The guy below me (at 30 Larnard St, Potsdam NY, in the early 90s), had a loud party, and played metal and classic rock records, real loud. Did he invite me? No.
Kids: if you are going to have a loud party, then you always invite the neighbors. In most cases they won’t come, but they will appreciate it, and they won’t call the police. Here endeth the lesson.
So I invited myself by plugging in my bass amp, and playing along with all of the songs. He eventually turned it down.
Did that end it? Not exactly: this started to become a regular thing, but at least he turned it down much quicker.
So one day his girlfriend stops me in the store, and says, “Hey, you’re the guy that lives above us. Every time that we have people visit, my boyfriend turns up the stereo, and then lowers the volume so that he can show everyone how you play the bass!”
I went to see KISS at the Glens Falls Civic Center in the 1980s. My seat was on the floor (where the hockey ice would be) way in the back, the seats in front of me were roped-off and watched by security. This kid walks up to the security guard and starts messing with him. While he is harassing the guard he looks at me and says, “What are you waiting for? Go!” So I go up to the stage.
When the concert starts I get crushed by bodies, but I know all these KISS songs, because I used to play them on bass; Robert Pulsifer, a guitarist, made sure that I knew them. So Gene is in front of me, and I am doing air-bass identical to what he is doing. All the people around me push back, and give me room (weird), and now I can really pretend to be Gene Simmons right in front of him. He is singing and watching my hands. Between songs they switch places, but before-going he leans over the bouncer pit and flicks his tongue at me.
That’s what KISS fans were like. They will crush you to get closer to the band, unless you need room. Also, they will mess-with-security for a stranger.
(Originally published on 2016-03-29 as /archives/7136)
The Old Homestead
I used to live in the-middle-of-nowhere: no electricity, no running water, no phone, no mobile service, no sewer, etc. The house was built in the 1800s. We lived on the front porch, used unleaded-fuel in our Coleman lanterns, flushed the toilet by poring buckets-of-rainwater into the bowl, and showered on the back porch over a rattlesnake’s home. I showered fast.
I actually attempted to order phone service from the phone company. They told me that they would provide it, if I would pay them to install all of the telephone poles, from the closest street with phone service, to our house. Riiiight.
Some animals lived in the walls of the main house, we stayed on the porch, The critters in the walls of the main house were mostly mice, birds, and raccoons: although a black bear did hibernate in the basement the previous winter: Grizzly Trucking Adams.
Someone shot a raccoon near the house. It managed to climb into a second-story window, and drag its sorry-self all the way down to the first floor hallway with its intestines trailing behind. Where it died.
Our friends from college would spend the weekends out there at the house, and there was so-little light pollution, that we would lie on the cars and see man-made satellites with the naked eye.
What can I tell you about roughing it? Peanut butter does not need to be refrigerated.
Fun With Fuel
I would put our trash into a 55 gallon drum, and burn it to make it smaller (yeah, yeah, global warming). There was no trash collection service available. One time I was getting aggressive with the trash tamping, and there were some fuel-filled rags down low, and I was tamping some other trash on top and BOOOOOM! The damned-thing shot raining-fire all over the place! Like the Trash Cannon From Hell. Trash falling here: sidestep. Trash falling there: sidestep.
I had one coworker once, that misjudged the fuse-length on a home-made explosive that he and his buddy were shooting out of their cannon. They wanted it to explode in the sky. It blew a hole in the Post Office. The FBI came to visit, and it was a bad-scene all around.
…and the cow jumped over the fence
Heifer: a female bovine too-young to give birth.
Bullock: a male circumcised bovine, AKA, a steer.
We had heifers living on the land. Around half of the dairy farmers that visited said, “If one cow learns to jump the fence, then all the others will follow her,” and the others said, “Cows don’t jump fences.” I imagined the latter folks wasting a lot of time looking for holes in fences. The heifers at our house would jump, oh yes, and in the morning I would look out at the just-jumped bovines, and say, “Them’s some real heifers.” The heifer owning people? Their last name was – Remember the definitions up above? – Bullock.
One night: SLAM!!! “WHEEEEEE! WHEEEE! WHEEEE!” SLAM!!! “WHEEEEEE! WHEEEE! WHEEEE!” I say to L.: “You open the door, and wait behind it. I’ll hit that thing over the head with this log splitter.” SLAM!!! “WHEEEEEE! WHEEEE! WHEEEE!” She opens the door, and there waits a pet racoon. It just kinda stands there for a minute, and then gets cosy in our bed. Great. OK. The racoon can stay for a little while: the alternative is door slamming, and racoon screaming. This did not last long. Raccoons like to rock-and-roll all night, and sleep every day, and you know what? I had a job to go-to.
There was only one solution; wrap “Rascal” in a blanket, and drive him far enough, that he can’t find his way back. I drove home imaging the little guy going to the very first door that he could find. SLAM!!! “WHEEEEEE! WHEEEE! WHEEEE!” BOOOM (shotgun blast)!: he then manages to climb into someone’s window, and drag his sorry-self all the way down to the first floor hallway with its intestines trailing behind him.
There goes the neighborhood
Let’s take a step back in this story. Our house had no neighbors since the beginning of time. What happens as soon as we move in? An 18-wheeler mother-trucking-flatbed pulls up with a huntin’ cabin on back, and drops said huntin’ cabin directly across the street, fucking-up my pristine view of our 100% Maple Syrup producing Maple trees. Why? Mr. Bullock got a two-for-one deal on used huntin’ cabins, and really only needed the one.
A few weeks later a family of three moves in. My new neighbor wants to provide for his family: in a place with zero jobs. So, he made a deal with Mr. Bullock: “I fix your fences. You let me live in your extra huntin’ cabin.”
Our neighbors also lacked the comforts-of-home. They did however have a Honda generator hooked-up to a TV.
So, the new neighbor tells me how racoon mommas yell bloody murder, but they won’t actually attack. He tells me how this momma racoon chose the huntin’ cabin for birthing her babies. So he removed each of the baby racoons one at a time, and then he removed the momma racoon, but he kept one baby there. This baby grew up to be Rascal. I believe that Rascal had a doggy-door that he, and the dog, could use to go in-and-out. He also had a buddy to play with: the dog.
We went camping for our summer vacation. The woman from across the street came to visit:
“Where did you go last week?”
“Our cabin had running water and electricity!”
Momma neighbor gets sick of pretending that “our life is fun just like camping”, and says, “I am going to move in with my parents. You can stay, or you can come”, and that’s how Rascal ended up with no home.
Here’s the thing: I bought the tickets, but I missed the race, because of my disability. Here is a quote from my email to Kansas Speedway. I haven’t heard back from them yet. Maybe the email went to the bitbucket?
The Kansas Speedway parking lot is inadequate for those of us with disabilities.
Disabled placards are unavailable to people that can walk this far:
I have documentation that proves that I have a disability, but most days I can walk 100 feet, so I don’t have a placard. I cannot walk more than half a mile 95% of the time. I suspect that many other people are in exactly the same situation.
A few days before the race I called Kansas Speedway, and I explained my situation. I was told, “You won’t have any problem, because we have a tram going to Gate A.”
I looked at your map on race day (10/18/2015) and I realized that the tram goes to Gate A, but doesn’t go to the parking lot, so it won’t help. I was unable to walk long distances on race day, so I had to miss the race.
(Originally posted on 2009-07-20 as /archives/2464)
I wanted to have the same last name as my spouse and daughter, I have been called Paul since 1985, and Kay insisted that I have a middle name, so I changed my name from “William Paul Caligiuri” to “Paul Danger Kile”. As a bonus I no longer have to spell my last name over-and-over again. “Danger” is my legal middle name as-of 2007-02-02.
I am not the only one. “Brian Danger r.” (not his real family name) left the following quote on the last version of this website: “I just legally changed my middle name to danger and was googling around to see if I could find others like me. I’m glad I’m not the only one!”
Here are some “danger is my middle name”, and similar, quotes
Books and Magazines
These are the earliest “Danger is my middle name” book quotes that we could find.
(Originally posted on 2007-11-20 as /archives/118)
The 2007 Subprime Mortgage Financial Crisis is well underway, and what does MasterCard do? Present me with an ad about using a credit card to get busy with some big-time housing market speculation (see a cobbled-together version of it below). Priceless.
To be sure I don’t see many enemies there. The market is non-evil. It just is. Real Estate has always been a very risky business. Why? …because buildings aren’t liquid capital, and houses eat up a large part of one’s income, so one isn’t diversified when one buys a house. What do I call a non-liquid, non-diverse investment? I call it a gamble. Still, if you really want to live in that house, and that house is for sale, then you will need to buy it.
Me? I tend to prefer to go the Coliag route, which is to rent, while putting the difference between what I pay for rent and what I would have paid for a house into diversified funds. Coliag (not his actual name) did so well this way that he was buying things like cars, computers, and photographic equipment with cash… before the age of 44, and he stilled had a great retirement stash. The man was frugal and it paid-off, plus he didn’t need to worry about mowing the lawn.
Yes, some folks have done really well buying and selling their houses, but guess what? It’s still a gamble, and the baby boom that drove the long-term-run-up is over.
My first house purchase was in Plano Texas… just North of Richardson’s Telecom Corridor… just before the Dot-bomb-bubble-burst. IT is a luxury, and spending on luxuries slows down when the overall economy slows down. Yes, I know, “But computer jobs are important.” …but they are not. If I run a foundry that makes car parts, and business is slow, then do you think that I am going to buy more aluminum, or complete my new HR IT project? That’s the real story of the dot-bomb implosion. The media focussed on the failing dotcoms, but that didn’t account for most of the layoffs. We had too many computer programmers, working on too many projects, at too many companies, that were still needing to “buy their aluminum”. In a slowdown-like-that the luxuries go first. My industry went first.
I survived one-layoff-per-quarter for 5 years at two different companies, but when I finally was “affected” it was certainly not within my control: the company that I worked-for went from around 2500 workers to less-than 250 during my period with them. No-one is safe when the cuts run that deep. Folks said, “Why aren’t you looking for another job?” and then looked at me like I was some kind of freaky alien when I said: “There aren’t many available jobs for what I do, so I am going to focus on doing the best job that I can at my current position.”
I lost my job, and most people that do-what-I-do were already flooding the job market. I could no longer afford my house, because I had too-little work (I never completely stopped working).
My foreign national neighbors, most of whom were great engineers, were forced to go home, when they also lost their jobs, and couldn’t afford to pay Dallas Texas real estate prices, and also live in India, or wherever, so many of them were forced into foreclosure. This drove down the value of my house. So I couldn’t afford to sell it.
I could not afford to rent-out my house, because any potential renters could simply buy my neighbors’ houses for peanuts. I was very dissapointed with NPR‘s recent article about renting-out your house if you can’t sell it. The interviewie had a good experience doing that… when the market was hot… and the article implied that y’all will have the same experience now. It’s just not so.
The housing market in my area-of-town completely crashed as developers put their new houses on the market, because these builders were also competing with the foreclosures. Spec builders make building decisions based on yesterday’s demand: where “yesterday” was around five years ago, but the housing market moves up-and-down much faster than that. (This is is the type of thing that makes it tough to sell a house in Phoenix these days.) Plus, new houses are luxuries, and “spending on luxuries slows down when the overall economy slows down.” <– I just quoted myself! (Why 5 years? They need roads, and sewers, and utilities, and government approvals, and so on.)
…then my car got totalled.
…my spouse divorced me (actually that happened before the layoff).
…my arthritis got worse.
…and someone kicked my dog. No, I just made that part up. I didn’t have a dog.
How much did I lose by “owning” that house for three years? It cost me $100,000 more (two closings, two residences, and a 30,000 loss in value) than I would have paid for renting one apartment, but hey, my (former) spouse wanted that house, so we bought it. I now had no job, no family, and no savings. Swell.
My plan was to work as much as possible, while spending my free time either looking for better work, or riding my motorcycle to Wendy’s for that great dollar menu. Really.
I followed every lead. I went to a Diversity Job Fair like this one (because how diverse would it really be without at least one white male? That’s a joke. Actually, it was because I was going to every job fair.)
So I go to the hotel that’s hosting the job fair, and they have 30-or-so companies arrayed around a large conference room. Two of those companies were tech companies. Hundreds of people were in line to speak to those two companies. One of the companies was looking for Math folks with top-secret government clearance to work on a flight simulator or something (not a good fit for me), and the other one wasn’t taking resumes. They simply asked every person to go to their Web site. Well… Well, why not talk to everyone else?
The Wal-Mart recruiter that was there explained to me that she was hiring night stockers for the Christmas rush, and I told her that I loved doing night stocking when I worked in retail, plus that I would really like to move to Bentonville Arkansas to work for the IT department there. She told me that she would take my resume back to Arkansas. I assumed that it would just be tossed. It wasn’t.
Wal-Mart called me up. I had a few interviews. They asked me to fix something that couldn’t be fixed in the way that they wanted it to be fixed (this “something” happened to be listed on my resume). I told them what could, and couldn’t be accomplished. I have integrity, so I was clear about the situation.
During one of the interviews Jeff (the manager) spins around in his seat and types “W. Paul Caligiuri” (my old name) into Google and finds the Web site that I set up to sell my house. He laughs and says: “Did you put this up yesterday in order to impress us about how confident you are about this job?” or something like that. “Well… No.” I didn’t explain that the Web site had been up for years. Bentonville Arkansas had a booming economy. So that’s how I ended up in Arkansas: the best motorcycling-place in the US of A.
I had to pay for the Texas house for 1.5 years of my stay in Arkansas. It was simply that hard to sell. I would go down there every other weekend, and work on it.
I suspect that lots of folks are being burned by the mortgage crisis, but that we only hear about the fringe cases, because the fringe cases make for better stories (just like in the dot-bomb days). Also, Real Estate is:
…and a luxury, and “spending on luxuries slows down when the overall economy slows down.” <– I just quoted myself!
Oh, and the MasterCard ad was a really bad idea on someone’s part.
There’s lots of bad ads out there. They don’t get made “because they work”, they get made because advertising firms know more about selling their own services, than they know about selling their client’s products.
During my freshman year (1986) I lived in Hood Hall (under my old name: W. Paul Caligiuri). Some other guys that lived there would circle the place for hours in an old white convertible. I think it was a 1959 Cadillac deVille. When it was time for a dorm picture, the driver drove the car over, and offered for us all to get in it, and on it, in the tradition of how-many-people-can-you-fit-in-a-phone-booth? Folks opened the doors afterwards, but they wouldn’t close. For a few seconds people were trying to figure out what was wrong when I loudly said, “That thing is shaped like a ‘U’!” Needless to say we never saw that car again.
My science teacher once accused me of trying to steal magnesium. He told us to cut off a piece, and then said that I was cutting off too much, and I must be trying to steal it.
Well, I cut off _exactly_ how much he told me too. I asked, “Why would I steal it?” He said, “Well it burns good.” Riiiiiiight. And I would know this how? There was no YouTube in 1984.
Well, it only took me about 20 years to realise that this conversion had nothing to do with magnesium, and everything to do with what another teacher was saying about me. I am slow when it comes to relationship stuff.
The magnesium-loving teacher had been my rifle team coach for years, but by this time he had completely written me off, and for good reason. I was nearly incapable of keeping friends, and I had quit varsity shooting to play in a rock and roll band.
The shooting could have easily won me a full scholarship, (if I had good grades, and was accepted by a school with a shooting team, neither of which happened). I was really good. Good enough that nobody on any competing team ever outscored me (I was really only competing with my own team, which was one of the best in the country.)
What did rock and roll earn me? Some talent-show battle of the bands failures, and the ability to perform at open mic night. (Meanwhile some of my teenage friends here on Facebook became successful, professional, musicians.)
Later on that period, I entertained that science teacher with my burning match trick, where I eat… a burning match. There’s not much of a trick to it, I simply eat a burning match (who needs magnesium to entertain? Not I.)
(Kidz DO NOT TRY TO EAT A FRICKIN’ BURNING MATCH, I have seen this not end well for people that thought they knew how I did the trick. Don’t do it. Don’t steal magnesium. Don’t burn magnesium, and don’t join a rock and roll band, unless they are The Rolling Stones. You can always join The Rolling Stones.)