The Goat, or - Hey, Free Money!
Once again, we’re taking advantage of the presence of Gran – henceforth to be known as Halmonie – to go out and do things normally infeasible for us. Last night we had a regular night on the town, dining with another couple at Max’s, where “If You’re Fat You Just Get Fatter!”* and then going out to the theatre. We haven’t been to a play since we were counting down the days to Baby Dog’s arrival. Our last theatrical experience was seeing Josh Kornbluth do a revival of Red Diaper Baby at The Magic Theatre. This time around, the venue was ACT, where we saw Edward Albee’s The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?. It was both funny and horrible, but probably less shocking than intended, as we ended the evening talking about making an outing to the Little Farm to see the goats.
The other day I got what I thought was a bit of junk mail from one of my credit card companies. I almost tossed it in the “to shred” pile because it looked like one of those fake “cash advance” cheques they send out to gull their customers into living even further beyond their means. It was fortunate I took a second look, because the cheque turned out to be real. Not large, but real. It was for about $14. Some sort of rebate thing that I don’t remember signing up for. Even better, it’s for a card I never use. Free money, no matter how you slice it.
Yesterday, when I was getting ready to leave work I remembered that I’d been carrying the cheque around for the last few days and decided I might as well bank it on the way to meet Mama Dog at Max’s. I was rummaging around in my desk for a pen to endorse the cheque when I came across an unlikely surprise: four crisp fifty dollar bills. They were wrapped in a flight itinerary from when I brought my first nephew down for a visit in 1999. Back then, Mama Dog and I were filthy two-income rich. Because I didn’t have a bank account, I routinely cashed my paycheque and wandered around with a wad of fifties and hundreds on my person.** It’s entirely plausible that after my nephew’s visit I stuck a bit of leftover walking-around money in my desk drawer and then never missed it. Boy, those were the days.
The perfume of found money sweetened the evening. With an extra $200 in my pocket, not only was the overpriced meal paid for, so were the theatre tickets, BART fare, and Mama Dog’s gas money to and from Rockridge BART – and still with money left over to maybe go out to the movies at some point. Even better, I’m left with the hopeful notion that these things come in threes, so I’m still owed one more!
___________________
*Not actually their slogan, but it should be.
**Note to enterprising muggers who have found this page by Googling “where to find dopes with lots of cash”: I don’t do that anymore.
The other day I got what I thought was a bit of junk mail from one of my credit card companies. I almost tossed it in the “to shred” pile because it looked like one of those fake “cash advance” cheques they send out to gull their customers into living even further beyond their means. It was fortunate I took a second look, because the cheque turned out to be real. Not large, but real. It was for about $14. Some sort of rebate thing that I don’t remember signing up for. Even better, it’s for a card I never use. Free money, no matter how you slice it.
Yesterday, when I was getting ready to leave work I remembered that I’d been carrying the cheque around for the last few days and decided I might as well bank it on the way to meet Mama Dog at Max’s. I was rummaging around in my desk for a pen to endorse the cheque when I came across an unlikely surprise: four crisp fifty dollar bills. They were wrapped in a flight itinerary from when I brought my first nephew down for a visit in 1999. Back then, Mama Dog and I were filthy two-income rich. Because I didn’t have a bank account, I routinely cashed my paycheque and wandered around with a wad of fifties and hundreds on my person.** It’s entirely plausible that after my nephew’s visit I stuck a bit of leftover walking-around money in my desk drawer and then never missed it. Boy, those were the days.
The perfume of found money sweetened the evening. With an extra $200 in my pocket, not only was the overpriced meal paid for, so were the theatre tickets, BART fare, and Mama Dog’s gas money to and from Rockridge BART – and still with money left over to maybe go out to the movies at some point. Even better, I’m left with the hopeful notion that these things come in threes, so I’m still owed one more!
___________________
*Not actually their slogan, but it should be.
**Note to enterprising muggers who have found this page by Googling “where to find dopes with lots of cash”: I don’t do that anymore.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 2:09 PM
1 Comments:
Dear Papa Dog,
Not only are we still in the black after last night's evening of indulgence, but that $35 stupid fee that we've had to pay to the credit card simply goes "poof!" Gone!
Yeah, that Albee play hardly shocked me, contrary to what the liner notes said about it. What's the big deal about goat fucking? Sounds like fairly innocent fun to me.
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