Damn

I think sometimes God hates me...or at least thinks I'm fun to mess with.

True story(ies) follow(s):

A year or two ago, my older brother Pete and I were eating lunch at Mandarin with one of his buddies. Pete, being the older brother fiel was sharing some of my more embarrassing moments with his friend—in front of me. He concluded by saying, “I swear, Sam has the worst luck of anyone. Nothing really bad…just lots of small stuff.” I disagreed, telling Pete it wasn’t bad luck, but mostly just him screwing me over and over. Pete looked down at the table where the lunch tab sat with three fortune cookies, and then offered a bet: “I’m so sure of your luck, I’ll bet you lunch that my fortune is better than yours.” “Deal” I said, I mean, who on earth has ever heard of a bad fortune coming out of a fortune cookie? “But on the condition that we all agree that it is bad.” “No”, Pete replied, “We’ll just let you decide whose is better.” I smelled a set-up (26 years of living under the cunning curse of an older brother will make any otherwise virtuous lad suspicious) “Fine” I said, “But I get to pick my cookie”. “Deal” Peter said and smiled. “I think you made a bad bet Pete,” said Pete’s friend, “I mean not only are there never any bad fortune cookies, but he has to agree…” Pete just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Pete opened his first:
Great wealth and good fortune are soon coming.
“Figures”, I said. Then I opened mine:
Procrastination will cost you much this week.
“DAMMIT!” I tossed the little slip of paper on the table and pulled out my wallet and credit card…

Pete thinks I’m unlucky. Bouk agrees. Dad often asks, “Are you serious Sam? Why does this stuff always happen to you?” and Mom says,” Sam, you poor kid…” Kim would often remind me that ”God hates you sometimes”. I sense a pattern.

A long list of non-luckiness evidences Pete’s point:
Like the time I was 13 and took my parents Range Rover out in January 2, (coldest day of that year) for a good midnight workout…and discovered I had a flat tire in front of Watterson’s house…and thereafter took 1.5 hours changing my first tire, by myself, while my ‘friends’ stayed inside next to the heater.

Or that other time, when I was snowmobiling at the ranch, and on a dare (from Pete of course) rode up the side of a steep hill, and, confronted by an overhanging cornice at the top, gunned the throttle to bust through…and…did—through the cornice and into the sky, straight up, my legs lost their foothold and flailed off the back end while my chest thumped against the seat pad and my hands kept a white-knuckle-kung-fu grip upon the handle bars. I fortunately, was fine, but, unfortunately, I’d landed the snowmobile upon the only remaining non-snow covered rock in all of the Continental Divide, and broke the machine’s suspension. (it was a rental, dad was pissed…no, Pete didn’t get in trouble)

Or when, traveling on the Boulevard at 2am a deer suddenly flashed into the road from the ONLY tree stand in the park to the South of Fredrico’s Pizza and I expertly maneuvered my truck to only clip him…then I stopped…and then, of all people, Peter came driving by from the opposite direction—at 2am (I got in trouble for endangering myself).

Or when I was 25, and discovered that the social security number I’d been using for the past 9 years was one digit off… which, believe me, is a bad thing.

Or when Peter gave Brandon the wrong title to register his Audi, and the registrar in Wyoming didn’t properly check and compare the VIN numbers, and Brandon registered my car, in his name, in Wyoming…thereby obtaining good title to MY CAR.

Or like the time two weeks ago when Pete and I parallel parked next to each other before going out to eat in Salt Lake, and upon returning, I’d received a parking ticket, at 7pm on a city street, from Amco—owners of the pay lot across the street. (Peter’s car didn’t get a ticket, of course)

Therefore, I’m coming to accept my position as fate’s bitch. Or at least accepted that my guardian angel, while very good at keeping me healthy and alive, ain’t too savvy with the small stuff.

The latest adventure deals with what initially was a stroke of good luck: Bouk giving me some front-row tickets to the Kurt Bestor concert in Provo next Monday. He bought them before discovering he had a test that day, my job was to either use or sell them. Now, I don’t know a thing about Mr. Bestor except that on my mission he had some of the most peppy songs we were allowed to listen to and he’s a big hit with Mormons, which immediately makes him suspect because I’m way too hip for that.

I imagine Mr. Bestor in the mold of the Osmonds…clean cut and cheesy to the point of creepy. His music, I must be honest, is largely unfamiliar to me. So I’m trying to find a way to sell or give away the tickets…

At 6am this morning I left home to meet someone to play squash (yes, squash, I’m a beginner and don’t ask) downtown. The person I was supposed to meet never showed, so I ended up playing a few games with some intermediate players who were hanging around. Mike, the first one, was really cool as he kicked in my brains.

The second was a long haired fellow with an earring and, I thought, in really good shape for a 50-year old. He said he was a musician and primarily wrote compositions for TV stuff. I told him I was a young, sprite attorney. I joked about me being immediately jealous of his job, he joked of being jealous of my earning potential. I responded by noting that often, as an attorney, that money compensates the misery of some of the work. He laughed. As the score approached 7-0, (advantage old musician guy), I asked him what kind of music he makes, and turns out, he’s currently arranging the music for the Kurt Bestor Christmas concert series, “ya know, coordinating the orchestra, some of the solos, piano…stuff like that”.

“Oh really, that’s cool, I’ve actually got tickets to that concert in Provo on Monday, guess I’ll see you there” I piped in, cause, at the time it seemed relevant and in no way embarrassing.

“Uh, well, I’m not sure I’ll see you, cause it’s hard to see anything with the lights and all, but…” he began, I cut him off “No, I think I have, like, front row seats.” 7-1, I scored, finally. “Oh, well if I see ya then I’ll say hi or make fun of you or something” he joked. Whatever music composition-arranger dude, you’ll be busy doing your music arranging-- I thought.

After beating me three games in a row, and offering a lot of encouraging advice to me, the beginner, we left the court and met up with the rest of his playing pals. “Hey, he’s going to my Kurt Bestor concert in Provo on Monday” said the guy in an odd, jovial tone. Mike, the first guy I played just nodded his head as he looked at me. Um weird?

As they left, Mike asked if I’d be here in the mornings and I told him yeah, “oh, well then we’ll have to play again”, “Yeah, chimed in the other guy.” “See you on Monday” said Mike, smiling at the other guy.

About three hours later, as I am on the phone trying to find someone to buy the tickets from me, and they are asking me what time and where its at etc, so I google ‘Kurt Bestor”. Oh DAMMIT.. does that picture look familiar or what--the long, thick flowing hair of a succesful artist (the same hair I'd admitted to being jealous of this morning, commenting," well you may move like you are half a century old, but you've got more hair than I do at a quarter century...")

I’m a moron. Apparently Kurt Bestor likes to play squash. And of all people to play with, as I’m trying to ditch the tickets…Man I hope I didn’t say anything stupid about trying to get rid of my tickets. The dude was totally messing with me when he realized that I had front row tickets to HIS concert, without having any idea who HE is.

It’s like what happened when dad ran into somebody in Logan the other day, and when the person found out Dad’s last name is Goble, said, “You related to Dr. Goble?” “umm yeah”, Dad replied coyly.

“Yeah, well, he’s from around here and I need to go see him about my knees.”

Dad drove away never telling that guy who he was….and now I’M ‘that guy’!
Sometimes, I think God hates me.