BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

In general, whenever I mention Satan, I am referring to one particular petite, redheaded woman in stiletto heels, who is packing an evil attitude and looking for someone to abuse. Yes, you guessed it, E K. (Yeah… I know… It’s not like it was hard to figure out.)

In point of fact, I would venture to say that 90% of the time the word Satan even comes out of my mouth, or off the end of my fingers for that matter,  it is because I am talking about The Evil One to whom I belong. Why? That’s easy. Because she is also sometimes affectionately, and jokingly, (or, depending on your perspective, fearfully,) known as, “Satan In High Heels.”

Believe me, there’s a damn good reason for that insidious sounding title to be bestowed upon her. To put it simply, she really can sprout horns. And, when she does, there’s no saving the poor bastard who was stupid enough to metaphorically pour water on her head and make them grow.

I know it sounds far-fetched, but it’s true. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Hell, (pun fully intended,) I’ve even been gored by those horns when I wasn’t even the idiot who set her off. Yeah… I’ve been the collateral damage.

Don’t you feel sorry for me?

But, it isn’t just me who has seen it. There are others who have witnessed her true and inherent evilness, but since they are usually her victims, there really isn’t much left of most of them, which is probably fortunate… For them…

As to the survivors… Well, there are only a scant few of them, and even those who aren’t totally catatonic and drooling on themselves are locked away in a mental ward somewhere. The even fewer who still have some semblance of their faculties remaining, simply refuse to talk about it. It’s too traumatizing to relive, even in mere words. At least, that is the excuse they and their shrinks usually spout. I only know of one poor soul, besides me that is, who ever dares to say anything about it. Unfortunately, you cannot make much  sense of what he says. He merely sits in a corner, rocking endlessly, and keeps muttering, “But, but, I said unicorn.”

I have no clue what that means.

If you ask me, I think they’re all just “piss in their pants” afraid of her… Of course, I can’t say as that I blame them. I mean, she looks so innocent one minute, and then the next there are those horns poking out of her skull and she’s slipping into a pair of those pitchfork heeled stilettos, just like the one on the cover of The Devil Wears Prada… And the thing is, if you see the horns… Well… Let’s just say you should have left sooner because it’s all over but the funeral.

But, we really should move on, because E K isn’t actually the subject of this post… Well, actually she kinda is. Sort of. Eventually.  But we have to talk about something else first.

So, back to the whole other Satan thing. While we’ve established that Evil Kat takes up 90% of my “Evil Fallen Angel Quotient,” the other 10% of the time usually involves me rebuffing an accusation about spiritual beliefs by offering a clear explanation of alternative religious paths. Up to and including Satanism itself. Or, in other instances, I am engaged in a rousing conversation about Biblical Prophecy… That last bit always makes for a good time around the dinner table…

Obviously, since I stopped chasing that earlier random chicken, this particular missive about Satan falls into that 10% category. Although, it really has nothing to do with either explanations or prophecy…

You see, like it says in the title, somehow, Satan got behind me…

Well… That’s not quite accurate. The truth is, Satan did NOT actually get behind me.

Satan did, however, somehow manage to obtain my email address.

Yeah… No kidding.

Imagine my surprise when I checked my email, only to find a note from The Dark Prince himself. The Devil. Beelzebub. The Evil One (The other “The Evil One“, not E K). Lucifer. Old Nick. The guy in the suit from “Reaper“… John Glover from “Brimstone“…

Well, I have to say that I don’t think I am the only one who would feel compelled to open such an email. I mean, after all, that’s what Satan is all about, right? Tempting the weak… The strong… The faithless… The faithful… Rhesus monkeys…

Okay, so maybe not rhesus monkeys, but you get my point. The thing is, not only was a I tempted, but I gave in to the temptation. Yes. I opened the email. I mean, after all, I’m running some seriously high-end anti-virus software here, so if it had a Trojan or something, bells, whistles, and other flashy things would have already been going. I was safe from that sort of mischief from hell. All I really needed to worry about was an Apple, especially what with me being a PC guy and all.

Well, no Trojan or virus was to be had. And, I was even safe from Apples. Much to my surprise, however, this is what I saw:

A message for an online singles dating type social network from the bowels of Hell. (Please note that I purposely blotted out the URL in the screen capture. I mean, after all, I’m not about to give Lucifer any free advertising. If he wants me to spread the word about his singles club, he’s going to have to cough up some cash.)

But, here’s the thing that gets me. Apparently Beelzebub just isn’t satisfied with anything these days. Why in the world would he send me, of all people,  an invite to his dating service? Unless, of course, he’s getting soft in his old age and is feeling sorry for me.

I mean, after all, I’ve been married to his sister for better than 22 years, and she’s a damn sight more evil than he could ever be… (See, I told you we’d get back to the evil redhead…)

… Now, however, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go hide. E K was reading over my shoulder as I was typing this, but she disappeared a few minutes ago. Now,  suddenly I’m smelling sulfur, and I’m pretty sure I just heard  the distinct sound of a pair of pitchforky high-heels gouging the floor.

And they sound like they’re coming closer with each step…

More to come…

(Maybe…)

Murv

* “Devil Woman Image” courtesy On The Edge Graphics © 2009. Used with permission.

123-4567?

987-6543?

566-3714?

I’ll be honest… I actually had some trouble deciding what title to use for this blog entry. (By the way – it will become apparent in about 4.33632 seconds that this entry is NOT about Jenny by Tommy Tutone…)

Other possible titles were:

1. “Been There, Done That…”
2. “Neener, Neener, We Were Here First…”
3. “She’s Got Legs…”
4. “160? Is That All I Get?”
5. “Blackberry? Isn’t That A Kind Of Cobbler?”

Of course, #3 was my personal favorite, but I suspect that was pretty obvious. As to how any of these potential titles fit in with 867-5309, or even how 867-5309 fits in with this blog entry for that matter…well, read on and I’m betting it will make sense at some point…

Of course, you know me. The “when” it will make sense might be a long time coming – reading-wise, that is – so, you might want to hit the restroom, refill your coffee, then get comfortable. Don’t worry, I’ll wait…

(do do, do Doo, do da, DOOOOO… do do, do Doo, DOOOP, Do doodle doodle, do do, do da, Doo, do do, DOOOOO, DOOP, Do doodle doodle DOOP, Do doooooo….) [give me a break… have you ever tried to convert the Jeopardy theme music to text? It ain’t easy, let me tell ya’…]

Okay, so everyone back? Got your drinks? Settled in? Good…

So… Since we are on the subject of converting things to text, I had occasion to spend a bit of time text messaging the other day. Now, I realize that a whole raft of you are adopting your best sarcastic voice and saying, “Yeah, good on ya’, Sellars. So you texted… You want a medal or something?”

Well… not a medal per se… How about if I put it into perspective.  You see, E K and I have cell phones… (Okay, okay, bite your tongues for a second here, I realize that’s not a big deal or anything)… The truth is, I have had a “mobile phone” since they were bigger than a breadbox and stayed permanently attached to your car. It was one of those technician things… Then, years later I upgraded to a bag phone – anyone remember those? Same as the car phone, but they stuffed all the crap into a glorified purse so you could drag it around with you. As an aside, I never did have one of the “pocket bricks” that were the size of a loaf of bread and qualified as the original “Cell Phone”… I just waited until cells were the size of double Whopper™ so that I wouldn’t have to wear a back brace while carrying it. (I’d already done enough of that lugging around the bag phone)… Of course, these days cell phones are only about a half inch shy of being the same thing as the communicator on Star Trek: The Next Generation… Just slap your chest and talk away… But, we aren’t there just yet.

Still, what started out as a somewhat flawed communications device attached to my car with a curly-q antenna has now morphed into this little flip open gizmo thingy about the size of a pack of cigarettes – actually, a little bit smaller I guess – that has eleventy-buh-jillion ring tones, takes pictures, surfs the web, acts like a PDA, and generally makes my life miserable…  And, of course, that is only because I am not packing around the latest and greatest innovation in personal communication such as a “chocolate covered blackberry moto razor iSomething-or-another”. Neither is E K. If we were, then we could probably fly the space shuttle remotely while listening to 47 gigabytes of MP3’s on top of all that stuff…

Now, I realize that may seem a bit odd – us not having the latest and greatest I mean – what with us both being techie types, even though I’ve retired from that segment of my life – well… in a professional sense, anyway… I still keep my finger in just in case I have to fall back on something… But, there goes that chicken again.

The point is, E K uses her cell primarily for work and emergencies. I use mine primarily for being able to call my girls – E K and the munchkin, obviously – when I am on the road touring and for emergencies. So, what does that mean? Well, pretty much it just means that we have a fairly basic calling plan. Ex-tee-ump minutes per month and that’s pretty much the extent of it. Therefore, we don’t “text” like most folks out there. For one, it costs us money. For two, well, we figure you call, say what you have to say, and there you go.

Now, it’s true that sometimes being able to send the equivalent of an “email” or “instant message” is an attractive option. I am more than willing to admit that fact. Perhaps the person you are trying to contact is in the middle of something and all you need to do is deliver a quick, “gonna be late for dinner” or something like that. So, I can see the allure. But, it’s just not something E K and I have ever really done…

So, here we are back around to the fact that I did do some texting the other day… No, I’m still not asking for a medal, but I think maybe you can see where this is kinda like getting your grandmother to try chicken tikka masala for the first time. It was a big deal for me to do this… Old dog, new trick… yadda yadda…

Anyway, I suspect by now you are figuring that something obviously had to  exert some manner of influence upon me in order to force a situation where this whole texting thing would happen. Well, you’re correct. As it happens it was the FBI.

(Waiting patiently for the surprised gasps to settle…)

Okay… not to worry. It wasn’t the FBI as in the whole Federal Bureau of Investigation or me being in some kind of trouble (at least, not that they’ve told me about). It was a friend who works for the FBI. He was in town on business, but had some free time and wanted to hook up for lunch and to catch up, etc… As it happens, he texts quite a bit, so that is how he contacted me. And, me not knowing if he was in the middle of a meeting or some such, found it necessary to “answer” him by texting back instead of just calling.

Well, as you might guess, this presented a bit of an obstacle for me… As we’ve already established, I don’t text. Never really have…  So I had no idea where to start. Still, I spent 25+ years as a computer tech, so it shouldn’t be all that hard to figure out.

Following the prompts I pressed the button to reply and it gave me a blank little screen that awaited my message. At this point in one of those flash back-flash forward moments I found myself wanting to pull a “Scotty” from Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, and just start talking to the damn thing. (Hmmmm… Nostalgia moment… I’m pretty sure I took E K to see that movie at the Northwest Plaza cinema back in ’86 shortly after we moved in together… I know, ignore the chicken, Sellars! Ignore the chicken!) Well, obviously I knew better than to babble at it, so I started poking around on the keys to make letters appear. After spending what was, I am absolutely certain, way too long to create a simple text message I succeeded in getting it sent. At this point, I was fairly proud of myself.

Seconds later, however, I was faced with receiving his reply, which in turn, deserved a reply… A bit longer reply.

Of course, I only had 160 characters. Well, that’s how it works on MY phone, at least… For all I know the rest of you texters out there can read this entire blog entry on your phone. (As an aside, are at least a couple of those potential titles starting to make sense yet?)

So, can you see where this is heading? Yeah, I know… The thing is, I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. Yes. I had to instantly teach myself a second language… Text Speak. I proceeded to reply with all of the necessary information required, however, I taught myself how to misspell things on the fly. I left out vowels, I replaced entire syllables with numeric values, I abbreviated, truncated, masticated, ameliorated, integrated, intimated, and generally adulterated the written word, all for the purpose of getting my point across in as few a characters and as quickly as possible. (the quickly part has to do with a whole ‘nother issue better left unblogged.)

Well, I don’t mind telling you, it was painful.

Really. I kept wanting to go back and fix the spelling errors and the like because the message looked like a teenage girl was sending a giggle-gram to her BFF (yeah, it seriously scares me that I know what a BFF is… I blame those cell phone commercials)…

But, I couldn’t… Fix the errors, that is… For one, I only had 160 characters to work with. For two, I would have been typing all day, being the inexperienced texter that I am. And, for three, I have no idea how they charge for these text messages, but I was already racking up enough of a bill as it was. If it was by the character, I would have been in deep crap…

I know… Right now you are saying to yourself, “Okay, Sellars… This little diatribe pretty much explains the “160” title and even the “Blackberry” title… But, what the hell does it have to do with the other three? Especially the one about legs?”

Glad you asked.

It was after I had labored over sending this series of text messages back and forth with my friend that something dawned on me. Kids today have this whole texting thing pretty damn easy… And, I mean besides the obvious part. You see, it was in that moment I realized I had been here, done this, worn a hole in the T-Shirt, long before the bulk of the “text generation” was even a glimmer in parental eyes.

You see, way back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and all that jazz – yeah, way back in the 80’s, we technicians carried numeric pagers. (before that we carried “beepers” that simply alerted us to call an answering service, but there goes a chicken again…) Numeric pagers were a marvel to us – yeah, I know, they even have text pagers these days. E K still carries on of those too… But, back to the numerics… They were a marvel to us because we could dial a number and punch in a number to call, so that the person being paged knew who to call instead of that extra step of calling the service, then calling the number, etc, etc… Remember, back then we didn’t have cell phones, we had to stop and find a payphone.

Okay… So we sent numbers to pagers… B F D… What does that have to do with anything? Well, being the industrious little geeks we were, we started figuring out little shortcuts. Anyone here ever watch Millennium? (that Megan Gallagher… man, I tell you…) My example here is that the main character, Frank Black, would get a simple page – “2000”. That was all it took and he would know the number to call. Well, us geeky types way back when were doing that sort of secret code paging even before Millennium came along…

It started simply enough – numeric codes established by service departments that would mean something to the tech receiving the page. Stuff like:

911 – Call the shop immediately

XXX-XXXX99 – (phone number appended with 99) Call this number ASAP.

XXX-XXXX – (just a phone number) Call this number, moderate priority.

XXX-XXXX00 – (phone number appended with 00) Call this number, low priority.

Of course, anything that starts out simply will eventually end up with layers of complexity that overwhelm the innate simpleness. Especially when electronics geeks are involved. Before long, more numbers were being added on to mean other things – almost like police call codes.

Then, it got really scary.

Anyone here remember that old joke you do with a calculator? The one where you tell a story while punching in a calculation for each element of the tale, and at the end you hit the = sign and have the punchline, which  is 71011345? or 55378008? (for those of you too young to remember this geekdom moment, if you turned the calculator upside down and looked at the display, the digital LED would be spelling out SHELL OIL or BOOB LESS… (it’s far more obvious with 7 segment LED’s than this particular font…)

So, did we spend the day saying SHELL OIL to one another, or calling each other BOOB LESS? Well, not really. There are actually a very limited number of things you can spell with inverted seven segment lettering, but we did manage to come up with a few initials that meant something.

And, what does this have to do with legs?

I knew you were going to ask that… Back when E K and I were dating, as well as during our cohabitation and early years of our marriage, there were times when I just wanted to let her know I was thinking about her. However, since there were no cell phones, and with her being in the field taking service calls that made it a bit hard. I didn’t want to cause her to pull over at a pay phone just for that.

Yeah, and?

I’m getting there… I’m getting there… As I’ve said many times before, I’m a leg guy, and E K has a fantastic pair said appendages. So, one of my fond nicknames for her, back then and even today, was/is LEGS.

Yeah, so you have a cutesy nickname for E K… Big deal… Just get to the point, Sellars…

Patience is a virtue, ya’know…

Well, to be honest I figured y’all would have been all over it by now…  But, just to cover all the bases, it’s as simple as this: Whenever I wanted to tell my dear and lovely I was thinking about her, I would simply page her with the following number: 5663714

On an upside down numeric pager that’s ancient, “First Generation Text Speak” for hi leggs:

Yeah, I know, the second “g” seems unnecessary, but remember, as mentioned in the Mahwage blog entries, she always wore Leggs brand stockings. Plus, without the extra digit in there, the “phone number” looked incomplete. And, well, since the pager belonged to the company it was our way of being “covert”…

I mean, what with E K actually being a sexy, dangerous, femme fatale secret agent* and all…

More to come…

Murv

* Regarding E K’s secret agent status. See blog entry: “Kay…Eeee Kay…” March 12, 2009