At this point, I hang up on the salesman from Northwestern Mutual. Obviously, X would never have dropped my name because they barely know my name. This sales tool was lying. So the investigation began.

I checked my phone log and found the number for the Northwestern Mutual salesman. With a simple internet search of his phone number, I found his Northwestern Mutual profile page. Marcus. Hello, Marcus. Let’s figure out how you found my work number and developed your lie.

It was a pretty simple connection, actually. Marcus was connected with X on LinkedIn, the social site for finding job connections. Marcus had been going through and grabbing the names of people who were connected to X from LinkedIn, the names of the companies they worked for, looking up the main phone number for their offices, and making up a false back stories about being referred to call them by X.

Number one, I’m pretty sure this is a misuse of LinkedIn’s user agreement. Number two, those are some pretty shady sales tactics. Marcus used social media in the worst and most destructive manner possible. He exposed himself as ignorant and tarnished the name of Northwestern Mutual at the same time. He burned the social media bridges he was using, instead of making smart use of them and growing actual connections.

A happy customer tells one person, an unhappy customer tells everyone. And I’m not even a customer! If I was ever in a position to use any sort of financial service, I certainly wouldn’t go with or recommend Northwestern Mutual. Also, I think I’ll blog about this.

You see, if a Dairy Queen franchise does offer the Crunch Cone, it usually can’t be found on the menu. You need to special order it, like you’re a celebrity. And the majority of Dairy Queens don’t even carry Crunch Coat any longer.

So, my mission is clear. To find the Dairy Queens across the Twin Cities metro area that carry the Crunch Cone. Calling and asking if they have the Crunch Cone is cheating. I will go there, ask, purchase, and take a picture with this magnificent and little known dessert.

If you have found a Dairy Queen that carries the Crunch Cone, feel free to take your own picture and add it to the Flickr group. I’ll spread the word.

Let’s get to work, people. Summer is winding down!

[Photo by Ben Spark]

I arrived at Bryant and Lake at around 6:30. I was early enough to hop over to the gas station to buy some gum. With the quenching power of gum, I wouldn’t have to buy anything to drink at the theater. And I wouldn’t have to bother with tips or being interrupted in the middle of the show. Aric, you genius you! Gum in pocket, I entered the Bryant-Lake Bowl.

But inside, there were no improvisors getting ready to peform. Instead, there was jazz business going on. Odd. Maybe they were backing the theater time slots together a little tightly, to maximize profits in the floundering economy. I went into the bathroom in the hopes that the jazz would be ending as I was exiting with an empty bladder and clean hands.

Nope, the jazz was still there. I looked around for a poster, and found that Ka-Baam!! was actually at 10pm instead of the regular 7pm slot. Aww, nuts. I wasn’t going to hang around until 10pm. So, I left.

While pointing my mini van towards north western suburbs, I realized the Uptown trip could be salvaged. I wasn’t far from Matt’s Bar, where my high school chums hang out every Thursday. Hooray! I’ll go there, drink some Grain Belt, and do some catching up!

When I arrived at Matt’s, the place was packed. The foyer was thick with people waiting for a table. Okay, I just needed to move past them and check for my friends. Umm, didn’t see them. Maybe they were at the back table that I couldn’t quite get a look at without feeling like a jerk who was budding in line. That table looked awfully packed. If it was them, there probably wouldn’t be any room for me. OhmanIneedtogetoutofhere.

Outside. Phew. Good work, pal. You’ve failed to save your evening. And your friends were probably in there.

So I went home, miserable and ready to sleep. Too dumb to see some improv and too anxious to see my friends.

Oh, wait! There was a Tweet-Up at Gumpy’s! Wait, where was Grumpy’s? And did I really think my growing social anxiety would subside by the time I got there? Subside enough to talk to partial strangers? Probably not.

Strike three. It was time to go home and play video games until my wife got home. A regular Thursday night, really. Except for all that other stuff.

[Photo by Ed Kohler]

• It became very important for me to tell my friend how much I appreciated his appreciation of the Dave Matthews band. I disliked said band, but spent a good 10 minutes telling him it was cool that he did like them. This was, of course, in college.
• After drinking X shots of Wild Turkey during a video game/drinking competition, in which I failed miserably, I spent the next 3+ hours on the bathroom floor (mixed with the occasional three foot change in altitude to cough up my soul) listening to the competition wind down. Once the other guests left, my host and I went through a quite a few episodes of Futurama while my stomach settled. I could only listen to them of course, due to my necessary toilet proximity. NOTE: Fighting games make horrible drinking games. The 2 minute rounds do not allow enough time for any alcohol to metabolize.
• I remember the beginning, and had to be filled in on the end. It began when I shared the dregs of a bottle of “Captain Morgan” with a friend. This was actually horrible bourbon with a post-it reading “Captain Morgan” pasted over the label. The next day, I was alarmed by the giant red welt that had appeared on my forehead. During breakfast, I asked my friends to fill me in on what I missed. It’s simple, really. One friend was going home for the evening, so I leapt at his feet to keep him from leaving. At this point, naturally, another friend sat on my back and commanded me to “gitty-up, fishy.” This led to me flopping around like a fish, slamming my forehead into the concrete floor a few times. Pretty obvious how it all happened, once you think about it.

I think the most embarrassing part is that my drinking stories aren’t very good.

You see, I was not the only patron that day. My back was to the entrance when a horrifying sound found its way in to the bookstore. A textured and unearthly sound. A deep and wet sound. The sound (pause) of a monster!

I know, I know. Monsters are not real. They are trapped forever within the walls of fiction. But I’m telling you folks, with as little profanity as I can, that there was a fucking monster behind me.

There I was, frozen in place while a monster slowly sucked in the streams of saliva that regularly flowed in and out of its massive jaws. Its throat was raw and coated with a dust of its previous victim’s bones. Would that last thing I see be a dumb Star Wars encyclopedia?

Every muscle in my body wanted to run away, screaming in terror. I wasn’t fighting, so obviously I should be flight-ing. But I neither fought nor took flight. I was stood in place. Because monsters are not real and I am (debatably) a grown man.

Still in a slight panic, but controlling my breathing and mind, I turned myself slightly so I could move on to the next impulse table. Being polite enough to not stare directly at the monster, I saw the creature out of my peripheral vision. The monster was a man in his 60s, bundled up in scarf and hat, acting like he had just run a marathon. This man, without any effort on his part, had created most terrifying sound I have ever heard.

And you know what? If that had been a monster, I would be dead. I would be dead because I didn’t want to hurt some guy’s feelings. I fought natural instinct because I didn’t want to cause a scene. And I will pass my damaged, society pleasing, genes on to my children because a monster didn’t tear me limb from limb like it should have.

Now, dear reader, you have two easy ways to sneak up and kill me. Either be very quite or be very loud and terrifying. The second ways sounds like a lot more fun for you.