ever. But I can’t keep up with the comics I buy currently. I’m thinking of cutting back to collecting only comic strip compilations. And there are other things I’d like buy with that money. (MacBook Pro, anyone?)

In the end, I only spent a few dollars in gas to drive to the sale and back: a victory for the new frugal J.D.

This story will be a repeat to those of you who read Get Rich Slowly (though I don’t know what percentage of you do). The more you know of my personal mythology, the funnier this story is, in a total self-depricating sort of way.

The Woodstock Writers Guild met last night. We meet one Wednesday a month at the local pub. The food isn’t very good, but my fellow writers find it difficult to resist $2.50 pints. They quaff cheap beer; I drink diet soda.

I arrive at the pub early to take advantage of Happy Hour. Very frugal. Cheap hot wings are hard to beat. I eat my hot wings and mozzarella sticks and drink my diet soda while reading the latest issues of Smart Money (”10 Things Your Gas Station Won’t Tell You!“) and Business 2.0 (”Blogging for Dollars!“).

My fellow writers filter in. The meeting begins. They quaff their beers. I drink my diet soda. We talk about the craft of writing. The waitress comes by — my friends order more beer; I order another diet soda and a slice of apple pie.

Our discussion is interrupted when Andrew is declared the winner of the pub’s nightly raffle. He wins a t-shirt — a t-shirt with a beer logo. He’s pleased. Cheap beer, cheap hot wings, and a free t-shirt — we’re doing well.

When our critique of the story is finished, we catch up on our personal lives. Rick got married last month. Paul has just begun dating someone new. Josh and his wife are expecting their first child. Andrew and his wife just had their second. I just returned from vacation in San Francisco.

The check arrives, and the monthly ritual of “who owes what” begins. It’s always the same thing: five brilliant guys (seriously — each of us is pretty damn smart) trying to decipher a restaurant tab. It should be child’s play. It’s not. Andrew, in particular, seems to have a hard time. I give him a lot of crap for it — he has a math degree. Once, in a large group, he declared defensively, “You don’t have to explain the math to me!” as someone was trying to tell him about Malthusian population growth.

So there we are, trying to figure out who owes what. Mine is easy. Since I was there first, the top three items are my order. I calculate the total, write it in the corner, and hand over my debit card. I let the other four geniuses dissect the rest of the bill.

The waitress comes and takes it away. We talk some more.

When she returns, the “who gets how much change” ritual begins. There’s a great deal of confusion. The numbers don’t add up. “This is why I paid with a debit card,” I say. I stare absently out the window, savoring the lingering taste of diet soda and apple pie in my mouth.

Apple pie in my mouth.

It occurs to me that perhaps I’ve been a little too smug. While it would be amusing to allow the confusion to continue, my fellow writers are becoming a little cranky. “I think I know where the problem is,” I say. “I forgot to pay for my apple pie.” My five-dollar bill is greeted by a chorus of jeers.

I’ll never be able to live this down.