I’m a web developer and software designer. I get a client who sounds very excitable over the phone.

Client: “So, I’m gonna need your help for this. Imagine this! CatCoin!”

Me: “Uh… what is that?”

Client: “It’s a crypto! CatCoin!”

Me: “And you wanted me to design the website for it?”

Client: “No, you need to develop the coin. I can’t pay you up front, but when people start buying it, I can split the costs with you.”

Me: “You want me to… make a cryptocurrency?”

Client: “That’s one of the things you do, right?”

Me: “Not even close. What would you be doing in this… enterprise?”

Client: “I came up with the name! The concept!”

Me: “CatCoin?”

Client: “Yeah!”

Me: “So you’re doing nothing?”

Client: “H*** no! I came up with the idea! I… y’know, will sell it on the blockchain!”

Me: “If you can tell me right now what the blockchain is, I will humor you for a few more minutes.”

Client: “It’s… the chain of… things that cryptos run on.”

Me: “But what is it?”

Client: “It’s… it’s… It’s crypto!”

Me: “Well, this has been fun. Good luck, but I’m not the guy for you.” *Click.*

F****** crypto-bros.

It’s 7 AM, and I’m at the restaurant, letting maintenance guys work on equipment in the kitchen. They have two trucks parked behind the restaurant. We don’t open for four more hours. We’re not a breakfast place, never have been. For eighteen years, we’ve opened for lunch daily at 11 AM.

In front of the restaurant is an empty, morning sun-lit parking lot.

Grandma comes to the door, pulls, pushes. She gives up. Defeated.

Twenty-something grandson pulls, pushes. Also defeated. Honestly, I’m not sure if he could’ve opened it even if it had been unlocked.

The hours of operation and the deadbolt are unforgiving.

Mom goes to open the door for poor Grandma. Yank. Yank, YANK HARDER! She, too, is defeated.

But then Pop swaggers up. His pointless shades at this early hour are perched on his chiseled face. His cargo shorts are full of magical and mystical Fatherhood tools. He’s been waiting for a worthy opponent. He knows his feeble mother and sissy son can’t be trusted.

His white socks are pulled up over his bulging calves, and they strain, even with his New Balance tactical tennis shoes, as he launches himself against the door.

Taken aback that his frontal assault isn’t successful, he grabs the door and, with the power of Odin, his forefather, pulls at the door as if he’s straining to lift Mjolnir to prove his worthiness. The door is still standing.

Finally, he resorts to his last hope. You might be thinking, “Look at the Hours on the door!”

But you’d be wrong. He calls the restaurant. I debate on whether to answer and decide that this should be a learning experience.

Mother and Grandma are peeking into a window, gazing at the chairs stacked on top of the tables. There are no lights on in the dining room.

Pops is standing near the door, cellphone in hand, tapping his bright white New Balance shoes in anticipation of the fight that will soon be happening. He WILL get his family French toast at this steakhouse at 7:05 AM!

Lanky son with his long curls hanging over his eyes looks up briefly. Pushes the hair away from his eyes as he stares at the Hours of Operation.

You can actually see the gears turning inside his head as he desperately tries to figure out what the clues are telling him.

Finally, he slowly lifts his entire arm and points at the sign.

The family slowly retreats to the safety of the shiny black Suburban. They’ll soon forget this defeat as they search for bacon and eggs. So, they’ll be back. Not realizing that we never open for breakfast. They’ll try again soon. Soon.

I used to complain about going to Home Depot all the time with my dad because he would always just want to wander around, so he tried to compromise.

Dad: “Okay, what’s your favorite part of the store?”

Me: “The exit.”

A customer has ordered a quattro formaggi pizza.

Customer: *Cutting into one of the slices.* “Which quarter is the blue cheese… because I don’t like blue cheese.”

What made it worse was that we actually offered six cheeses to go on the pizza, and the customer could swap any in or out that they wanted to make the four. I explained that the gorgonzola was a blue cheese, and they still kept it in.

I’ve been teaching for a long time. A LONG time. Many of my students’ parents were my students, and in a couple of cases, grandparents. I have no tolerance for BS anymore.

The school provides buses for all students, even the ones who live in the house across the narrow road from the entrance to the school parking lot and on the adjacent property to the school, as every time the district has tried to cut courtesy bus service for students close enough to walk to school, the parents have been up in arms.

And still, the parking lot is full of parents dropping off their children every morning, with the official traffic study showing roughly half of the students being brought in by parents.

It is routine for parents to drive at highway speeds, the fastest clocked this year is 50mph, and to go around vehicles trying to park, in the parking lot, at a school. Often passing on both sides.

Last week, I had a parent in a Maserati (a not uncommon personal vehicle here) pass between me and the stall I was turning into, while signalling, to do a bootlegger turn rather than drive the additional few feet to the turn around. Again, not uncommon. The parking lot is painted with tire scars.

I stopped.

He was blocked.

I got out, went to his window, and told him that I was happy that he found a car that properly compensated for the size of his genitalia, but given that it is a school, not a Formula One course, he should drive appropriately. I can say these things. I’m old, and I’m retiring. His response is unprintable and may constitute a criminal threat, but it proceeded no further at that point.

It took less than an hour, though. I was called by the Assistant Principal to explain why I was being disrespectful. I told her to look at the video; it’s the 2020’s, and there are cameras everywhere.

I have heard no more about it. No follow-up, apology, anything. But I expect no less. Or more.