The aptly named Wiktionary offers this quote from Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” I am leaving my amateur status in Minnesota and for future journalistic purposes, I am turning pro. Hall of Fame material? I doubt it. But it makes for easy writing and some of you just may enjoy it. The reality of it is, I like to read and write the news about the weird stuff. This is what I often write about anyway so it seems rather easy for me to pick up plenty of weird, strange or interesting material down here on the Mexican Border in Southern California.
Only one month of living in San Diego has coughed up enough weird material worthy of Jeffrey Dahmer’s icebox. I guess this is a good time to cut into the first story by telling about the guy who stabbed his roommate 66 times before stuffing him in a 55-gallon drum and dumping him in San Diego Harbor. Nothing real weird about this common occurrence that happens quite often just the other side of border. But this guy stuffs the body, dumps the plastic barrel and then just lets it float away. What was this guy thinking? I guess he never heard of rocks. Of course, the Coast Guard is going to come along and open it!
This next story is one of personal experience. Weirdness greeted me Monday morning when I arrived for my work-out and hot tub ritual. I usually begin at 7:00 a.m. when the fitness center opens. I am often alone when I knock off a few miles on the treadmill and bicycle. Next, a swim in the heated outdoor pool is finished by relaxing in the hot tub. This is all conveniently located a few feet out my poolside door so it makes it very easy to “get to the gym.” No excuses needed.
The weirdness I witnessed next was far from relaxing. Slowly circling the hot tub drain was what eventually proved to be an empty bottle of $80 cognac. I must admit, I didn’t see that coming. Further investigation revealed a rather interesting scenario. It appears that an individual named Bernard (the name found on a nearby crumpled bank statement) was the evening’s sole celebrant. What he was celebrating shall probably remain a mystery.
After I found my new friend Pool Boy, he fished the empty cognac bottle from the hot tub. Then we followed Bernie’s trail. The remains of his celebratory dinner lay scattered like broken glass across the cement and on into the bushes. The scene appeared so violent that Pool Boy and I agreed that we wouldn’t report the incident as we felt that poor old Bernie was probably suffering enough. And if he wasn’t actually old, we agreed that he probably felt that way this morning following his bout with Mr. Cognac.
It’s been two days since I’ve set foot in the hot tub. I’ve been awaiting the arrival of some kind of custodial service to clean up the mess surrounding it. Pool Boy made it rather clear that this type of cleanup was not in his job description. Just when I thought it was probably not in anybody’s job description, I realized that the three crows hanging out by the spa recently had taken care of the situation. I am beginning to wonder if these crows might not be some of the wiser living creatures I’ve come across so far.
And last, but not least, according to a local doorman, a privileged young lady parked her Lincoln Towne Car directly on the trolley tracks in front of a downtown hotel. The bemused doorman watched as she continually berated the fixed-rail trolley conductor to “just go around me!”