Unlike most days, I decided to drive somewhere for lunch. I went to my car, parked snugly in the bowels of the movie studio down the street from my work place. Getting off the elevator at Parking Level C, who do I notice getting on the same elevator but Lauren "F*** Me Santa" Graham, wearing a red beret no less, and offering a pleasant "we're the only two people in the parking structure so I'll smile at you so you can smile back in a disarming way" smile at me.
Fresh from seeing a Gilmore Girl, I pull out of the parking structure, proceed two blocks down Bixel street, accidentally drive over a construction zone utility pipe abutting the curb (no orange cones!), and promptly blow out my right front tire. I pull over to a side street, call for roadside assistance, which arrives quickly but not before I had to dodge 2 meter maid people because I made the decision to pull over to safety in a "No Parking. Street Sweeping Noon to 3 Thursday" zone at exactly 12:01 on a Thursday.
(Note to cynics: Yes, I know how to change a tire. But I was wearing my good clothes and the standard Toyota-issue jack works about as well as Anthony Michael Hall playing a bully in Edward Scissorhands or was it some other movie?)
Then, after getting my tire fixed, I receive a wrong-number call on my cell phone from someone looking for someone named "Stanley" because he wanted to buy some "shit for the weekend." I suggested he call Anthony Michael Hall.