I met Mike (not his real name) in front of the main branch of the Philadelphia Free Library, where he was sitting with his shopping cart full of other peoples’ trash.

“Hey,” he said, as I walked by, weighed down by shopping bags, “I’m a very rich man.”  That was the first story Mike ever told me.  Since that encounter over two years ago, I’ve gotten many glimpses into Mike’s world of government spies, messages from God, plots to keep him from his Canadian supermodel fiancé, and the impending Armageddon.  Tip: the world is going to end before the end of 2004, so don’t worry too much about your Christmas shopping.

I’ve typed and deleted countless Mike tales for Good Grief!  I’ve got a million of ’em because I see Mike often–on the Parkway, in Logan Square, at the library, and even one time out on the Main Line, in front of the Peace a Pizza (God had given him a coupon for a free slice).  His stories, though funny, are products of a mental illness, not fodder for a weblog.

So why mention Mike at all?  Because he makes me think, and for better or for worse, he’s one of the cast of characters.  Besides, he’ll never read this post.  John Ashcroft (who died six months ago and was replaced by a government double) doesn’t let Mike get on the Internet.

He is drowning in a .NET connection pool, which does not look like fun. But the big issue of the day is soulless office park basketball data.

Boss-across: I can’t figure out how to weight our horse statistics.
Becky: What?
Boss-across: As we play more games, the individual scores start dropping because of the way we run these reports.
Becky: What?
Boss-across: Scores can be anywhere from 0 to 1 minus the total number of players.
Becky: Oh.
Boss-across: It’s all in this Excel spreadsheet. Want to see?

He just sent a private, ranting e-mail to the entire membership of a listserve. Heh.

What is this inflatable, action motion Mr. Stud box doing in the hall closet? Fair question. I first met Mr. Stud in January of 2003. He was dressed in jeans and a hoodie, calmly occupying an old rocking chair in the basement, and I was coming down the steps with a load of laundry.

“Fuuuuuuuuck. Serial killer in the house. What the fuuuuuuuuck?”

“Hello?”

“Blow up doll? Who the !#$^%^% *&!! dressed up an inflatable doll and put him in the ^&!! basement? ”

The ensuing investigation revealed that Mr. Stud belonged to the guy on the first floor, Industrious R. Industrious R runs a freelance camera crew operation, a job that entails lots of double parking and lots of parking tickets. The intent was for Mr. Stud to sit in the passenger seat of the illegally-parked camera crew van while Industrious R did his errands, somehow tricking the Philadelphia Parking Authority into easing up on the citations.

This plan, however, was never implemented. Mr. Stud lived in our basement until Industrious R and his wife moved to Collingswood. The day after they moved, I found Mr. Stud’s empty box in the trash and decided to keep it for future use in a practical joke. Unfortunately, I never did think of a good joke, and now I’m scared to throw away the box, lest the neighbors get the wrong idea.

Moral: think carefully before you take an inflatable, action motion Mr. Stud box out of the basement trashcan.