Mr. Euless Goes To Lowe's!

My bedside lamp, the one by which I do my homework (with charcoal on the back of a shovel, just like young Abe Lincoln (Lincoln is known in some circles (i.e., mine, which has a very small radius (You may be wondering - will these silly digressions ever end? Will he ever get to the meat of the story? It's a post about a trip to Lowe's - how much meat are you expecting?)) as the Mr. Euless of the nineteenth century)), burned out recently. Which is why I found myself stumbling through Lowe's in the early hours of a recent Saturday afternoon, looking for a replacement bulb.

I got the feeling that Lowe's isn't very interested in selling light bulbs. They want to sell lighting fixtures, lighting systems, lighting displays; I think they'd just as soon leave the selling of the actual bulbs to Walmart or Target. Where I probably would have gone had I thought of it rather than subject myself to a Lowe's scavenger hunt for a 120-volt halogen bulb with kung-fu grip. Or something like that.

I thought there would be a light bulb section, one wall or aisle devoted to nothing but any light bulb you could possibly want, or even imagine. Instead they seemed to be scattered randomly throughout the lighting department, probably in accordance with some sociological theory about how to promote impulse buying, the frustrated focused consumer (which I flatter myself I am) be damned (which I also was). I had circumnavigated the department several times and had also explored the frontier to ensure that they didn't have their own department distinct from Lighting; I thought about admitting defeat and leaving but I wasn't quite ready to deal with the chirpy old guy at the door who would want to know, or at least pretend to want to know, if I found everything okay. I made one more pass through - which worked out well, since I actually found them this time, although I still think this whole ordeal (except for the driving to the store part and the trying not to get run down in the parking lot part) could have been avoided if they just put all the bulbs in one spot. But then what would I have to write about?

Paying for the bulb produced its own weirdness. Lowe's has self-service registers, which is nice. I was paying by credit card, so I scanned the item, indicated I was ready to pay, touched the screen to pay by credit card, and swiped the card. I was then prompted for the last four digits of my account number. I don't get this. It can't be a security thing, at least not an effective security thing, because the digits are embossed on the card I just swiped. I started to screw up - I was so sure it was asking for my zip code that I started punching that in before reading the instructions. Then I had to CLEAR (not CANCEL), pull the card back out of my wallet, and punch in the numbers it wanted. I guess maybe it could be that they transmit the credit card number without storing it and then want the last four digits to print on the receipt, but that seems like a bassackward way to do things. Which would kind of fit in with how they display their goods.

05/31/08: Mocktoberfest

Mr. Euless accepted a rare invitation to an exclusive north Dallas soiree this past Saturday evening and probably overstayed his welcome, as hicks from the sticks are wont to do, as he returned to the mundaneness of Tarrant County by the dawn's early light, long after the host had gone to bed and the hostesses had departed for parts unknown. But not before getting a glimpse of how the other side lives, and parties: the cool kids jamming out to "Rock Band" in the den, the players running game in the hot tub, the rambunctious kids chicken fighting in the swimming pool, the earnest kids arguing politics in the kitchen - God only knows what that scene will be like next year when Bush moves onto the block and demands to be invited - the horny dude trying to get at the psychodrama in the bedroom, and tons of other people on the sidelines, chatting, drinking beer, shooting jello, watching, and taking notes. Well, I guess that was just me taking notes but my memory isn't as good as most people's. Especially after shooting jello.

My drink of choice was Shiner Bock mixed with the occasional Blonde, but when the good stuff ran out in the wee hours of the morning - long past the legal limit for buying alcohol from your local convenience store - I was pouring into me anything I could get my grubby little mitts around. Miller Lite, Keystone Light, Michelob Ultra - does it really matter when it's your sixth beer of the evening and your taste buds have long since gone numb? I think not.

It was a good party in the sense that nothing got broken; it was a bad party in the sense that nothing got broken. we partied long, we partied hard, we partied with a sense of purpose, of a destiny to be fulfilled. People stopped by on their way home from club shows and other parties; eventually they left this party to, when they realized they couldn't keep up. Still we partied on, most of the hardcore now hanging out in the hot tub and pool, three guys for every girl which is a horrible ratio and was starting to put a damper on the festivities. Bachelorette Number Two started checking the time more frequently; she had to be at work by six and was long resigned to no longer having enough time between now and then for either sleeping or sobering up. C'est la vie.

My last conversation of the evening was with an attractive young lady half my age who had moments earlier been walking around in a white bra and black panties with a towel demurely wrapped around her, mostly, while she hunted for the rest of her clothes. She was now dressed in a gray t-shirt and blue jeans and we talked about work for a moment before walking outside into the gray early morning. I got into my car, once I found it, and started the long haul back to Euless. At every traffic light I was terrified I'd become another Dallas County carjack victim.