Many believe we are subject to increasing synchronicities as we spiral toward some type of mass awakening in the near future. I have noticed this increase in strangely linked events, but only when leveled against my own rising blood alcohol content and when dealing with old, pain in the ass pals who also happen to be fellow Discordians.
Communicating with the mindless also tends to magnify this effect. When I deal with my college buddies any number of strange events tend to occur. I spoke to our illustrious CEO, Pierce Winslow, at a wedding last week about some of those glory day coincidences (GDCs). Remember that time?…or, when this or that happened?
He suggested I write a feature on it, so I categorized several stories that seemed beyond coincidence. I decided there were too many of the damn things, and they weren’t really related, so I ditched the whole idea.
Then, a few days ago, I was at a job interview when my cell phone, which I forgot to turn off, rang. Of course, I wasn’t expecting it to ring—having few friends, it usually only happens once or twice a week. Unfortunately, it was one of those times. Imagine being in a job interview and your phone starts blaring, Awhooo Werewolves of London. Shocked as the woman interviewing me seemed, I pardoned myself and answered the phone. I had missed the call but heard this message.
“Hey Dave, it’s Zano. Do you have that feature for me? Winslow said you were working on one. Hey, I talked to Pokey finally. He’s alive. I guess that’s it, later.”
At that point, not only was the conversation over, the interview was as well.
So, I decided to narrow my story down to focus on the few weird phone call stories between Winslow, Pokey, Zano and I. One story immediately came to mind. Zano called me this other time, while I was coaching the local high school football team. It happened to be third down and three. I was amidst a huddle. I called for a time out, ran out to the offensive to make a decisive, game altering play call. I answered the phone and said, “Pass or run?” to whoever was calling.
Mick replied, “Pass.”
I hung up on him and called a pass play. Of course, the pass was intercepted and ran back for a touchdown. Phone call over, Mick’s coaching debut over, and game over to boot. Now I understand why Pokey McDooris lives in a phoneless convent.
Mick’s wife is even worse and, when Pokey is involved, all hell tends to break loose. Once I made the mistake of heading to Mick’s house for a little visit. I could plainly see that someone was home, but the whole ringing-the-doorbell-thing wasn’t working out. Pissed that I was being ignored—with a little help from a screwdriver and my criminal past—I climbed through a window. The phone rang as I entered the kitchen and Mick’s wife and I both picked up and said, “Hello” in unison. The conversation went like this:
“Dave, what’s up?”
“Mick isn’t here right now, but I’ll tell him you called.”
“Actually, I’m in your kitchen, on your other phone… mind if I grab a beer?”
“WHHAAT?! I’m in the tub, you moron! How did you get into the house, and why are you calling me from my own kitchen?”
At that point we both hear an operator of some sort saying, “Please deposit fifty-five cents.”
Turns out, this marked Pokey McDooris’s only call since moving to Arizona a year and a half earlier. He was calling from some convent in Prescott and just listening to our conversation in pure bewilderment.
Another strange piece of Discord lore is this: Pokey, at the time of our tale, had moved to Arizona, alone, for reasons only he can fully fathom. He lived at a place called Church on the Street and then a couple of years later he moved back to PA. Zano then, for reasons only he can fully fathom, moved his family to northern AZ. Churches won’t have him, so I’m betting he’ll wind up on the street.
So after that wedding last week in Philadelphia, Winslow and I parted company. En-route through those Pennsylvania hills, I tried to think of other funny synchronicities. None of our memories are too good after college, which really isn’t much of a surprise, really, considering our hopular habits and all. There wasn’t enough for a whole feature, so that’s about when I was considering ditching the idea.
So a few days later, Winslow calls me. I ask him about the sweatshirt that I had lost over the course of the weekend’s festivities. I had also broken my glasses as well. In other words, it was a good Irish wedding (hat tip: Timmo). He asked me to describe it. Turns out he’s wearing the damn thing! So then I call Zano back in AZ to tell him I’m finishing up this article to see if he’ll like it. When it comes to the Discord, truth be told, he’s kind of a pecker head. I tell him my idea, tell him about the wedding, and tell him how Winslow’s wearing my sweatshirt, right now.
Zano, without missing a beat, said, “Do you remember that grey shirt of yours that says Outer Banks North Carolina?”
“I’m wearing it right now. I don’t know how it ended up in Arizona and I’ve been meaning to tell you about it, honest.”
I said “Pass or run, Zano,” and hung up on the bastard.
Next time my phone rings and it says Mick “Dumbass” Zano on the screen, I’m not answering and neither should you. I wish, just once, he would call me for something important like, maybe, “Hey, Dave I moved to Arizona.”
I found out that tidbit of information two weeks after the fact as I was once again crawling into the same window only to find a completely different décor. No shit, I broke into someone else’s house! Well, luckily, the new guy had a better beer selection than Zano. But the chick in the tub was even less happy to see me. OK, really, no one was home, which probably helped me avoid felony trespass charges…er, again.
Now many of you are probably questioning the events of this fine feature article. The only folk not questioning anything, probably know us personally. They’re thinking, “typical.” I personally believe in the weirdness magnet phenomenon (WMP). You can’t hang out with these bozos for 20 years and come to any other conclusion. And maybe there’s something to this whole drinkronicity thing as well. Let me pop open a beer. Hold on, the phone’s ringing…Oh, shit.