The Third Time I Got a Voicemail from Putrina Donk

My apologies to those of you who have waited eleven months to experience the vicarious adventure of getting eccentric voicemails from a complete stranger. For the uninitiated, allow me to direct you to my first and second experiences with "That Particular Lady."

But before we get started, I would like to retire the moniker of "That Particular Lady" or "TPL" that was established in the previous edition of this serialized chronicle. In the period intermediating that second and this the third installment, I decided she deserved better than the generic designation which I had afforded her. Bearing this in mind, I turned to my friend Ken, a consummate artisan who works solely within the medium of silly names, and asked for his input. His consult provided the following candidate list:

Putrina Donk
Aquatic Mercury
Helgerpan, the Delightful Sardine
Voicemail McGee
Winnie Tunabox
Tortilla Sue
Ms. Issues
Ms. Voicemail
The Usual Suspect
Voicemail Woman
Strange Fruit (by Billie Holiday)
Tomato Snips (since tomato is a strange fruit)
Helga
Helga Tomato
Someone Elsie
Eggplant Elsie
Wilhelmina

My friends, it is always euphoric to see a virtuoso at work. I needed look no further than the first entry to find a sobriquet worthy of my cryptic voicemail interloper, but how could one resist savoring the entire catalogue? I offer my heartfelt thanks to Ken.

So now, let us rejoin the narrative. Turn back the dates on your imagination clock to March 15, 2010, the date upon which the world was exposed to Putrina's first voicemail, and the author's analysis of it. Except, the author of this here 'blog hadn't really told anyone about it yet, so worldwide saturation of this information was somewhat limited.

It had been nearly a month since I received any calls from Ms. Donk, and I did not expect to ever be troubled by her ramblings again. But less than 24 hours after my post, my switchboard lit up with her number in the caller ID. At 3:30 AM. Multiple times. In my sleep-addled state, I was a bit unnerved. At first, I merely silenced my phone each time it rang. But by the third cycle of this routine, I decided bold action was necessary, and turned the device off. My best attempts to return to slumber produced no success, only visions of Putrina somehow discovering my essay and formulating a babbling, incoherent verbal evisceration for the ages.

And then at 4:04 AM on March 16th, there was an earthquake. A mild earthquake, only a 4.4 on the Richter scale, but it shook my bed more than mildly, and my already perturbed mind much harder than Mssr. Richter could have measured.

"Maybe she was trying to warn me about the earthquake!" suggested my brain.

I am not proud of having thought this thought. But I thunk it. And in my defense, I will inform those readers who may be snickering that this momentary hypothesis flashed across my cerebral cortex early on during the seismic boogie, before my brain moved on to more important matters: whether the shaking was proliferating or depreciating; and whether I was safer in my bunk or stumbling over the flotsam and jetsam of my darkened room in a vain attempt to find a more secure shelter.

I wisely remained recumbent for the 20 to 30 seconds of undulation. When I was confident that my life was not in mortal peril, I turned my phone on to see if Putrina Donk had left a voicemail that might help me ascertain her level of clairvoyance. She had left a message, but shed no light on any precognitive abilities. She just creeped me out.



For once, no transcript is necessary.

My agitated state of mind now took on the additional burden of genuine concern for Putrina. For the first time, I actually contemplated returning one of her calls. But I wondered, what kind of problem could she have, and what help could I really be? I also pondered that trying to explain who I was and why I was calling might be more upsetting than helpful.

As I paced about the apartment, my roommate emerged from his domicile, his sleep having been another casualty of the earthquake. We shared a few exciting moments discussing that event, and I unloaded upon him some frantic ravings concerning Ms. Donk. After verbal expulsion of that neurosis, I felt better, and decided that she was not my responsibility and eventually returned to bed.

But I did consider that if I never heard from her again, it would bother me. I even considered checking the obituaries in the local newspapers of her area code. Fortunately, that action would soon prove unnecessary.

The First Time I Taught Someone How to Use a Vending Machine

I can't say that I have a specific memory of the first time that I used a vending machine, or how it was that I came by the knowledge required to operate such a contraption. It's possible that in some forgotten grade school class, a teacher may have dedicated a day to highlight the basic fundamentals of vending machine patronization, emphasizing ideal postures for button pressing and dialectic principles of snack choice-making. But I do not remember this.

I just know that I am confident in my ability to finagle heavily-manufactured foodstuffs from the retrieval slots. In fact, I have been privy to advanced manipulation of vending machines. As a child, I honed my skills by obsessively pushing the coin return button on every available coin-operated device within an 8-mile radius, once yielding somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 to 70 cents from a newspaper dispensary in an Orlando Holiday Inn.  My prowess also once led me to a forgotten soft drink repository on the neglected fourth floor of a building at my university, an appliance that would offer Dr. Peppers for an unadvertised and paltry price of 75 cents, saving the informed student a whole, shiny quarter. And I don't think I've ever had the misfortune of a rotary coil retaining its grip on an item I purchased.

Upon further reflection, it seems most of this vending machine savvy was acquired in the following manner: by using vending machines.

So keeping this in mind, you might understand that if I was flagged down by an elderly Armenian man who required assistance purchasing bottled water from an automated vendor, I would react with a bit of confusion.

"You help me?" he suggested, waving several dollar bills in his hand, startling me out of the aimless stupor that characterizes my constitutionals through large shopping centers. With caution, I approached and accepted the assignment designated to my person. The gentleman offered further clarification.

"You help me buy it." He pointed to the vending machine. It was not a difficult device to use; it had very large buttons that clearly advertised the products the consumer had the opportunity to purchase, exactly like the one you see below.

"Sure. You put the money there," I instructed my elderly pupil, directing his attention to the receptacle for paper currency.

He timidly submitted a dollar to the machine, as if to suggest that maybe it would like one. His thrusts were so limp that the bill slot refused to acknowledge the presence of legal tender.

"Here, let me try," I offered. I recall a slight hesitation on his part, like that of a skittish feline, but I slowly and steadily extended my hand, and he granted me use of his fiduciary resources. I quickly and confidently inserted one dollar, and then a second dollar, and from there my protégé sprang into action without further tutelage. He selected an Aquafina with a skillful press of the button, and had no difficulty with retrieval of his beverage or the 50 cents in change.

He thanked me, and I departed, accepting his thanks.

But my small good deed carried with it a terrible burden: endless speculation. Just who was this fellow, and why didn't he know how to use a vending machine? And why choose me as his instructor?

Why was this particular elderly Armenian man all alone? The described events unfolded in the city of Glendale, California, which has the highest concentration of Armenians of any American municipality. Furthermore, groups of elderly Armenian men are known to congregate in the public parks of Glendale. They huddle around picnic tables, angrily discussing Armenian politics (at least I imagine they're angrily discussing Armenian politics; I don't speak Armenian), and occasionally playing chess. The point I excise from these observations is that the presence of a lone elderly Armenian man is far more suspicious than a rowdy throng of them.

Could he be a very recent immigrant from Armenia? This might explain his lack of participation in communal conference with his peers, a result of unfamiliarity with the customs of Glendale. His inexperience with vending machines might be explained by growing up in Soviet Armenia, where the freedom of choice offered by such devices would certainly be frowned upon by the totalitarian regime.

Perhaps he had recently awoken from a lengthy coma? This could explain his unfamiliarity with the bill insertion slot, as well as his need for bottled water, as I would imagine one would wake up from a coma quite parched.

Was he a Terminator-style killbot, sent from the future to identify the future leader of the human resistance to a machine army, by collecting fingerprints on the dollar bills? Given that I'm still alive over six months later, we can only conclude that if this scenario is true, he is a very bad killbot, or I am not the future leader of the human resistance.

I fear the weight of insatiable inquisition is mine to bear until such a time as I can solve this puzzle.

The Second Time I Got A Weird Voicemail From That Particular Lady

Take note, as a new landmark is reached with this post: the first Pointless Milestone that is a second. Consider that the second occurrence of a Pointless Milestone is arguably more Pointless by its very nature.

When we last heard from TPL (That Particular Lady), she was sarcastically excited about going to church, and Terry had her computer. Let's find out where her life's at now, five days after her original call. As before, I will provide my best interpretation of her ramblings.



"Heyyyy, Helen.

Do you understand the importantcy of leaving or losing a wallet?

Your mother has to be contacted. I kid you not. I've tried (???) and your number is the most important one.

I do not have her number. And you wrote down the wrong address. Wrote down her rental home address.

(Indecipherable.) And my brother Terry is mad at me (what's new. Let's not ??? be to is??? ??!?!?!?)

My wallet is in your mother's vehicle's car. I need you to give me confirmation on that. I really do.

And will I keep calling? Yeah I will. Until I've received confirmation, you bet I will. Why? 'Cause it's important."

HERE'S WHERE I BREAK IT DOWN:

From the initial "Heyyy," you might expect the next words to be "...hey hey it's Fat Albert!" A truely bizarre beginning. Touché, TPL.

Next she launches right into the matter at hand, which is a wallet, and its importantcy. Having lost a wallet last summer, I can certainly empathize with the importantcy of her situation. I can't even tell you how well I understand the importantcy of leaving or losing one.

And now, a new player enters the fray: Helen's mother. Apparently she is a key figure in the case of the missing wallet, and if we skip ahead a bit, we can see that TPL's conjecture is that the wallet is in the mother's vehicle's car. Based on this wording, we are left with no choice but to assume that the mother has a vehicle which itself has a car. I would speculate that the vehicle is some sort of sentient, hovering personal transport pod that interlocks into a specifically designed compartment within the automobile. It's really the only logical conclusion.

In addition to having trouble contacting Helen, seeing as how she keeps calling me instead, TPL seems to have trouble contacting her mother as well. What if Helen purposely wrote down the wrong address, to save her mother from the hassle of dealing with TPL? What if, and I'm about to blow your mind here, Helen also purposely gave TPL the wrong phone number (which happens to be mine), because she didn't want any calls from her???

If this was planned subterfuge, we can extrapolate two possible reasons for this behavior. First, they were tired of getting these weird messages, which is plausible, although I have to admit, I find them rather entertaining. Second, this was all an elaborate operation to steal TPL's wallet.

But let us move on to Terry. Now we know that he is TPL's brother. In the first voicemail, it was established that Terry was in possession of her computer, but now is in possession of anger at her. Given the passionate technological need she previously expressed, it is almost certain that this matter is related to the current familial tension. It seems that the continued absence of her beloved data machine, coupled with the lost wallet, have left TPL in an irritated and impatient state.

Finally, let us revisit the speculated location of the missing wallet. Just what would it be doing in Helen's mother's vehicle's car, anyway? Well, I propose that Helen and her mother gave TPL a ride to church, the day after the original voicemail. I mention this in order to revisit the age paradox, because once again she sounds much closer to retirement age than drinking age. But if Helen is an approximate peer of TPL, how old does that make the mother who is driving them all around? I need to understand.

And will I keep blogging about this? Yeah I will. Until I've finished the story, you bet I will. Why? 'Cause it's important.

The First Time Someone Recognized My Magma T-Shirt

Before I start this post, I feel compelled to mention that this might be the most meaningful occurrence yet shoehorned under the banner of "Pointless Milestones."

On September 16, 2009, someone recognized my Magma T-shirt. I have waited 7 long years for this to happen.

Here's what you need to know about Magma:
1. They're French.
2. Their heyday was the 1970s.
3. They sang in their own invented language, Kobaian. This usually involves chanting things over and over again, like "Wï wï Ëss Ëss wï wï üss üss."
4. They sang about their own invented sci-fi/fantasy mythology, which involved a bunch of Earthlings settling the planet of Kobaia, creating a utopian society, then reestablishing contact with Earth and telling them how they should do things Kobaia-style, and the people of Earth taking great offense at this suggestion, inevitably leading to all sorts of heated discussions and wars. That covers the "Theusz Hamtaahk" ("Time of Hate") trilogy, anyway. There's also some archaeologist who digs up this Pharaoh and learns about his superpowers, I think. I'm sure it all makes sense if you speak Kobaian.
5. Their music is a mix of jazz, rock, opera, and a bit of funk here and there.
6. I won't bother embedding any Youtube videos of them, as they would probably only serve to frighten you. But they're there if your curiosity proves too difficult to resist.
7. They are my favorite obscure band of all time.

To the best of my recollection, I discovered them via a web site called Audiogalaxy, in the spring of 2002. I was sufficiently enamored with them that within a matter of months, I ordered one of their albums and a t-shirt bearing their logo, direct from the artist's online store. And since the day my order arrived, I have waited for a glimmer of recognition to sparkle across the visage of a complete stranger when confronted with the Magma logo.

And that day came last September. I was returning from the post office, crossing the intersection of Toland Way and El Paso Drive, when I happened to notice that I was being noticed by a man on a motorcycle.

Here is a poorly-conceived and frighteningly-illustrated depiction of our chance meeting:

Figure A is an eerily accurate representation of the author and wearer of the Magma t-shirt. Figure B is the best picture of a guy on a motorcycle from behind that I could find.

My memory of our encounter is not perfect. But I believe that he first stated "Oh... Magma." and started to point at my shirt, but had to grab his handlebar to steady himself. It is also possible he raised his fist in the air in a show of solidarity. What he said next was inaudible, except for a more forceful "Magma!" that conluded his communiqué.

I turned around as he passed me, pointing to the logo, and asking "Yeah... you like that?" It was hardly the most articulate exchange, but what we shared in that moment was beyond what mere words could express anyway. Next time, though, I'm going to have to be certain to shout "Hortz fur dehn Štëkëhn Wešt!
Hortz zï wëhr dünt Da Ëhrtz!"

The First Time I Got A Weird Voicemail From This Particular Lady

I got a phone call several weeks ago. Now I get at least 2 or 3 phone calls a week, so this didn't seem abnormal at first. But when I beheld the display of the LCD screen which promulgates the caller ID function of my cellular telephone, I was in for a shock: I didn't recognize the number. A chill ran down my spine as I tried to imagine why someone I didn't know would be trying to establish contact with me.

After my initial panic, I decided caution was the optimal approach and put the phone down gingerly. I had silenced the emphatic drum beats of my chosen ringtone (entitled "Drum Beats"), but as I stared at the mobile device on my desk I could still hear the drums pounding in my mind, echoing across my cerebellum. Suddenly the phone vibrated and I lurched forth to grab it. I dialed my voicemail, but as I listened, my fears dispersed and were soon replaced with bewilderment. Mild, mild bewilderment.

You can listen for yourself and read along with the best transcript I can muster. The portions in parentheses are those of which I have the least certainty.



"Um... hey, uh my phone just rang, I was thinking maybe it might be you, or maybe it's Terry, I don't know.

I was drinking coffee (thought I'd) hang around see if the phone rings again.

Hope it is Terry... I need my computer SO BAD.

Um... I was gonna get coffee... but... I have to stick around. (Yikes.)

Um, ok, um if you get an opportunity would you give me a call? (Thanks Helen.)

And... church tomorrow. Yay. Um... I know that sounds really bad. And at church tomorrow, I'm very excited. 'Kay?

Listen, take it easy. Bye Helen."

HARD-HITTING VOICEMAIL ANALYSIS AND SPECULATION:

Firstly, my name is not Helen. But it has recently come to my attention that my voicemail offers no identification, only an automated recitation of the applicable digits. Thus, my original characterization of this particular female as inobservant is suspect. Yet I cannot discard the feeling that it is within the realm of possibility that her antenna doesn't quite pick up all the channels, if you get my meaning, and I think you do.

Now the first point of intrigue is the reference to her computer, and the dire need of it which she emphatically asserts. This remark ran counter to my intuition that the subject was of the elders. It has been my experience that while elderly persons are capable of using such digital equipment, they do not encounter the same fixation issues as younger generations. I sometimes see gangly youths wandering the streets and shouting "omg i need mah computr <3 SO BAD :'(" to no one in particular, but have yet to survey this phenomenon in a retirement community.

A related technological discrepancy is that the initiator of this aural correspondence had no apparent way of knowing who had telephoned. Caller ID and answering machines are quite commonplace in this epoch, so if she truly lacks acquaintance with the identity of her inquirer, I must assume she has neither (unless there was an answering machine, but no message). Could it be that "Terry" has these pieces of equipment, just as he seems to have her computer? If not, the absence of modern technology would imply an older personage.

But then there is also the mention of church, which arises in a sarcastic manner. And as everyone knows, sarcasm is far more common in juveniles than the well-aged, due to hyperactivity of the pituitary gland. You may draw your own conclusions.

Another noteworthy paradox is instigated by the dual references to coffee. In the first, the subject explains that she had been drinking some, in tandem with the task of waiting for a return phone call. However, she soon changes her story. Now she claims she was gonna get some coffee, but appears to be inhibited by the need to stick around... but isn't this just the same obligation as before, reframed without mention of her previous desire to "see if the phone rings again"? Why have coffee and loitering suddenly found conflict with one another? Could this conflict be so alarming that it compelled the "Yikes" at the end of her statement?

I have far more questions than answers right now. But it has been helpful to get my thoughts out on the screen, and hopefully it will aid my continued efforts to process and digest this affair. Oh also there's another voicemail but I'll get back to you on that one.

The First Time I Got a Button and a Sticker That Were Older Than Me

This weekend I was bored and so I went out and did something about it. I found out that a place called Rockaway Records in Silverlake was having a 99 cent sale and decided to check it out.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF ME GOING TO RECORD STORES IN LOS ANGELES.

When I was a student at USC, there was a sub-par chain record store across the street, but I did patronize it and remember purchasing such notable albums as "The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway" by Genesis and the Strokes debut, "Is This It?" My desire for a real record store led me to discover Aron's Records in Hollywood, and specifically, the mega-sales they had twice a year which featured thousands and thousands of CDs for a dollar or two (or three) each.

And then in 2001, I visited the Bay Area and stumbled upon Amoeba Records. I was astonished. It was easily the best record store I had ever seen. And then I found out they were opening a store in Los Angeles within a few weeks. And then my head exploded.

I had little need for any other records stores once Amoeba arrived, and then I left the state for quite a while anyway. Between Amoeba and the new digital music climate, most other independent stores were driven out of business. Aron's closed in 2005, and I was quite sad to realize I would never have another chance to go blind and throw my back out from peering over a profusion of forgotten plastic discs for several hours.

ANYWAYS, I didn't know what to expect from this Rockaway place, and I certainly didn't want to get my hopes up. The sale was in an annex, and was probably about 5% of the size of an Aron's blowout. But it did have a greater variety of merchandise: buttons, concert tickets, posters, promotional photos, stickers, in addition to the standard tables full of CDs and LPs. And everything was 99 cents.

My first attention was the CDs, where I was able to unearth a decent Britpop album, "Love Is Here" by Starsailor, as well as the self-titled debut of Wilson Philips, which is simply the finest recording by a female vocal group descended from members of the Beach Boys and the Mamas & the Papas in human history.

I'm not normally interested in memorabilia, but for 99 cents I thought it might be worth browsing. And I'm glad I did, because I discovered two gems that appeared to be older than I. The first was a button that declared "Beatlemania Is For Real!" In the process of writing this post, I discovered it was actually promoting the soundtrack of a Beatles-inspired Broadway revue, but it's still cool nonetheless.

The second item was a Strawbs sticker that turned out to be from 1974. There's a part of me that wants to use the sticker, although I'm not sure where a good place for it would be, and I also feel like a bit of a poser since all I have is a 2-disc compilation (which I've been listening to a lot in the past few days) and really need to pick up some of their actual albums.

Wait, you've never heard of Strawbs?? Well let me rectify that. Here they are "performing" on Top of the Pops, which unfortunately means they are only miming while the recorded version of the song plays (standard TotP procedure). This song is "Lay Down," and I'll have you know it's based on the 23rd Psalm.



In conclusion, I was quite pleased to find Rockaway Records. I visited the main store afterward, and the whole operation had a homey sort of atmosphere. It offers a pleasant change of pace from Amoeba. And I'm totally going to go back there sometime.

P.S. Here's my 3 dollars and 96 cents plus tax haul:

The First Time I Bought a Turnip

Just under two weeks ago, I discovered a bag of potatoes on clearance at Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™ for about 50 cents. This set in motion an unalterable series of events that led to an incredibly inconsequential moment that will forever be immortalized on this blog until somebody accidentally erases the internet: I bought a turnip for the first time in my life.

You see, once I saw that fateful bag of potatoes, I knew that it was time to make Hungarian Goulash Soup with the recipe that my mom had sent me. Having enjoyed it on multiple occasions over Thanksgiving and Christmas, I thought perhaps I would attempt to add it to my ever expanding culinary arsenal of basically just chili and pancakes. However, the recipe required many peculiar items that I never have around, such as vegetables. So when those potatoes showed up on that clearance shelf, I knew the time for action had come.

I was able to collect most of the other required items at the local Fresh & Easy Neighborhood Market™, but they offered no turnips. Apparently they don't just turnip anywhere. I was left with no choice but to patronize the foreign territory of a nearby Super-Market. And if setting foot on that alien soil wasn't strange enough, I wasn't entirely sure what a turnip looked like. The primary image in my mind had come from Super Mario 2.

Was I searching for a heart-shaped vegetable? Would it appear to have a nasty sunburn? Upon picking one up, could I expect to gaze upon a rooty countenance of indifference? Would it be necessary to chuck it at my nearest enemy?

My first brief reconnaissance of the produce section yielded no results. But my next expedition was a more rigorous affair, and I soon spotted a cluster of bulbous, purplish-whitish vegetables that were in close proximity to a label which described them as Turnips. Success! Behold:

When the time came, I took a peeler to my prize and chopped it just as I had the potatoes, which had provided the portent of my odyssey. And do you know? I honestly can't even tell the difference between the two in the final product. Next time I'll have to cut them into different shapes or something. Like red balloons and green clovers, for example.

And finally, this pointless milestone led to another: the first time I had to use up a leftover turnip. I had only used half of it before I had exceeded the required amount for the recipe. I considered cooking it in some other fashion, but couldn't find a reasonable solution within the limits of my patience. I thought perhaps I might still chuck it at my nearest enemy, but couldn't decide between the Northern Bad Neighbors Who Sometimes Play Music Too Loud and the Eastern Bad Neighbors Who Sometimes Play Music Too Loud. So I just ate it raw. It was okay I guess.