Ed: You may remember "Hawaii Mike" from a previous entry. This guy just seems to attract bad karma sometimes, but he always gives it a run for its money.

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Mike left his Subaru station wagon in a Hilo parking lot one day while he walked to the Subway across the street to grab a sandwich. The trusting Hawaii vibe had apparently gone to his head because he left not only his beloved dog Jymbae in the back seat, but also the car keys in the front. After a few minutes in line Mike noticed a suspicious man with a backpack walk past the car while looking inside, then walk back, open the door, throw his bag in and sit down in the driver's seat. Mike bolted.

He was just able to jump into the car's back seat before the offender backed out. Maybe "backed out" isn't an appropriate description. Mike had spent his first couple of seconds in the car shouting expletives at the driver and alternately kicking at his head and gear-shifting hand. So in this case "backed out" actually means "careened across the lot and smashed into another car." Mike spent another second or two face/hand kicking before the thief managed to get the car into drive and smash into a second parked car, then plummet the wrong way down a one-way street, banging into another car or two along the way and causing pedestrians to dive for safety. The Battle of Subaru was not going well.

So Mike decided to cut his losses and told the man to just stop and let him out. When the car stopped, he pushed Jymbae out into the street and then dove out himself before the wagon peeled away. Mike then proceeded to shout for help, which would certainly have been more effective had Jymbae, in a confused panic, not started to bark, growl and bite Mike in the ass. It took a bit of explaining to the next passerby to make it clear that Jymbae was not the problem.

Mike got one last glimpse of his car as it barreled down a main street, well out of reach. By this time the police were on the case, but as it happens, Hawaii state law prevents law enforcement officers from chasing criminals at high speeds, so apprehending the deranged felon took a bit more time than it otherwise might. But apprehend him they did and Mike's cracked-up Subaru was eventually returned. Let's all hope Mike took some cynicism away from the ordeal. No keys or family members left in the car. Ever.

Ed: This sob story has to be told. I'll be as brief as I can. Grab some popcorn.

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My dad and I left at 12 PM EST for the Nashville Airport, where I would be starting my trip home from a long holiday visit. In the security line in front of me was, I noticed, a very sexy brunette in nice clothes. I caught a brief glimpse of the side of her face and thought to myself, "That looks kind of like that actress whose name I can't recall," which I immediately dismissed, because why would that particular actress be boarding a plane in Nashville, Tennessee by herself? But then, after I went through the metal detector, a security person was bantering with her and I heard her trademark goofy laugh, and just before she turned to walk away, she looked back at me with a smile on her lovely, unmistakable face: Cameron friggin' Diaz, boarding a plane in Nashville, no former 'N Sync members in sight. For what it's worth, Timberlake's family apparently lives in TN, which sheds a little light on the appearance.

I wish I could continue the story with Miss Diaz's presence and tell you that we sat on the plane together and were soon making lots of little Diaz-Gurley babies, but that smile was unfortunately the last shred of Hollywood glory I got. Things went downhill from there.

The first-leg flight was the most turbulent that I had ever been on, so much that I started to worry about the integrity of the plane. But no big deal, we landed safely. The second leg was fine aside from the little boy beside me spilling half a drink in my lap. No big deal, I didn't get too wet. My girlfriend picked me up from the airport, then broke up with me on the way to her house. No big deal, I had seen it coming - we were on the same page - and knew the relationship wasn't going to go on forever. So after we discussed that for a few minutes I asked her if I should just head home instead of spending the night, to which she replied, "Well, yeah, I think so." By now it was 11 PM PST and very cold outside (the 40 minute trip home would be on my motorcycle), but no big deal, I drove out here in the cold, I can deal with one more freezing ride, bundled up in every insulating garment in my suitcase. But things continued to go downhill.

Or more specifically, they went uphill more than I would have liked. The battery on my bike had not been working well when I drove out here a couple of weeks ago and I knew that there was a good chance it wouldn't start, which of course it didn't. My now ex-girlfriend does live on a hill, though, so I figured roll-starting it would be easy. Wrong. The push up her driveway was soon to be followed by a push up a slight but long incline that I hadn't factored into my analysis. Nonetheless, it did finally start and stay started once I got to a significant downhill. Yay!

Oh, wait - I needed gas. I knew it was on empty when I drove it here but I was so cold then that I didn't want to bother gassing it up. So I rolled into the first station I came to, revved the engine for awhile in an attempt to charge the battery, put my card in the pump and put the nozzle in the tank, which proceeded to pour lots of gas into my hand and onto my tank because it had a leak (we bikers have to hold onto those stupid spring-loaded nozzles that CA pumps are no longer legally required to use but still have). No. Big. Fucking. Deal. I looked everywhere for paper towels, but there were none. Waited a few minutes for the two people standing in the cashier line in front of me to conduct their business, got paper towels, paid $.75 to wet the towels at the air/water pump, cleaned everything up, and... the bike didn't start. It did, fortunately, roll start just fine when I coasted out of the parking lot. "I'm home free!" I said to myself.

If only.

Just before I got onto the interstate, I started to worry about the things I had stuffed in the outer pocket of my pack. The pocket was only fastened by velcro and I was worried that they might fall out at highway speeds, plus I wanted to fasten the top button of my coat. So I stopped on the shoulder to correct these things, which turned out to be a colossal mistake. Moved things from outer to inner pockets, fiddled with the button for 2-3 minutes, then just as I was about to get back onto the bike, I heard "putter, putter, putter...," then silence. The bike died again.

I was on a hill, though, and I figured I'd be able to get it going again without too much trouble, but I was very wrong. After repeatedly pushing, turning the key and dropping the clutch to no avail, I finally rolled the bike the wrong way down an on-ramp onto the nearest street. No hills in sight. Rolled it into a liquor store parking lot and asked a cop if he had jumper cables. Nope. I had no choice but to call the ex.

She thought but wasn't sure that she had jumpers. She arrived twenty minutes later, and after rummaging through the random junk in her trunk we determined that she didn't, so we drove around for a few minutes looking for an open gas station, which we fortunately found in only two tries, and bought cables. Jumped the bike with no problems, which is the only thing that had gone right since Cammie-Di (she likes it when I call her that) smiled at me. Spent the next half hour frozen to my bike, and finally rolled into my garage at about 12:30 PST (15.5 hours after I had started my trip, but who's counting?). Got to bed at about 2 after catching up on mail. Woke up with a sore back from pushing a 450-pound motorcycle around.

But I have to admit, I feel great now. The trip from hell is over and I'm finally back home in sunny California, ready to take on whatever not-big deals confront me in the new year.

Ed: Yeah, I know, things have stagnated on this site, but I still maintain hope that somewhere down the road it will pick up speed. I couldn't let this fairly recent event go unpublished, it's just too weird.

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I've been an avid snowboarder for several years now, and more often than not, my trips to Lake Tahoe (three hours away) are day trips. I had embarked on one such trip this past winter when a singularly bizarre and initially frightening event shook up my morning.

It was about 6 AM, and I had just stopped my car in front of my friend Melissa's apartment, a relatively clean residential area right outside of Haight-Ashbury, to pick her up. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed her number, then realized that someone was reaching for the passenger door handle. Initially I assumed it was her, but... it wasn't. It was a dude. And he had sat down in my car and closed the door. He looked at me with a smile and said, "hey." I looked at him with a blank stare and said "hey" back. Then Melissa answered her phone.

"Hey, Whit," she said.

"Hey," I said timidly. "I'm... here."

"Okay, I'll be out in a second," she replied, and hung up.

I turned the phone off and looked at the dude, who was just sitting there. He didn't necessarily look like a homeless person - maybe a little on the scraggly side, but certainly not a degenerate. I had initially assumed I was being car-jacked, but I didn't see a gun or knife in his hands. So I looked at him and said, "What are you doing?"

He looked at me with mild surprise and said, "I thought you were picking me up."

A bewildered, incredulous look swept over my face as I said, "no!"

"Oh!" he replied. "I'm sorry, sorry," he said as he climbed back out of the car. As he was doing so he noticed my snowboard in the back seat. "Oh, you're going snowboarding!" he said.

Me, still incredulous: "Yeah."

Him, still oblivious: "Okay, bye." And he was gone.

I can sum up my feelings on this event with three words, and I can assure you that I have never been more sincere in using them: what the fuck? To this day I cannot fathom why anyone, hitchhiker, hooker or otherwise, would be so sure of a driver's intentions that they would get into a stranger's car in a nice neighborhood without at least checking to make sure that's what the driver had in mind. It will forever remain the stupidest and most concise unsolved mystery of my life.

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A few years ago, during the '04 presidential campaign, when virtually everyone in the country was venting about the ineptitude of the opposing party's candidates, I had a sort of epiphany regarding the underlying philosophies of the Democratic and Republican parties. My realization was based on my perception of where each party places trust in who should be granted power and money...

Republicans:
We trust the corporations with money and power because, while they are entitled to grant themselves luxuries for capitalizing on the American way to gain their fortunes, they will by and large proportionally distribute their gains to the lower classes, because doing so goes hand in hand with healthy business practices (to deny their employees those benefits would only encourage them to move to a competitor's work-force, so the corporations would therefore be hurting themselves). We recognize that some less scrupulous corporate leaders will take advantage of the system, but we believe that those individuals are far outnumbered by the more virtuous whole.

We also believe that the lower classes are less deserving of this power because of both their misunderstanding of how best to manage it wisely and efficiently, and the predilection of a large proportion of them to take advantage of the system in order to maintain a comfortable lifestyle without contributing to society as a whole.

Democrats:
We trust the common people with money and power because, unlike the wealthy, they need it for their very survival. The corporations, who already have massive intrinsic benefits keeping them on top (and, by extension, the lower classes at the bottom), cannot be trusted to disperse their gains proportionally to their employees or otherwise act in the best interest of the people who depend on their honesty. Capitalism is an inherently flawed system of commerce that encourages greed, deception and foul play, and the individuals at the top of the corporate ladder know better than anyone how to take advantage of their position. We recognize that some less scrupulous members of the lower classes will take advantage of the system, but we believe that those individuals are far outnumbered by the more virtuous whole.

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I fall in the latter category. I'm sure I'm not the first to come to the above realization, and for all I know it is in one way or another misguided, but it feels accurate enough to me. Comments and criticism welcome.

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After a month of travelling throughout mainland Mexico with two buddies (both of whom have close ties to Cousin It), curious examinations became the norm. Walking down one street in a small mountain town, a screaming baby was silenced by our presence. The crying prompty resumed as we turned the corner. We realized our kind was a rare occurance in these parts and the puzzled looks were justified.

After a month of spooked babies and giggling teenagers, it was time to head home. To our surprise, in the Manzanillo Airport, among fellow American travelers, we were receiving the same expressions. Not bothered, we boarded the plane and pulled out the deck of cards. After a few rounds of "go fish" the plane still hadn't moved, we were behind schedule and the curious faces were still pointed in our direction. When the captain came down the isle and knelt down beside our seats we knew something was up. First-class upgrade? A tour of the cockpit? Some kind of random award? Why was he talking to us? Now with every eye on the plane focused on us the captain asks, "Have you guys been camping this trip?" It was amazing -- how did he know we had been camping the whole time? He proceeded to ask questions about the locations of showers near these camp sites and the availability of soap. In the end he gave us two options: 1) get off the plane, and 2) get off the plane, take a shower in the airport bathroom, and re-board. We opted for number two.

As we were doing our best with powdered soap and a sink, the captain entered the bathroom with a plastic bag and said, "alright boys, put your dirty clothes in here and lets get going." Dirty clothes? I had been saving that shirt throughout the trip for the plane ride home. When we told him that these were our "nice" travel outfits he left the bathroom only to return with his personal duffel bag. He proceeded to hand us his own clothes in exchange for the contaminants. We thought he was just trying to be funny, but he sealed the bag up and stored it with the cargo underneath. Upon returning to the plane, my buddies and I apologized to the crowd, then took shelter in our seats. After an extremely awkward flight back to LA, the captain told us that we could keep his clothes and that our clothes would be with the luggage. I still wear his shirt sometimes.

Ed: The danger in this story may pale in comparison to what's going on in the Middle East these days, but during peace time it's the kind of situation you don't expect to end up in.

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I was a military police officer stationed in Panama for a couple of years during a stint in the US Army. At one point I was deployed to Equador for a special assignment, Military Observer Mission: Equador, Peru (MOMEP). The base there is isolated from the developed cities nearest to it, and all rest and relaxation outings required helicopter lifts over a treacherous range of Andes mountains. We were flying back from one such trip in two black hawk helicopters when they hit a cloud bank about halfway through. It isn't safe to fly through cloud banks in that sort of environment because of the mountains that might be on the other side. We turned around and tried a different valley, but that was also blocked. We then decided to fly back to the city, but were unfortunately surrounded on all sides by that point. Not good.

The pilots decided to land in order to save fuel, then try again once the clouds lifted, and they set down next to a waterfall. We had to use iodine tablets to purify the water and our food supply consisted of half an MRE per person.The climate at that elevation was basically tundra and the little wood we were able to find was soaked through, so we were forced to try to sleep in the choppers. Sleeping sitting up inside a helicopter is almost pointless.

The next day was the fourth of July, and it continued to rain the whole day. That night we shot off pen flares to "celebrate." Again, no sleep. The next day, continued rain. Finally, at about four o'clock in the afternoon the following day the rain broke and the decision was made to leave now, since pilots should not fly on little sleep and no food, and therefore we would just have to wait for rescue if we waited.

The first black hawk lifted off and started down the valley. My helicopter took off and started circling the landing site, and I later found out that we had lost control and nearly crashed. The pilot regained control, however, and we headed home. As our elevation lowered we saw that the other chopper had landed beside a dirt road because of low fuel. As we came into land nearby, we felt a jolt and heard a loud noise. Once on the ground, everyone looked at us in disbelief. I looked up and saw that there were large chunks torn out of the rotor blades -- we had hit a power line on the way down. Usually when that happens the line wraps around the rotor and the helicopter drops like a stone. Two near-death experiences in one day.

The remaining chopper flew in from the base and we went home. I was and still am glad to be alive.

Ed: Although I don't feel like any of my own life stories are as remarkable as most of the ones I've been posting here, I decided it would be silly for the creator of a story-based site not to include a story of his own.

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I had an encounter with a special kind of freak not long after I first set foot in California. I had finished doing some shopping one day in San Mateo and was waiting at the bus stop when I saw a man exit a building across the street with a large radio slung on his shoulder, yelling back at the building as he walked. Now, keep in mind that this is broad daylight on a fairly hot, sunny day, at a large intersection. The man had spiked red hair and was dressed in a black leather jacket, black jeans and white high-tops. His radio was blaring the Eagles. He wandered a few feet to the right, paused for a minute in indecision, then started back the other way, heading toward the intersection, where he waited for the light to change. "This is not a good sign," I said to myself.

He started to cross the street. Oh, no. The intersection was filled with, "Welcome to the Ho-tel Cal-iforn-ia..." Please God, don't let that asshole sit down here. But indeed, he stepped onto the sidewalk, turned toward me, walked over and (oblivious to the fact that anyone else was present) sat down, radio in his lap. I stared straight ahead.

To suggest that this person was hopped up on something would be to suggest that water is wet. He was sweaty, shaking and behaviorally incoherent. He fiddled with the tuner, trying to find a station he preferred, but the volume was on max, so I was treated to a lovely barrage of full-bore static in between radio chatter. Finally he found a station he liked: the same station. Must have been a marathon, because now they were playing, "New Kid in Town." This drugged-up, red-headed punker dressed in black I-don't-give-a-shit garb apparently loved his soft-rock ballads from the 70's so much that he had to crank that volume to the max. In fact, he loved it so much that after a couple of minutes of staring into space, he was compelled to stick his fist in the air and scream, "RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" I swear I'm not making this up. I, of course, was doing my best during all of this to sit perfectly still and hope that he didn't grab my neck and tell me to make the dancing zebras go away.

It was apparently then time for a nap. Further evidence of his being unaware of my presence was the fact that, despite our bench being plenty long, he laid down in my direction. The paper cup that I had been drinking lemonade from earlier still sat beside me, and his head happened to come down right on top of it. He tried to lay his head down a couple of times, not comprehending why something was poking at the side of his head, then turned, saw the cup and knocked it to the ground. I managed to scoot over a little bit just before his head leaned against my hip. *shudder*

Finally, the bus came, and fortunately for everyone on it, Freak Show Red did not need a lift. I looked around a bit for some recognition of my torment, but of course no one on the bus could have known what the nut-job on the bench had been doing for the past ten minutes. Oh well. At least it was over.

: : : :

Capio and some friends made a surfing trip to Mexico a few years ago. Their destination was so remote that they had to take an SUV down a very long, backwoods trail, much of it crossing the desert. The beautiful scenery that they passed along the way included some amazing 30-40 foot cacti, which they were all very impressed with. More impressed, no doubt, because they were all fairly drunk.

After several hours of driving, one of the passengers, a Phd, suggested that it would be fun to knock one of the cacti down with the truck. They all agreed that was a good idea, but forgot about it after a few moments. Several minutes later the Phd spoke up again about his terrific cactus-felling plan, which they again agreed would be funny but didn't make a concerted effort to make it happen. Phd would not be dissuaded. "I think we should go ahead and do it while we're thinking about it." Okay, okay, they said, and stopped when they found a suitable plant.

The cactus in question was something like a foot in diameter -- much narrower than some of the giants they had passed, but this seemed like a safe start to their new hobby. Capio took to the driver's seat, lined up with the cactus and drove slowly into it. Bump. Nothing happened. No big deal, he just backed up a little further, drove forward again at about twice the speed of the first effort, and... bump. Still, the cactus remained unfazed. Third time's a charm! He backed up around thirty feet from the cactus and launched forward at a strong clip, and then...

Crash. Probably one would have to be drunk not to guess that either A) the cactus would be stronger than the bumper and grill of a car, or B) the cactus, when knocked down, would fall toward the vehicle. As you may have guessed, both of those results applied in this case. The front of the truck was smashed in, but worse yet, the windshield was almost completely covered in a lattice of broken glass.

How funny, they all said - it totally destroyed the vehicle! Ha ha ha! But wait a second... how the hell are we going to get home? They were ten hours from the U.S. border and that mangled truck was their only method of getting there. The engine did still work, but there was almost no visibility through the windshield. One of the members of the group suggested that they knock out the windshield and use their scuba masks to drive, but they were fairly certain that the border patrol would not let a vehicle with no windshield into the country (Ed: but they would allow a webbed windshield in?). The final decision was to make use of a tiny, triangular area at the bottom left of the windshield that was still intact. The trip home was scary and long, but they eventually made it out of the Mexican desert with no further incident.

Oh, and they later learned that felling cacti is highly illegal. Job well done, guys -- very classy.

Ed: I'm having trouble getting SB rolling (more on this later), so I'm going ahead with a story that would be better told by the main character if he would ever get around to writing it out for me. It's a story for everyone who wishes they could get their hands on the asshole who stole from them...

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Sometime after college, Mike made the obligatory trip to Europe. He was filling out a form at a post office one day in Spain when he set his wallet down on the table beside him. A couple of minutes later, a young girl rushed into the room and started yelling at him in Spanish (which he doesn't speak). The only phrase that she seemed to be able to deliver in English, and the only one he really needed, was, "Your book! Your book!" His wallet was gone.

Mike rushed out the door, took a quick glance around and saw nothing, so he took off running down the main street in front of him. He didn't get far before noticing a bus pulling to a stop further down the block, so he made a beeline toward it. Once on the bus, he scanned its occupants until his eyes fell on one kid who all but screamed "guilty" -- sweating, panting and not acknowledging the crazy American who had jumped onto the bus and stared everyone down. Mike walked over and faced him. "Give me my wallet," he said. The boy did nothing.

Mike grabbed his arm and pulled him off the bus. They scuffled around a bit before Mike reached into the kid's pocket and pulled a wallet out. He let go of the boy, who bolted away, then looked down at his hand. He had taken the kid's wallet instead. Down on the ground was the second wallet, Mike's. Justice is sweet.

Ed: I hate to include a third-person story, but not only is this a really good one, it's the first story that I actually collected for this purpose (well, it was also to make conversation with the author). I wasn't given any names, so I'm making them up.

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Marcus was vacationing in Mexico when he met another U.S. traveller, Maria, a cute chick who liked him enough to take him into the hot tub, where they... you know. Just before the you know commenced, Maria set her valuable Cartier watch on the side of the tub. Eventually they ended up in her room, at which point Maria realized that her watch was gone. She asked Marcus where her watch was, to which he replied "What watch?"

"You know what watch," she said. "The one you stole." Marcus assured her that he did not steal her watch, so they went back down to the hot tub to see if it was there, which of course it wasn't. Before long they had the entire hotel staff searching for the watch, to no avail.

The next day, Marcus was walking on the beach when he saw a woman scanning the sand with a metal detector. He walked up and asked her if she had come across a gold watch. She asked him to describe it, which he tried to do, and then she put down her detector, walked out into the water and started digging in the sand. She pulled up a canister of some kind and brought it back, opened it up, and... handed him a gold Cartier watch. Bizarre, to say the least, but unbelievably fortunate.

Not so fortunate was the coincidence that Marcus, the man who Maria was sure had stolen from her, now had the watch. He couldn't very well give it back and expect her to believe that he had never stolen it, so he asked a hotel manager to do so and say that he had found it. Maria was so grateful that she gave the man a $5000 reward.