[If you are my friend and you go to jail, I might write you something like this. I'll hope you like it.]
I don’t know what to say to you or how to say it. Lesser men would respond to such a problem by saying nothing, or worse, by saying something they shouldn’t have said and in the wrong way. Greater men would respond by saying the correct thing in the correct way. A man of my exact caliber, however, and more specifically myself particularly, would respond to such a problem by breaking it down into smaller, more palatable problems and solving them individually, successfully, and thirdly.
The first part of the problem is, “I don’t know what to say,” which is a condensed way of saying “I know that I don’t know what to say,” and it implies that something should be said, otherwise I wouldn’t say that I don’t know what to say, I would just go ahead and not say anything. I don’t, for example, know what to say when a blade of grass sways gently in the breeze, but that’s not a problem, it’s simply a fact about myself that is very strange for me to be aware of consciously. “I don’t know what to say,” then, is actually quite assertive, in contrast to the phrase, “actually quite assertive,” which is the phrasal equivalent of, say, fixing yourself a light brunch at home and eating it alone.
Seen in this light, the first part of the problem is clearly the first part of the solution. The problem cannot be solved unless I say something. But not only that—it cannot be solved unless I say something that I do not know to say. That is, I have to say something that I do not have the knowledge within me to say. I have to say something that I did not know to say, either out loud or to myself, before, during, or after I said it. So basically I have to say something that I would never have thought of and that I did not, do not, and will not think applies up to the moment you receive this letter, at which point I am entitled to change my mind without consequence to the truthfulness of this letter within its intended context.
One obvious solution to part one of the problem then is to quote to you a letter I did not write, which was instead written for reasons unknown by a complete stranger to a dead author (of a book I don’t understand), the meaning of which appears to rely heavily on understanding references to a musician and a poet, both of which I am indifferent to, and none of which applies to you in any way known to me.
The second part of the problem is “…or how to say it,” which seemed simple enough to fix (translate the letter into another language so that I literally don’t know how to pronounce the words) until I realized that this letter might be read as a security measure and that it would probably violate some rule or another to end it with a solid paragraph of, say, Russian or Arabic. Another problem is that, for this to be something that needs to be said to you, you have to be able to understand it, so it has to be in English anyway. I hope you will accept the best solution to this problem I could come up with, which was to use Google Translate to thoroughly translate the letter into several different languages before re-translating it back into English, ensuring that it is indeed something I didn’t know to say, and that I didn’t know how to say it as much as possible while still making sure it reached you in an acceptable form.
So, without further introduction, the letter translated from English to Chinese to Japanese to Korean to Russian and back to English:
“Dear Japan, four Salinger
When I was younger, my friends lie to me, as the release now I bought a paper copy of the precipice. The jacket, he probably will take me after graduation, our friendship and our lives are touched by the changes you've written. Notes, he and David Bowie misquoted. My friend David Bowie once said, the date, time may change me, but you can not change. Bowie concert, in fact, time may change me, but you can not keep track of time. Apparently, he's on a misconception of Robert Burns Horton that emotional intimacy with the body of a misunderstanding really grabbed Rai said. I never tell their friends about their mistakes. I just go.”
Mission accomplished. So, you’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. One of those.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Dear Jesse
I am writing on behalf of myself to express my deep sorrow regarding your recent course of action. I was first made aware of my present concerns when you feebly beckoned Sam to get off at the next exit, though such a maneuver was inconsistent with our intended destination. As soon as the car came to a stop, as you may well recall, you left the passenger seat in favor of the foliage near the off ramp and proceeded to vomit presumably all of the iced coffee, tortilla chips and sunflower seeds you had consumed during our outing thus far. This was, I trust you can imagine, an extremely uncomfortable experience.
Had you instead remained in the car for the duration of the trip, and chosen to go to the supermarket with us instead of getting dropped off at the apartment, and chosen to help us fix dinner instead of locking us out and falling into a deep sleep, then perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps you would have enjoyed several helpings of spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread. Perhaps you would have had a beer and washed it down with another beer. Perhaps you would have taken some initiative with the salad, so it could have been something more than a bowl of chopped Romaine. However, your decision to continue slinking about the living room and to on occasion get down on the ground and roll under the coffee table and hold your head demonstrates your blatant disregard not only for dinner, but for the institution of vacation itself. It is disrespectful of our plans for tomorrow, and it is disrespectful of my plans to thoroughly digest my own dinner and my as yet uneaten breakfast.
So I beg you, if you find left in yourself any shred of decency, any kernel of concern for your fellow man, any piece of corn or chunk of carrot for our tickets to the Giants game tomorrow, I beg you, get well soon.
Had you instead remained in the car for the duration of the trip, and chosen to go to the supermarket with us instead of getting dropped off at the apartment, and chosen to help us fix dinner instead of locking us out and falling into a deep sleep, then perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps you would have enjoyed several helpings of spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread. Perhaps you would have had a beer and washed it down with another beer. Perhaps you would have taken some initiative with the salad, so it could have been something more than a bowl of chopped Romaine. However, your decision to continue slinking about the living room and to on occasion get down on the ground and roll under the coffee table and hold your head demonstrates your blatant disregard not only for dinner, but for the institution of vacation itself. It is disrespectful of our plans for tomorrow, and it is disrespectful of my plans to thoroughly digest my own dinner and my as yet uneaten breakfast.
So I beg you, if you find left in yourself any shred of decency, any kernel of concern for your fellow man, any piece of corn or chunk of carrot for our tickets to the Giants game tomorrow, I beg you, get well soon.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Oregon: The If Only I'd Been In The Golden State
I'm having trouble staying awake right now (pre-edit, a portion of the last post read "You're running it debit and not creditddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd," so I'm not just tellin' tales) but these stories need to be told (pre-edit, a portion of this post read "I'm not just tellin' tails).
This thing also happened:
I was driving. I was on a boring stretch of some highway where everything was brown. I don't know which highway because I wasn't paying attention. That is the first of two reasons for why what happened happened. The second is, I was in Oregon.
I noticed a police car coming up fast from behind so I pulled over a lane to let it pass. Instead it stayed in the lane beside me and slowed to match my speed. You'd think I was lying if I didn't tell you I was on the phone when this began to happen. You'd think that, but you'd be wrong because the fact that I was on the phone is no more relevant to the story than the fact that I was wearing Reebok brand work shoes.
Okay, I'm officially tired in that way where you feel like you're getting a fever. I'm sweaty tired. It's time to finish this story later, but nevertheless post it now. Yes. Good decision.
This thing also happened:
I was driving. I was on a boring stretch of some highway where everything was brown. I don't know which highway because I wasn't paying attention. That is the first of two reasons for why what happened happened. The second is, I was in Oregon.
I noticed a police car coming up fast from behind so I pulled over a lane to let it pass. Instead it stayed in the lane beside me and slowed to match my speed. You'd think I was lying if I didn't tell you I was on the phone when this began to happen. You'd think that, but you'd be wrong because the fact that I was on the phone is no more relevant to the story than the fact that I was wearing Reebok brand work shoes.
Okay, I'm officially tired in that way where you feel like you're getting a fever. I'm sweaty tired. It's time to finish this story later, but nevertheless post it now. Yes. Good decision.
This Happened:
I was driving. I needed gas. I pulled off at the next gas station. I was in Oregon.
A burly-on-the-verge-of-husky man approached me. He had on a flannel shirt and sported an Oregonian beard, which means it was thick and proud and fair trade and recyclable. He was there to pump my gas. For me. Instead of me.
"How ya doin' boss?" he said.
I was annoyed by him—by his presence.
"Good," I said on my way out of the van. "How are you?"
"Can't complain."
I could, and am now.
"I wanna fill it, or get as close as I can on this." I said, pulling out my fleet card. "This acts like a debit, so I'll have to put in a pin."
I finished with all of those words before handing him the card, despite the fact that he'd been nodding his head knowingly and beckoning with his hands for me to give him the card and let him take it from there ever since the "ah" part of "I wa...."
Now came the moment for his expertise to kick in. This was what he trained for. If he was ever at a gas station in another state and came across an old lady having trouble pumping gas, and he helped her, and she thanked him, he could say "No problem at all, ma'am. It's what I do," and I was about to see why. In what would have been an out-of-body experience in any other state (save New Jersey, which you can always get out of on a half tank anyway), I watched him insert the card into the card reader slot, remove it quickly, and punch in a response to whatever question or option came up on the screen, presumably yes to "we're still getting away doing this here, right?"
"It says see attendant." He said.
I didn't have a mirror handy, so I opted instead to ask, "but did you run it as debit? Because it has to be debit, and I need to enter a pin."
"Hang on," he said. He swiped the card, hit a key, checked the screen, and checked the back of the card to see if it was there. Being a three-dimensional object, it was. He checked the screen again, then both sides of the card.
"I guess we don't take these here."
"Are you sure? I still haven't had a chance to enter my pin. Is it not even getting that far, to let me put in my pin number?"
"Well," he said, "I can try it in here." He walked to the attendants' booth and tried the card there. It didn't work. He looked at me. "You got cash or another way to pay?" His beard looked rushed, almost exasperated.
"Sure but I'm not ready to give up on that. I don't understand why you aren't having me enter the pin. You're running it debit and not credit?"
He looked away in a flash of inspiration. "Hey Mike, do we take a fleet card like this?"
Mike was passing by at full walking speed, no doubt on important gas station attendant business, but he was a small man and didn't take long to stop.
"What have we got," he said more than asked, and took the card to inspect both sides. They were there all right. He motioned to another car. "You get them and I'll try this." I followed Mike.
"It's a company card but you have to run it as debit, and I've got a pin for it." I said as we walked.
Mike tried the card with no success.
"Sorry boss. Have you got another card."
It's debit. Did you try debit, not credit?"
"Oh, it's debit?"
A burly-on-the-verge-of-husky man approached me. He had on a flannel shirt and sported an Oregonian beard, which means it was thick and proud and fair trade and recyclable. He was there to pump my gas. For me. Instead of me.
"How ya doin' boss?" he said.
I was annoyed by him—by his presence.
"Good," I said on my way out of the van. "How are you?"
"Can't complain."
I could, and am now.
"I wanna fill it, or get as close as I can on this." I said, pulling out my fleet card. "This acts like a debit, so I'll have to put in a pin."
I finished with all of those words before handing him the card, despite the fact that he'd been nodding his head knowingly and beckoning with his hands for me to give him the card and let him take it from there ever since the "ah" part of "I wa...."
Now came the moment for his expertise to kick in. This was what he trained for. If he was ever at a gas station in another state and came across an old lady having trouble pumping gas, and he helped her, and she thanked him, he could say "No problem at all, ma'am. It's what I do," and I was about to see why. In what would have been an out-of-body experience in any other state (save New Jersey, which you can always get out of on a half tank anyway), I watched him insert the card into the card reader slot, remove it quickly, and punch in a response to whatever question or option came up on the screen, presumably yes to "we're still getting away doing this here, right?"
"It says see attendant." He said.
I didn't have a mirror handy, so I opted instead to ask, "but did you run it as debit? Because it has to be debit, and I need to enter a pin."
"Hang on," he said. He swiped the card, hit a key, checked the screen, and checked the back of the card to see if it was there. Being a three-dimensional object, it was. He checked the screen again, then both sides of the card.
"I guess we don't take these here."
"Are you sure? I still haven't had a chance to enter my pin. Is it not even getting that far, to let me put in my pin number?"
"Well," he said, "I can try it in here." He walked to the attendants' booth and tried the card there. It didn't work. He looked at me. "You got cash or another way to pay?" His beard looked rushed, almost exasperated.
"Sure but I'm not ready to give up on that. I don't understand why you aren't having me enter the pin. You're running it debit and not credit?"
He looked away in a flash of inspiration. "Hey Mike, do we take a fleet card like this?"
Mike was passing by at full walking speed, no doubt on important gas station attendant business, but he was a small man and didn't take long to stop.
"What have we got," he said more than asked, and took the card to inspect both sides. They were there all right. He motioned to another car. "You get them and I'll try this." I followed Mike.
"It's a company card but you have to run it as debit, and I've got a pin for it." I said as we walked.
Mike tried the card with no success.
"Sorry boss. Have you got another card."
It's debit. Did you try debit, not credit?"
"Oh, it's debit?"
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
@iPhone
iPhone makes thumbs supreme--
No longer bound
To space bar,
While fingers, folded, huddle--
Restless--
In crowded silence.
To be all thumbs
Is insult no more.
Now thumbs speak freely--
Finally--
Of likes and dislikes.
Of where I am.
Of what I am doing.
Of--
Thumbs so tired.
#sothisisevolution
No longer bound
To space bar,
While fingers, folded, huddle--
Restless--
In crowded silence.
To be all thumbs
Is insult no more.
Now thumbs speak freely--
Finally--
Of likes and dislikes.
Of where I am.
Of what I am doing.
Of--
Thumbs so tired.
#sothisisevolution
Monday, February 28, 2011
What’s Invisible And Smells Like Carrots?
You’re not going to know anything about my new job unless I tell you, so let’s go ahead and get this out of the way. First you need to know that I’m keen to avoid causing Google searches about my company to lead people here, so if I seem vague, I’m not just being myself.
My new title is something like Touring Serviceman, without the 1940s flair, and I work for a company named after exactly what it is, a nationwide provider of various commercial filters. The initials of this company are on my company van, hat and shirt, but they are not on my pants, because they are not company pants, they are just pants. This makes sense from the company’s perspective because what they’re doing is paying me to drive on a two-weeks-solid, roughly 2,000-mile solo route changing HVAC filters on the roofs of commercial buildings, with only $60 a day for food and lodging (technically only for lodging, but… for food and lodging), and this promotes a lifestyle that naturally involves a steady diet of AM/PM hot dogs, Big Gulps, and El Pollo Loco, and a lot of high-elevation alone time, so it’s the pants, in this equation, that really take the brunt of the action. Yeah, that’s a fart joke. So is the title. Fart jokes happen, so deal with it. Just be glad you can laugh about it. Be glad you aren’t pants.
Sorry, I do this thing sometimes where I get mad at someone for being mad, and really it’s just an excuse to be mad. And most of the time the other person isn’t even mad. It’s just me that’s mad. And most of the time there isn’t even another person, it’s just me in a van on a lonely stretch of road someplace between Sacramento and Portland, or on a roof changing HVAC filters, and I’m not even mad, I’m in a great mood actually, and they’re my own damn pants I bought with my own money so there’s nothing to worry about and we can go on to talking about something else now. Sorry.
And I’m sorry but if you think I’m going to apologize—alright that’s all. I just wanted to write that. I’m going to move on now for real. Wouldn't want to beat a dead horse. Because, you know, if a horse isn’t alive then you’re wasting your time beating it. Get yourself a live horse, is what I say. I don’t say that. I don’t endorse beating horses in any stage of the horse life cycle, let alone the shorter, less smelly, “living” stage. Why are we talking about horses?
Anyway it works out because, besides smelling, you’d think touring servicemen would have something else in common with dead horses—that they wouldn’t eat a lot of carrots. But you’d be wrong. Good thing you’re here.
My new title is something like Touring Serviceman, without the 1940s flair, and I work for a company named after exactly what it is, a nationwide provider of various commercial filters. The initials of this company are on my company van, hat and shirt, but they are not on my pants, because they are not company pants, they are just pants. This makes sense from the company’s perspective because what they’re doing is paying me to drive on a two-weeks-solid, roughly 2,000-mile solo route changing HVAC filters on the roofs of commercial buildings, with only $60 a day for food and lodging (technically only for lodging, but… for food and lodging), and this promotes a lifestyle that naturally involves a steady diet of AM/PM hot dogs, Big Gulps, and El Pollo Loco, and a lot of high-elevation alone time, so it’s the pants, in this equation, that really take the brunt of the action. Yeah, that’s a fart joke. So is the title. Fart jokes happen, so deal with it. Just be glad you can laugh about it. Be glad you aren’t pants.
Sorry, I do this thing sometimes where I get mad at someone for being mad, and really it’s just an excuse to be mad. And most of the time the other person isn’t even mad. It’s just me that’s mad. And most of the time there isn’t even another person, it’s just me in a van on a lonely stretch of road someplace between Sacramento and Portland, or on a roof changing HVAC filters, and I’m not even mad, I’m in a great mood actually, and they’re my own damn pants I bought with my own money so there’s nothing to worry about and we can go on to talking about something else now. Sorry.
And I’m sorry but if you think I’m going to apologize—alright that’s all. I just wanted to write that. I’m going to move on now for real. Wouldn't want to beat a dead horse. Because, you know, if a horse isn’t alive then you’re wasting your time beating it. Get yourself a live horse, is what I say. I don’t say that. I don’t endorse beating horses in any stage of the horse life cycle, let alone the shorter, less smelly, “living” stage. Why are we talking about horses?
Anyway it works out because, besides smelling, you’d think touring servicemen would have something else in common with dead horses—that they wouldn’t eat a lot of carrots. But you’d be wrong. Good thing you’re here.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Company hat, Company shirt, My pants
When I talked to John for the first time on the phone, his voice sounded raspy and distracted, like maybe he'd woken up to get a glass of water and had inhaled a dandelion instead. I instantly formed a mental image of a man who'd been working on his beard for a couple winters too long, who wore a flannel shirt to church, and who was just overweight enough to give the world something to try to forget every time he bent over.
I called him from K-Mart because there was nothing on or near the Dickies there to assure me that they were navy blue and not just... pants blue. John was the guy who was going to be training me, so he seemed like the guy to ask. Normally I feel qualified to identify navy blue, I told John, but the blue of the reinforced knee Dickies didn't precisely match the regular fit, and I wanted to know how important it was that they were navy blue, because on Craigslist and on the phone they were very clear that the pants had to be navy blue, and they hadn't sent the company shirts yet, and were they going to get upset if my pants were the wrong shade of blue, and I know it's probably not the end of the world but I just don't want to start off with them on the wrong foot.
"You do know they're in Virginia, right?"
Right. Thanks John. Sorry to bother you.
"You got non-slip boots right?"
Well not yet but I was on it, and did it have to be boots because the emails and everything all said boots or shoes, so I had been planning on shoes because those would probably be a lot cheaper and I didn't want to go overboard with buying stuff before I got out there and saw what the job was really like, but if it had to be boots then that's great I can get boots I just hadn't planned on it.
"Just make sure they're non-slip."
Cool. Boots or shoes. Check or check. See you Friday.
I called him from K-Mart because there was nothing on or near the Dickies there to assure me that they were navy blue and not just... pants blue. John was the guy who was going to be training me, so he seemed like the guy to ask. Normally I feel qualified to identify navy blue, I told John, but the blue of the reinforced knee Dickies didn't precisely match the regular fit, and I wanted to know how important it was that they were navy blue, because on Craigslist and on the phone they were very clear that the pants had to be navy blue, and they hadn't sent the company shirts yet, and were they going to get upset if my pants were the wrong shade of blue, and I know it's probably not the end of the world but I just don't want to start off with them on the wrong foot.
"You do know they're in Virginia, right?"
Right. Thanks John. Sorry to bother you.
"You got non-slip boots right?"
Well not yet but I was on it, and did it have to be boots because the emails and everything all said boots or shoes, so I had been planning on shoes because those would probably be a lot cheaper and I didn't want to go overboard with buying stuff before I got out there and saw what the job was really like, but if it had to be boots then that's great I can get boots I just hadn't planned on it.
"Just make sure they're non-slip."
Cool. Boots or shoes. Check or check. See you Friday.
A Brief Interlude To Vent
If we ever had this conversation, I don't like you:
"Do you like Cake? The band?"
"Cake? Weren't they cool for a little while in, like, the late '90s?"
"Well yeah they got a lot of radio play in the '90s. Going the Distance. Short Skirt, Long Jacket... I think Fashion Nugget sold pretty well."
"Yeah I think I bought Fashion Nugget. You still listen to them? Why?"
Want. To. Stab.
"Do you like Cake? The band?"
"Cake? Weren't they cool for a little while in, like, the late '90s?"
"Well yeah they got a lot of radio play in the '90s. Going the Distance. Short Skirt, Long Jacket... I think Fashion Nugget sold pretty well."
"Yeah I think I bought Fashion Nugget. You still listen to them? Why?"
Want. To. Stab.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
An Unfiltered Blog Post
I have to go to work on Monday, which I promise you is weird. You might have taken someone at their word in the past and you might have been let down, and therefore at this point you might be having a hard time accepting that it's weird that I would go to work on a Monday simply because I promise that it's weird, and if that's the case then I imagine you're wondering if I couldn't give you more to work with than (a)n (potentially) empty promise. But, strangely (and I think you'll agree), I imagine you're wondering this in the form of the question, "what's it like?"
Well, it's like this: I was originally scheduled to begin my route on a Thursday last month (and this month too, [editor's note: I just found out what "by proxy" means, and it doesn't fit here] by extension [editor's note: fingers crossed]), and I would have too if it weren't for dumb Expedia and dumb United Airlines and dumb fog. But that's a topic better left to a filtered blog post.
Well, it's like this: I was originally scheduled to begin my route on a Thursday last month (and this month too, [editor's note: I just found out what "by proxy" means, and it doesn't fit here] by extension [editor's note: fingers crossed]), and I would have too if it weren't for dumb Expedia and dumb United Airlines and dumb fog. But that's a topic better left to a filtered blog post.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Losers Never Quit: Your Video Guide To Anything But This
Part 1: "It's not you, The Present, it's me..."
So you're finally ready to quit your job as a pizza delivery driver. Congratulations! And good for you. You could have waited another two months and made it a solid three years at the same dead end, but you're choosing to Move On. You might be moving on because you have:
- secured a better opportunity
- secured another opportunity
- sustained a serious injury
or simply
- stopped hating yourself so much
Whatever the specific reason or reasons, you're quitting to Win! Yes, the future can be scary, but the future is—maybe not so much yours as—well at least it's not Theirs.
Part 2: "We need to talk, The Past. I've met someone else..."
Look at you over there with your new job offer. Aren't you a fantastic pair.
Getting a new job is really the best way to leave your old job, so way to go. You're strolling through life down the path marked "awesome." What's more, training starts in two days, and you just found out today, so you're current boss is going to be pissed something fierce. This will be not-good-but-great news if you:
- hate your boss (as a boss, not as a person)
- hate your boss (as a person? Do you...hate...people...?)
- hate working alongside the boss's alcoholic narcissistic best buddy
- regularly fantasize about leaving without giving any notice at all
These are all great reasons, and you can probably think up some more on your own. But being excited about the possibility of quitting on short notice does not prepare you for the reality of quitting on short notice. In a moment, your instructor will be distributing a handout to help you practice the most likely scenario of giving your boss two days notice. If possible, break into groups of three and act out the provided scene, then discuss your experience as a class. Your instructor may have additional directions. Now, pause the tape, and hit play again when you are ready for Part 3.
Supplementary Handout:
EMPLOYEE has just received a job offer on a day off and needs to tell BOSS as soon as possible. Having learned that BOSS is taking a break at Best Buy, EMPLOYEE drives to Best Buy and wanders into the television section. There they see each other at the same moment. SALESPERSON waits offstage.
BOSS: Hey, what's going on?
EMPLOYEE: Hey, I actually came here looking for you. I need to talk to you. (EMPLOYEE settles into a stance almost perpendicular to BOSS'S)
EMPLOYEE notices several brochures in BOSS'S hand.
EMPLOYEE: Are you...are you with a salesperson?
BOSS: (Looking around) Yeah, can it wait?
EMPLOYEE: Uh...actually I need to tell you something right now, and you're not going to be happy about it.
SALESPERSON approaches.
BOSS: What? Are you leaving?
EMPLOYEE: Yeah.
BOSS: (Looking at SALESPERSON) When?
EMPLOYEE: Two days. I can work tomorrow and Thursday, then I start training on Friday and I'll be gone for two weeks straight.
SALESPERSON comes close enough that the three form a small triangle, unsure what is happening.
BOSS: Why...wha...why didn't you tell me...before?
BOSS clearly wants to throw a man-sized tantrum, but cannot in Best Buy. SALESPERSON stares ahead uncomfortably
EMPLOYEE: I just found out this morning. (EMPLOYEE becomes aware of the stance, something picked up from Matt Damon about standing with your gun hip away from people)
BOSS: I uh...we've got to talk later.
EMPLOYEE: Okay. (Turns to leave, then stops and turns back) Hey, do you want me to work tomorrow?
BOSS: (Definite) Yes.
EMPLOYEE turns and walks away, trying not to smile
Part 3: "Hi there, you must be The Future. My name is..."
You have reached the end of Tape 1. Insert Tape 2 for no further instructions.
So you're finally ready to quit your job as a pizza delivery driver. Congratulations! And good for you. You could have waited another two months and made it a solid three years at the same dead end, but you're choosing to Move On. You might be moving on because you have:
- secured a better opportunity
- secured another opportunity
- sustained a serious injury
or simply
- stopped hating yourself so much
Whatever the specific reason or reasons, you're quitting to Win! Yes, the future can be scary, but the future is—maybe not so much yours as—well at least it's not Theirs.
Part 2: "We need to talk, The Past. I've met someone else..."
Look at you over there with your new job offer. Aren't you a fantastic pair.
Getting a new job is really the best way to leave your old job, so way to go. You're strolling through life down the path marked "awesome." What's more, training starts in two days, and you just found out today, so you're current boss is going to be pissed something fierce. This will be not-good-but-great news if you:
- hate your boss (as a boss, not as a person)
- hate your boss (as a person? Do you...hate...people...?)
- hate working alongside the boss's alcoholic narcissistic best buddy
- regularly fantasize about leaving without giving any notice at all
These are all great reasons, and you can probably think up some more on your own. But being excited about the possibility of quitting on short notice does not prepare you for the reality of quitting on short notice. In a moment, your instructor will be distributing a handout to help you practice the most likely scenario of giving your boss two days notice. If possible, break into groups of three and act out the provided scene, then discuss your experience as a class. Your instructor may have additional directions. Now, pause the tape, and hit play again when you are ready for Part 3.
Supplementary Handout:
EMPLOYEE has just received a job offer on a day off and needs to tell BOSS as soon as possible. Having learned that BOSS is taking a break at Best Buy, EMPLOYEE drives to Best Buy and wanders into the television section. There they see each other at the same moment. SALESPERSON waits offstage.
BOSS: Hey, what's going on?
EMPLOYEE: Hey, I actually came here looking for you. I need to talk to you. (EMPLOYEE settles into a stance almost perpendicular to BOSS'S)
EMPLOYEE notices several brochures in BOSS'S hand.
EMPLOYEE: Are you...are you with a salesperson?
BOSS: (Looking around) Yeah, can it wait?
EMPLOYEE: Uh...actually I need to tell you something right now, and you're not going to be happy about it.
SALESPERSON approaches.
BOSS: What? Are you leaving?
EMPLOYEE: Yeah.
BOSS: (Looking at SALESPERSON) When?
EMPLOYEE: Two days. I can work tomorrow and Thursday, then I start training on Friday and I'll be gone for two weeks straight.
SALESPERSON comes close enough that the three form a small triangle, unsure what is happening.
BOSS: Why...wha...why didn't you tell me...before?
BOSS clearly wants to throw a man-sized tantrum, but cannot in Best Buy. SALESPERSON stares ahead uncomfortably
EMPLOYEE: I just found out this morning. (EMPLOYEE becomes aware of the stance, something picked up from Matt Damon about standing with your gun hip away from people)
BOSS: I uh...we've got to talk later.
EMPLOYEE: Okay. (Turns to leave, then stops and turns back) Hey, do you want me to work tomorrow?
BOSS: (Definite) Yes.
EMPLOYEE turns and walks away, trying not to smile
Part 3: "Hi there, you must be The Future. My name is..."
You have reached the end of Tape 1. Insert Tape 2 for no further instructions.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A Hiss, A Piss, A Screen Door, Roodneercsassipassiha
Get a load of this story:
For years my mom tried to convince my dad that a neighborhood cat was regularly peeing on their front door, thus explaining a discoloration at the door's base. The conversations would go something like this:
"I'm telling you, there's a cat peeing on the door. It pees on the screen and it's getting on the door."
"...uh huh."
Her theory was, of course, ridiculous, except for the fact that a cat has indeed been peeing on their front door. This was confirmed when my parents removed the screen door in anticipation of replacing it, and my dad found a puddle of cat piss in the doorway the next morning.
A couple of days later I was delivering pizzas when I noticed two strange devices plugged into a customer's porch outlet. They were dome-shaped objects about two inches around and extended about an inch from the outlet. At first I thought they might be nightlights, but then I remembered that is was night and not light. I asked the customer about them as he signed the receipt.
"Oh, those... we had voles," he said, and explained that the devices emitted a frequency that repelled the voles but didn't bother people.
"Do they work on cats?" I asked.
"On cats? I don't know," he said. "Out here we've got coyotes... those work on cats."
For years my mom tried to convince my dad that a neighborhood cat was regularly peeing on their front door, thus explaining a discoloration at the door's base. The conversations would go something like this:
"I'm telling you, there's a cat peeing on the door. It pees on the screen and it's getting on the door."
"...uh huh."
Her theory was, of course, ridiculous, except for the fact that a cat has indeed been peeing on their front door. This was confirmed when my parents removed the screen door in anticipation of replacing it, and my dad found a puddle of cat piss in the doorway the next morning.
A couple of days later I was delivering pizzas when I noticed two strange devices plugged into a customer's porch outlet. They were dome-shaped objects about two inches around and extended about an inch from the outlet. At first I thought they might be nightlights, but then I remembered that is was night and not light. I asked the customer about them as he signed the receipt.
"Oh, those... we had voles," he said, and explained that the devices emitted a frequency that repelled the voles but didn't bother people.
"Do they work on cats?" I asked.
"On cats? I don't know," he said. "Out here we've got coyotes... those work on cats."
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Trailer For My Next Blog Post About My New Job
John continued to explain the filter count change sheet.
"And here you'll circle N or A for whether it's actual or nominal."
I stared at the paper, and then at John. He continued.
"It's almost always going to be nominal. I don't think I've ever had to order a frame that was actually, you know, 20x25 or 16x20."
"I don't, know what you're talking about," I said. "What's nominal."
"Nominal? You know, 'nominal,' like with a 2x4?"
I stared at John, and then at the paper. He stared at me.
"I, um...," he said. "I don't know how to explain it in 'geek.'"
"And here you'll circle N or A for whether it's actual or nominal."
I stared at the paper, and then at John. He continued.
"It's almost always going to be nominal. I don't think I've ever had to order a frame that was actually, you know, 20x25 or 16x20."
"I don't, know what you're talking about," I said. "What's nominal."
"Nominal? You know, 'nominal,' like with a 2x4?"
I stared at John, and then at the paper. He stared at me.
"I, um...," he said. "I don't know how to explain it in 'geek.'"
Monday, November 29, 2010
Adulthood Survival Guide: Dust In The Nick Of Time
You know that stack of magazines in between your dresser and bookshelf? What magazines? Well maybe if you dusted more often you'd remember. But wait, dust only settles on things you don't use, right? So what's the point of picking something up only to, in the grand scheme of things, set it right back down again?
Some people feel pressured to dust for hygienic reasons, but those people aren't taking into account the fact that dust is made up almost entirely of dead skin. If hygiene is your concern, take the direct approach: shower once daily. That way, whatever sloughs off will probably be cleaner than what it lands on anyway. You'll be, in effect, cleaning you're whole house by diffusion.
Still set on dusting? Science hasn't changed your mind? How about economics—does that do it for ya, Jack? If time is money, then why dust when you can move? After all, moving once a year is the only sure-fire way to lock in those move-in specials, and anyone can go a year between dustings. Maybe you don't care for the flat gray luster on top of the filing cabinet in your closet, or maybe you just want to cut down on the weight before lugging that old thing down the stairs. Go ahead, brush that dust onto the floor. Don't worry, it'll get there eventually. Even if you don't plan on vacuuming, you likely have a legal obligation to have the carpets professionally cleaned if you want your full deposit back. So what's that haze in the air? That's a check in the mail.
Some people feel pressured to dust for hygienic reasons, but those people aren't taking into account the fact that dust is made up almost entirely of dead skin. If hygiene is your concern, take the direct approach: shower once daily. That way, whatever sloughs off will probably be cleaner than what it lands on anyway. You'll be, in effect, cleaning you're whole house by diffusion.
Still set on dusting? Science hasn't changed your mind? How about economics—does that do it for ya, Jack? If time is money, then why dust when you can move? After all, moving once a year is the only sure-fire way to lock in those move-in specials, and anyone can go a year between dustings. Maybe you don't care for the flat gray luster on top of the filing cabinet in your closet, or maybe you just want to cut down on the weight before lugging that old thing down the stairs. Go ahead, brush that dust onto the floor. Don't worry, it'll get there eventually. Even if you don't plan on vacuuming, you likely have a legal obligation to have the carpets professionally cleaned if you want your full deposit back. So what's that haze in the air? That's a check in the mail.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Left On The Kitchen Counter In A Sealed Enveloped Marked Simply, "Microwave"
Dear Microwave,
I've gone out for the night and I'm not coming back. I know it's partly my fault that we haven't been talking. Maybe it's because I'm trying to eat healthier and I just can't see you ever being interested in that. I'm sorry, but I can't. I would have called but I know you won't answer your phone. Of all the appliances to have a tumor phobia... Microwave I'm starting to miss you already. This probably won't make things any easier for you, but I want you to know this isn't easy for me, either.
You asked me what it is that I want and I wish I knew. I think I just want to know why everything has to be so difficult with you. With my phone, I don't even have to think about it. And my computer is the same way. I went out to get lunch today and it was like the whole world was business as usual. Like it was no big deal. But on a day like today when I'm at home, with you, I can't even be sure what time it is. You make me feel like a child. I literally have to ignore you just so I can make some toast or get a vitamin water without second guessing when I got up or if I'm going to be late picking Brea and Garret up from the airport.
It's obvious that you forgot daylight savings time ended today. I wasn't even going to tell you. I wanted to see how long it took for you to figure it out. Probably the better half of a year like last time. And I don't know why I bother because we both know you're just going to wait around for someone to come along and fix you anyway, and you won't make it easy. You'll let someone change your cook time or your kitchen timer a hundred times a day like it's no big deal, but when it comes to adjusting your one setting that counts up, it's like trial and error with you every time.
What I'm trying to say is that the times have changed, and you may have everyone else fooled into thinking you're ahead, but I know you're stuck in the past. I hope you change someday, I really do, but I can't be a part of your start/stop routine anymore. Goodbye, Microwave, and good luck.
I've gone out for the night and I'm not coming back. I know it's partly my fault that we haven't been talking. Maybe it's because I'm trying to eat healthier and I just can't see you ever being interested in that. I'm sorry, but I can't. I would have called but I know you won't answer your phone. Of all the appliances to have a tumor phobia... Microwave I'm starting to miss you already. This probably won't make things any easier for you, but I want you to know this isn't easy for me, either.
You asked me what it is that I want and I wish I knew. I think I just want to know why everything has to be so difficult with you. With my phone, I don't even have to think about it. And my computer is the same way. I went out to get lunch today and it was like the whole world was business as usual. Like it was no big deal. But on a day like today when I'm at home, with you, I can't even be sure what time it is. You make me feel like a child. I literally have to ignore you just so I can make some toast or get a vitamin water without second guessing when I got up or if I'm going to be late picking Brea and Garret up from the airport.
It's obvious that you forgot daylight savings time ended today. I wasn't even going to tell you. I wanted to see how long it took for you to figure it out. Probably the better half of a year like last time. And I don't know why I bother because we both know you're just going to wait around for someone to come along and fix you anyway, and you won't make it easy. You'll let someone change your cook time or your kitchen timer a hundred times a day like it's no big deal, but when it comes to adjusting your one setting that counts up, it's like trial and error with you every time.
What I'm trying to say is that the times have changed, and you may have everyone else fooled into thinking you're ahead, but I know you're stuck in the past. I hope you change someday, I really do, but I can't be a part of your start/stop routine anymore. Goodbye, Microwave, and good luck.
Friday, October 29, 2010
When Internal Monologues Attack
I'm saddened by how many of my stories begin with the phrase "so, I was delivering a pizza...." Lately I'm also a little grossed out by it, since the dark recesses of my mind recently provided an image to serve as the mental slide show accompaniment to that phrase each time I say it. The image is of myself in green scrubs, hunched down in the classic quarterback pose, looking expectantly between the widespread legs of a very unhappy woman who is about to be the very proud mother of a large combo with extra cheese, half no olives.
So, I was delivering a pizza, and the moment I knocked on the door a cacophony of yapping erupted from the other side (of the door, not, to my knowledge, the afterlife). This is not a rare occurrence. In a world with little dogs behind closed doors, there will always be yapping. And when those doors are opened, there will always be jumping. People who own dogs below a certain height and weight should understand that pizza obstetricians have resolved themselves to the yapping and the jumping and that they find the yapping and the jumping to be far less annoying than listening to the owners say "No! Stay! Down! Sorry. No! Honey, get him. No! Back! Down! Don't worry, he's just— Stay! Honey, would you— No! Hey! Down! Just get the— Down! Down! No! Down! Good boy. Good boy. What a good boy! No! Down!" etc. My only consolation during such a production is that the pizza is only getting colder.
Annoyed in anticipation, I was actually relieved when the door opened and one of the dogs immediately got past its owners and jumped up on me in a vain attempt to reach my knees as though the world depended on it. Usually this would indicate that the owners A) don't care or B) are mortified and will do everything in their power to expedite the transaction and send me on my way so they can commence abusing their untrained pet in retribution—so basically a win-win.
Instead I got option C) the owners are not in agreement about what to do with the dogs or about whose idea it was to get a dog and then another dog and then another dog or about the wisdom of letting one impulsive decision made during a power outage ten years ago dictate where you live and what you do for a living and what kind of car you drive and what you order on a pizza for the rest of your life.
"Honey, don't let—" she said.
"He's alright. Don't worry. He's just gonna jump on you a little bit," he said.
"Come here! Down! Sorry. I'm so sorry. Get down! Come here. Come on," she replied.
"Hey buddy," I said.
Meanwhile I was enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. The little dog was harmless. So happy, so delighted to meet me. Why, lady, why do you apologize for this little moment of unbridled mirth? And why, sir, don't you help your wife?
I tried to imagine the kind of person who would be upset in my position, and in succeeding to do so, I turned the situation into an incident.
"I hate little dogs!" I yelled.
Both man and woman stared at me, aghast.
Why are they... oh crap, they don't know me. That's the longest sentence they've ever heard me say. Quick, do something to make it better.
"Don't, um... don't make me pet them."
Good not great. Now seal the deal.
Awkward smile.
"Oh," she said.
I think I saved their marriage.
So, I was delivering a pizza, and the moment I knocked on the door a cacophony of yapping erupted from the other side (of the door, not, to my knowledge, the afterlife). This is not a rare occurrence. In a world with little dogs behind closed doors, there will always be yapping. And when those doors are opened, there will always be jumping. People who own dogs below a certain height and weight should understand that pizza obstetricians have resolved themselves to the yapping and the jumping and that they find the yapping and the jumping to be far less annoying than listening to the owners say "No! Stay! Down! Sorry. No! Honey, get him. No! Back! Down! Don't worry, he's just— Stay! Honey, would you— No! Hey! Down! Just get the— Down! Down! No! Down! Good boy. Good boy. What a good boy! No! Down!" etc. My only consolation during such a production is that the pizza is only getting colder.
Annoyed in anticipation, I was actually relieved when the door opened and one of the dogs immediately got past its owners and jumped up on me in a vain attempt to reach my knees as though the world depended on it. Usually this would indicate that the owners A) don't care or B) are mortified and will do everything in their power to expedite the transaction and send me on my way so they can commence abusing their untrained pet in retribution—so basically a win-win.
Instead I got option C) the owners are not in agreement about what to do with the dogs or about whose idea it was to get a dog and then another dog and then another dog or about the wisdom of letting one impulsive decision made during a power outage ten years ago dictate where you live and what you do for a living and what kind of car you drive and what you order on a pizza for the rest of your life.
"Honey, don't let—" she said.
"He's alright. Don't worry. He's just gonna jump on you a little bit," he said.
"Come here! Down! Sorry. I'm so sorry. Get down! Come here. Come on," she replied.
"Hey buddy," I said.
Meanwhile I was enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. The little dog was harmless. So happy, so delighted to meet me. Why, lady, why do you apologize for this little moment of unbridled mirth? And why, sir, don't you help your wife?
I tried to imagine the kind of person who would be upset in my position, and in succeeding to do so, I turned the situation into an incident.
"I hate little dogs!" I yelled.
Both man and woman stared at me, aghast.
Why are they... oh crap, they don't know me. That's the longest sentence they've ever heard me say. Quick, do something to make it better.
"Don't, um... don't make me pet them."
Good not great. Now seal the deal.
Awkward smile.
"Oh," she said.
I think I saved their marriage.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Archie Robinson Fulton
Sometimes I go looking for something in the depths of my hard drive and find unexpected gems. Just now I was trying to find some writing prompts from a class I took in college, and I came up with this instead. I vaguely remember feeling the need to write something that could be illustrated like it was a children's book, letting myself type whatever I wanted to type, and figuring I would come back later to fill in the gaps. What follows are the unedited, unabridged contents of a Word file called "Archie Robinson Fulton," created Friday, July 13 2007 at 8:25 p.m.
Archie Robinson Fulton lived a storybook life.
The trouble was that his story never really took off.
It all started when… he ran out of scotch tape
the phone rang
the goldfish ran away
the goldfish died
the dog ran away
the power went out
the sun went down
the price of gas went up
had ink on his fingers
he was eating roasted and salted almonds
when people began caring about the environment
the problem was
Archie had no money
And so it was that
when President Bush counted on him to rise to the occasion and take his place among the Bush Library’s most trusted of leaders. There he stood out as one american who was doing everything he could to help President George Bush and First Lady Barbara Bush to define and explore the stalwart values of faith.
Archie’s life was loosly biographical to someone else
and something magical was supposed to happen.
He was on his way to an Island where his Aunt and Uncle lived
So he got on a plane and sat down.
Also, before he got on the plane (just so you know)
Everyone was waiting for a little child to get on the plane (she was afraid of the crack between the walkway and the plane, because it was 20 feet down)
That part was also loosly biographical to someone else.
He went to 10 D and sat there
and a girl came up behind him and said “excuse me, you’re in my seat”
And he said “my ticket is for 10 D,”
And she said “oh, I’m supposed to be in 11 D”
It all started when… the phone rang,
but it wasn’t for Archie Robinson Fulton. That’s, Robinson-Fulton, with a hyphen (because his parents were so uptight [that they added a hyphen]).
It was his Aunt Sally “B” (on the aformentioned phone).
“Rosemary, you’ll never believe this. Your… Uncle or whatever—your something is in prison.”
“My name isn’t Rosemary,” said Archie. “You must have me confused with someone named else named Rosemary.”
“Oh, so your name is Rosemary.”
“No.”
“Then put your mother on the phone, Archie ‘Rosemary’ Robinson-Fulton with a hyphen.”
“Okay,” said Archie “Swiss Family” Robinson-Fulton. “Rosemary, get the phone,” he said, to his mother, named Rosemary.
But his mother didn’t hear him, as she was preoccupied with Pilotes in the family room, which also had a TV.
Outside the sky looked like a desert landscape.
But whatever happened to Archie? Did he drop the phone and just leave it there, and Aunt Sally is still waiting?
Eight Legs for Archie
Archie’s sister’s name is Melanoma.
“I Precipitate You”
A Boy Named Pthomas
(his fish ran away)
(only problem is that he’s blind, and so is his seeing eye dog)
Archie Robinson Fulton lived a storybook life.
The trouble was that his story never really took off.
It all started when… he ran out of scotch tape
the phone rang
the goldfish ran away
the goldfish died
the dog ran away
the power went out
the sun went down
the price of gas went up
had ink on his fingers
he was eating roasted and salted almonds
when people began caring about the environment
the problem was
Archie had no money
And so it was that
when President Bush counted on him to rise to the occasion and take his place among the Bush Library’s most trusted of leaders. There he stood out as one american who was doing everything he could to help President George Bush and First Lady Barbara Bush to define and explore the stalwart values of faith.
Archie’s life was loosly biographical to someone else
and something magical was supposed to happen.
He was on his way to an Island where his Aunt and Uncle lived
So he got on a plane and sat down.
Also, before he got on the plane (just so you know)
Everyone was waiting for a little child to get on the plane (she was afraid of the crack between the walkway and the plane, because it was 20 feet down)
That part was also loosly biographical to someone else.
He went to 10 D and sat there
and a girl came up behind him and said “excuse me, you’re in my seat”
And he said “my ticket is for 10 D,”
And she said “oh, I’m supposed to be in 11 D”
It all started when… the phone rang,
but it wasn’t for Archie Robinson Fulton. That’s, Robinson-Fulton, with a hyphen (because his parents were so uptight [that they added a hyphen]).
It was his Aunt Sally “B” (on the aformentioned phone).
“Rosemary, you’ll never believe this. Your… Uncle or whatever—your something is in prison.”
“My name isn’t Rosemary,” said Archie. “You must have me confused with someone named else named Rosemary.”
“Oh, so your name is Rosemary.”
“No.”
“Then put your mother on the phone, Archie ‘Rosemary’ Robinson-Fulton with a hyphen.”
“Okay,” said Archie “Swiss Family” Robinson-Fulton. “Rosemary, get the phone,” he said, to his mother, named Rosemary.
But his mother didn’t hear him, as she was preoccupied with Pilotes in the family room, which also had a TV.
Outside the sky looked like a desert landscape.
But whatever happened to Archie? Did he drop the phone and just leave it there, and Aunt Sally is still waiting?
Eight Legs for Archie
Archie’s sister’s name is Melanoma.
“I Precipitate You”
A Boy Named Pthomas
(his fish ran away)
(only problem is that he’s blind, and so is his seeing eye dog)
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
I Forgot To Go To The Chiropractor Today
I think that means I shouldn't have intended to go. That makes me not only forgetful, but irrational, unless I forgot that I decided not to go, in which case I'm senile. So basically my shoulder feels fine to the point that I'm worried about my brain.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Some Day This Will Be How It Was Then
Last night I booted up my computer to show my brother something. In my mind, I was doing this because I wanted to show him something on my computer, but the truth is I wanted to show him something on the Internet. I'm not too young to remember life before the World Wide Web, yet now when my computer can't get online, I feel like it's broken. Subconsciously, I'm losing the distinction between my computer and the Internet. You may resent the distinction in this case (since we had no other immediate means of accessing the Internet), and I'll admit it's not a particularly strong example of the phenomenon, but I still think it serves as a good starting point for the journey we're on. "What journey," you ask? Why, don't you feel the rocking of the boat beneath you? Didn't you know that the moment you began reading this post, you became swept up in an adventure already taking place—an adventure with me, showered, yet back in my nighttime clothes lazing about on a Tuesday afternoon, in a recliner, on a boat?
But wait, I think we might have left something behind. There on the docks—I can barely make it out. It's the term "booted." Booted is a fine example of just how far the form of a word can dissociate from the idea of a word until it attaches to another idea altogether. The term actually originated in the days when computers were gas powered and had to be kick started. How we ever got from boot to trunk to torso to chest to booty to bottom to foot to kick is beyond me, unless of course that's how precisely. This would have likely also happened on a boat, or a series of boats, requiring at least one transatlantic voyage and an encounter with one or more pirates or pirate enthusiasts/reenactors. Such a shame that you left it there. I'm starting to wonder why I brought you along.
But I guess I can't fault you for failing to recognize the significance of the word for the journey we're on. The process is, after all, so gradual that we rarely notice it happening. I can tell that you want another example—that you aren't going to be comfortable unless you have three examples. Well as it happens I got a sneak peak at the earliest stage of this process last night at my parents' house, less than 30 seconds after the beginning of this story, which now seems so long ago. En route to showing my brother something on the Internet via my computer, I opened Firefox, but the page wouldn't load. I closed Firefox and tried again. Then I tried Safari. When neither worked I reset the wireless router and restarted my computer. Still, neither program would finish loading the homepage, so I gave up on the idea and figured there must be some problem with the Internet service provider. However, after a few hours it still wasn't working, and I needed to email a job application by morning, so I drove to my friend Sam's house to get online.
Both of Sam's parents were online when I got there, but they were having bandwidth problems, so they logged off to let me send my email. They set me up with the network key and my computer showed that it had full signal, but I still couldn't get online. To troubleshoot, Sam's mom tried going back online, but her homepage wouldn't load either.
"Maybe it's Explorer," she said. But no, I didn't even have Explorer, because I'm too mac for PC. By now it was too late to go to a Starbucks or some other Internet "hot spot," and I was starting to think I'd have to drive all the way home just to send one lousy email for some lousy job I probably won't get anyway, when Sam tried the wireless network with his phone.
"My phone isn't having any trouble," he said. "I can get to Facebook, and my email... what page are you trying to load? Oh hang on. Google isn't working. Yeah, it's just Google that isn't working right now."
Oh, right. I forgot. Google is not the Internet. And that sound—that's the sound of our boat scraping against the rocky shore. You were supposed to be paying attention. But anyway we're here. "Where," you ask? That's where.
But wait, I think we might have left something behind. There on the docks—I can barely make it out. It's the term "booted." Booted is a fine example of just how far the form of a word can dissociate from the idea of a word until it attaches to another idea altogether. The term actually originated in the days when computers were gas powered and had to be kick started. How we ever got from boot to trunk to torso to chest to booty to bottom to foot to kick is beyond me, unless of course that's how precisely. This would have likely also happened on a boat, or a series of boats, requiring at least one transatlantic voyage and an encounter with one or more pirates or pirate enthusiasts/reenactors. Such a shame that you left it there. I'm starting to wonder why I brought you along.
But I guess I can't fault you for failing to recognize the significance of the word for the journey we're on. The process is, after all, so gradual that we rarely notice it happening. I can tell that you want another example—that you aren't going to be comfortable unless you have three examples. Well as it happens I got a sneak peak at the earliest stage of this process last night at my parents' house, less than 30 seconds after the beginning of this story, which now seems so long ago. En route to showing my brother something on the Internet via my computer, I opened Firefox, but the page wouldn't load. I closed Firefox and tried again. Then I tried Safari. When neither worked I reset the wireless router and restarted my computer. Still, neither program would finish loading the homepage, so I gave up on the idea and figured there must be some problem with the Internet service provider. However, after a few hours it still wasn't working, and I needed to email a job application by morning, so I drove to my friend Sam's house to get online.
Both of Sam's parents were online when I got there, but they were having bandwidth problems, so they logged off to let me send my email. They set me up with the network key and my computer showed that it had full signal, but I still couldn't get online. To troubleshoot, Sam's mom tried going back online, but her homepage wouldn't load either.
"Maybe it's Explorer," she said. But no, I didn't even have Explorer, because I'm too mac for PC. By now it was too late to go to a Starbucks or some other Internet "hot spot," and I was starting to think I'd have to drive all the way home just to send one lousy email for some lousy job I probably won't get anyway, when Sam tried the wireless network with his phone.
"My phone isn't having any trouble," he said. "I can get to Facebook, and my email... what page are you trying to load? Oh hang on. Google isn't working. Yeah, it's just Google that isn't working right now."
Oh, right. I forgot. Google is not the Internet. And that sound—that's the sound of our boat scraping against the rocky shore. You were supposed to be paying attention. But anyway we're here. "Where," you ask? That's where.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
From Now On, Only Posts About Poop
Brea is complaining. I've thought about it and decided not to confirm the validity of her complaint due to the nature of her complaint which is, best case scenario, dog poop related. But is it animal cruelty related? An interesting question, given how little information I've presently divulged about the situation. It should help for you to know that her complaint regards an alleged smell coming from upstairs—a smell described to me as not unsimilar to poo or vomit coming from the direction of Bret's bedroom which happens to be, not inconsequently, the same direction as my bedroom and bathroom, which are the only reasons I am here today instead of at my parents' house 20 miles away taking care of my poo-breathed dog and watching Sunday television, which is probably competitive horse... prancing.
"It smells really bad up there," says Brea. "Have you been up there? Or... did you just... come from up there?" She sounds increasingly guarded.
But no, it wasn't me, and no, I don't smell it from my position on the possibly spider-infested couch. All I know is that I came here to clean the bathroom, put my room in order, and collect my dirty laundry, but now there is a smell I don't want to smell, which suggests a situation I don't want to deal with. And having issues I don't want to deal with is why I have this blog. Without stopping to consider how long this will take or if it will be worth it or if this will help me run out of time before I can clean the bathroom or my room, I get right to work, and I have a lot of catching up to do.
Another handy bit of information on the whole "animal cruelty" question you so off-puttingly brought up earlier is that there are two dogs locked in a kennel in Bret's room. "Kennel" is what you call a cage when you feel guilty about it. But not to worry, both dogs are "kennel" trained, I mean, "kennel trained," which means their dog wills have been broken for their own dog good. They sleep in the kennel and contentedly hang out in there for a few hours at a time when necessary, like now, while Bret is on a bike ride and Brea and I are just getting home and the back yard is occupied temporarily by another dog that is here recovering from a tussle with still another dog who was (and this is the scientific explanation) jealous of his balls. So seriously, stop freaking out and going on with this "How could you just sit there and blog about this? You're probably ignoring the fact that a dog is up there caged in with his own shit, and another dog is up there caged in with the other dog's shit" shit. (Yeah, in the past year I've learned to cuss not unlike a sailor, but I still never follow a thought in a straight line... probably also an unsailorlike behavior. Er... no, not also. And while we're on the subject, who are you to say I'm sitting? People never stand on couches? People never type while standing?)
And now a timely (narrative-saving) report from Brea: "Bret said he's coming back in a half hour, so I didn't tell him that's the reason why I called," she says. "I don't know. I mean, would you want to know?"
Yes, yes I would. However, she's right; it doesn't make any difference whether Bret knows our selfish reason for wondering when he will be back. He's on a bike ride (a situation I would never put myself in), and knowing what awaits him won't make him pedal any faster. If anything it could cause him to take mental inventory of his worldly possessions minus his bike and potentially just head southwest toward more favorable climate. Brea and I agree that something needs to be done, and soon, but if someone other than us can do something about it, and soon, then boy, that's friggin fantastic as, well, the subject at hand. (Yeah, I swore off cussing. And yeah, just for the pun.)
"Are you typing what I'm saying?" Brea asks.
taptaptap
"Is this your blog?"
taptaptap
"You should put 'Copper has big balls." Copper is the dog outside. He does have big balls. This blog is now about dog poop and dog balls.
At this point I begin reading and editing what I have so far. We can only guess how much harder you'd be laughing by now if Bret hadn't shown up when he did. I'm not saying this to be mean, but that guy pretty much ruins everything. He's like the Lance Armstrong of beating fun cancer and winning the Tour de Lame. Anyway, trapped in the flow of time as I am (what given my speed relative to Bret) I postpone the greatness and ask him if he smells anything. Bret goes upstairs to investigate.
In the interest of saving time, Bret tailors his assessment for the benefit of me and the dogs. "Yeah that's pretty gross, Wilco. That's why you poop outside in the [hell-bound] morning, [friend to lonely mothers]. Hold still."
Bret comes downstairs with Wilco and Zoe and leashes them to the end table near their auxiliary bed, about four feet away from me. Feeling the need to justify the fact that I'm not helping even a little bit, I explain what I'm doing.
"Cool. I'm pretty excited for you. do you want to clean it up instead?"
taptaptap"thanks but no"taptaptap
Bret leaves the dogs and goes upstairs with what I thought was a can of Raid but I'm trusting is a cleaning product unless I'm majorly misunderstanding what happened up there. Neither Wilco nor Zoe support the arts, and therefore they both whine incessantly as I type onward toward the universal approval and gratitude of every teacher I've ever had. The noise coming from the dogs is like the shrill metallic squeak of a rusty gate hinged to my temporal lobe, a gate that is being slowly opened forever or at least until my death. It is under the influence of this sound that I edit what I have so far and add all of the harsh language and lame jokes. I still like Wilco and Zoe, but in an "I want to fill their nostrils with popcorn kernels and put them in the doggy microwave for two minutes or until the popping sounds are ten seconds apart" sort of way.
Bret calls down from the stairs. "It's like he stuck his butt up to the cage and let it rip. Like, 'I don't want to get this all over the kennel.'"
Bret's not just talking like this to be quotable. Conversations with him really are this awesome on a regular basis. I was only kidding when I said he sticks his butt up against the metaphorical "cage" and lets it rip. And see, it is a cage and people do call it a kennel.
"It smells really bad up there," says Brea. "Have you been up there? Or... did you just... come from up there?" She sounds increasingly guarded.
But no, it wasn't me, and no, I don't smell it from my position on the possibly spider-infested couch. All I know is that I came here to clean the bathroom, put my room in order, and collect my dirty laundry, but now there is a smell I don't want to smell, which suggests a situation I don't want to deal with. And having issues I don't want to deal with is why I have this blog. Without stopping to consider how long this will take or if it will be worth it or if this will help me run out of time before I can clean the bathroom or my room, I get right to work, and I have a lot of catching up to do.
Another handy bit of information on the whole "animal cruelty" question you so off-puttingly brought up earlier is that there are two dogs locked in a kennel in Bret's room. "Kennel" is what you call a cage when you feel guilty about it. But not to worry, both dogs are "kennel" trained, I mean, "kennel trained," which means their dog wills have been broken for their own dog good. They sleep in the kennel and contentedly hang out in there for a few hours at a time when necessary, like now, while Bret is on a bike ride and Brea and I are just getting home and the back yard is occupied temporarily by another dog that is here recovering from a tussle with still another dog who was (and this is the scientific explanation) jealous of his balls. So seriously, stop freaking out and going on with this "How could you just sit there and blog about this? You're probably ignoring the fact that a dog is up there caged in with his own shit, and another dog is up there caged in with the other dog's shit" shit. (Yeah, in the past year I've learned to cuss not unlike a sailor, but I still never follow a thought in a straight line... probably also an unsailorlike behavior. Er... no, not also. And while we're on the subject, who are you to say I'm sitting? People never stand on couches? People never type while standing?)
And now a timely (narrative-saving) report from Brea: "Bret said he's coming back in a half hour, so I didn't tell him that's the reason why I called," she says. "I don't know. I mean, would you want to know?"
Yes, yes I would. However, she's right; it doesn't make any difference whether Bret knows our selfish reason for wondering when he will be back. He's on a bike ride (a situation I would never put myself in), and knowing what awaits him won't make him pedal any faster. If anything it could cause him to take mental inventory of his worldly possessions minus his bike and potentially just head southwest toward more favorable climate. Brea and I agree that something needs to be done, and soon, but if someone other than us can do something about it, and soon, then boy, that's friggin fantastic as, well, the subject at hand. (Yeah, I swore off cussing. And yeah, just for the pun.)
"Are you typing what I'm saying?" Brea asks.
taptaptap
"Is this your blog?"
taptaptap
"You should put 'Copper has big balls." Copper is the dog outside. He does have big balls. This blog is now about dog poop and dog balls.
At this point I begin reading and editing what I have so far. We can only guess how much harder you'd be laughing by now if Bret hadn't shown up when he did. I'm not saying this to be mean, but that guy pretty much ruins everything. He's like the Lance Armstrong of beating fun cancer and winning the Tour de Lame. Anyway, trapped in the flow of time as I am (what given my speed relative to Bret) I postpone the greatness and ask him if he smells anything. Bret goes upstairs to investigate.
In the interest of saving time, Bret tailors his assessment for the benefit of me and the dogs. "Yeah that's pretty gross, Wilco. That's why you poop outside in the [hell-bound] morning, [friend to lonely mothers]. Hold still."
Bret comes downstairs with Wilco and Zoe and leashes them to the end table near their auxiliary bed, about four feet away from me. Feeling the need to justify the fact that I'm not helping even a little bit, I explain what I'm doing.
"Cool. I'm pretty excited for you. do you want to clean it up instead?"
taptaptap"thanks but no"taptaptap
Bret leaves the dogs and goes upstairs with what I thought was a can of Raid but I'm trusting is a cleaning product unless I'm majorly misunderstanding what happened up there. Neither Wilco nor Zoe support the arts, and therefore they both whine incessantly as I type onward toward the universal approval and gratitude of every teacher I've ever had. The noise coming from the dogs is like the shrill metallic squeak of a rusty gate hinged to my temporal lobe, a gate that is being slowly opened forever or at least until my death. It is under the influence of this sound that I edit what I have so far and add all of the harsh language and lame jokes. I still like Wilco and Zoe, but in an "I want to fill their nostrils with popcorn kernels and put them in the doggy microwave for two minutes or until the popping sounds are ten seconds apart" sort of way.
Bret calls down from the stairs. "It's like he stuck his butt up to the cage and let it rip. Like, 'I don't want to get this all over the kennel.'"
Bret's not just talking like this to be quotable. Conversations with him really are this awesome on a regular basis. I was only kidding when I said he sticks his butt up against the metaphorical "cage" and lets it rip. And see, it is a cage and people do call it a kennel.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Usage Question: How Ironic?
Warning: this post contains an allusion to the act of human defecation disguised in fairy tale language.
It may be that the reason for my trouble sleeping tonight is traceable to the approximately three-quarters of a pint (three cups, one spoon, no bowl) of Ben & Jerry's ice cream I ate almost immediately before going to bed. This would explain both my physical discomfort (stemming from the tremendous intake of sugar and fat) and my mental unrest (stemming from my vast knowledge of nutrition and the depths to which I loathe myself).
Consequently or not, I recently had to go to the bathroom, and it was an unsatisfactory experience, beginning with my knowledge that I had earlier observed a spider scurry across the bathroom floor and under the plunger. At the time I considered turning the spider's shelter into an instrument of spider death, however, though they often forget, I am more afraid of spiders than they are of me and will usually run away unless cornered. Consequently for sure, I opted to use another bathroom for my impending misadventure.
Sparing you the gory details, I huffed and I puffed and I clogged the toilet. Thus came an end to my truce with the plunger spider.
It may be that the reason for my trouble sleeping tonight is traceable to the approximately three-quarters of a pint (three cups, one spoon, no bowl) of Ben & Jerry's ice cream I ate almost immediately before going to bed. This would explain both my physical discomfort (stemming from the tremendous intake of sugar and fat) and my mental unrest (stemming from my vast knowledge of nutrition and the depths to which I loathe myself).
Consequently or not, I recently had to go to the bathroom, and it was an unsatisfactory experience, beginning with my knowledge that I had earlier observed a spider scurry across the bathroom floor and under the plunger. At the time I considered turning the spider's shelter into an instrument of spider death, however, though they often forget, I am more afraid of spiders than they are of me and will usually run away unless cornered. Consequently for sure, I opted to use another bathroom for my impending misadventure.
Sparing you the gory details, I huffed and I puffed and I clogged the toilet. Thus came an end to my truce with the plunger spider.
I'll Sleep When I'm Blog
Is your cat a nighttime snacker? Does your dog sleep through the night? About how many night owl motorcyclists would you estimate live in your neighborhood? Find out the answers to these and other exciting questions each and every night on Insomnia.
Tonight's episode: "Sleeping Dogs Tell No Lies." Tonight's question: How long does your dog lie drooling between coughing fits? Answer: 38 minutes. Bonus question: does the light from your computer screen cause her to get up and breathe hot poo breath into your face? (Hint: of cat litter)
Tonight's episode: "Sleeping Dogs Tell No Lies." Tonight's question: How long does your dog lie drooling between coughing fits? Answer: 38 minutes. Bonus question: does the light from your computer screen cause her to get up and breathe hot poo breath into your face? (Hint: of cat litter)
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Goodnight. Sleep Tight. Etc.
Before I dive into the topic at hand, it probably isn't necessary to address why I took a one-year hiatus from blogging.
So I'm writing this post from bed, if you must know, and I'm going into this night's sleep with a high level of confidence that nothing is going to bite me or suck my blood between now and morning, or at least that if anything does, it will be by chance, not on schedule.
A few days ago Garret and I were discussing this or that video game when there was a lull in the conversation, a lull I broke with the question, "hey, have you been getting bit lately, like an unusual amount?"
Garret looked at me like we'd been watching Marmaduke for twenty minutes and I'd asked if he'd ever thought about setting himself on fire with Sterno gel and a brulee torch.
"Yes," he said. "Yes I have."
And he didn't stop there. In a shameless display of contempt for my ability to fall asleep, he submitted two ready theories: fleas or bed bugs.
You d-bag, I thought.
I'm too tired to elaborate now on why I think both theories are bunk. Suffice to say, I think a spider nest hatched inside the couch and we're being slowly digested each night as we watch House.
But that's down there and I'm up here, so goodnight.
So I'm writing this post from bed, if you must know, and I'm going into this night's sleep with a high level of confidence that nothing is going to bite me or suck my blood between now and morning, or at least that if anything does, it will be by chance, not on schedule.
A few days ago Garret and I were discussing this or that video game when there was a lull in the conversation, a lull I broke with the question, "hey, have you been getting bit lately, like an unusual amount?"
Garret looked at me like we'd been watching Marmaduke for twenty minutes and I'd asked if he'd ever thought about setting himself on fire with Sterno gel and a brulee torch.
"Yes," he said. "Yes I have."
And he didn't stop there. In a shameless display of contempt for my ability to fall asleep, he submitted two ready theories: fleas or bed bugs.
You d-bag, I thought.
I'm too tired to elaborate now on why I think both theories are bunk. Suffice to say, I think a spider nest hatched inside the couch and we're being slowly digested each night as we watch House.
But that's down there and I'm up here, so goodnight.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Hello? Is This Thing On?
A Text Message Transcript:
Self: I don't like delta spirit
Samwise: I don't like you. You are the first person I have ever heard express that opinion, and it is a false opinion. I told you to buy the old one first. FYI.
Self: I don't like delta spirit
Samwise: I don't like you. You are the first person I have ever heard express that opinion, and it is a false opinion. I told you to buy the old one first. FYI.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Conversation I Had With a Kid Today
I was delivering a pizza today when a five-year-old boy answered the door. This is what happened:
Me: "Um... it's sixty-nine fifty-two."
"Would that be sixty-nine dollars and fifty-two cents?"
"Yes it would be."
"I have one hundred and thirteen dollars."
"Wow. That's quite a bit of money."
"Yeah, I'm saving it up until I get two thousand dollars."
"What are you going to do when you have two thousand dollars?"
"Buy a bunch of stuff."
"You're gonna spend it all?"
"Yeah. Well, all of it except one hundred and thirteen dollars."
"Okay. So you're gonna leave off where you started."
"Yeah. My dad has nine hundred dollars in the bank."
Just then the boy's dad comes around the corner with the money for the pizza and looks at me like I'm a con artist.
Me, in a joking tone: "He's quite the informant."
Him, sounding suspicious/annoyed: "Yeah."
Me, sticking with the ironic tone: "He's been giving me all kinds of valuable information."
Him: "How much do I owe you?"
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Simulated YouTube Comment Thread
FriendMeEleven11 (18 minutes ago)
You're retarded WTD.
WhatTehDuece (25 minutes ago)
RandomestGrrl4Ever (32 minutes ago)
i don't get it what did he say after 'let me off this boat'
or maybe i'm just dumn or somthing........
FriendMeEleven11 (52 minutes ago)
You suck guys probably. Learn to spell, douche.
WhatTehDuece (1 hour ago)
ths sucks!! 1:05 lol watsup wit his face!!!!
FriendMeEleven11 (5 months ago)
I was totally already aware of this and just wanted the world to know that I know the backstory. Basically I'm on top of things when it comes to this subject matter.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Product Plugs for People Who Sleep Past Noon, 2
From the folks you brought you Texting ("one part conversation, plus a whole lotta 'hey, slow it down buddy' and a dash of 'who needs a dime?') comes Twitter! And online makes it FREE!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Saturday, July 04, 2009
A Letter to My Union Bay Shorts, the Button to the Shorts, and My Washing Machine
Dear Union Bay shorts, button, and washer,
What gives?
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
A Message to My Former Self, to be Sent a Week Ago
Self, I dearly hope that I have read this message as soon as you will have received it, exactly one week before I sent it at 3:41 p.m. on Tuesday, June 9. Trust me, that will have been making sense in due time.
In exactly 7 minutes until then, you will be brushing your teeth as I was, and will devise a plan to save time by replenishing the cat food with your free hand. Do not do this. Exactly 1 minute later I will cup water up to my mouth with my hands to rinse, and even though I will have anticipated the potential for disaster and will have preemptively rinsed off my cat-food soiled hand, the rinse water will still taste like Purina Pro Plan turkey and rice, which will not taste anything like turkey or rice.
Whether your knowledge will save me from this terrible fate or merely catalyze the formation of an alternate universe, you and I can never know, but I urge you not to make the same mistake I most certainly potentially have.
I will have been sending you this message a week before now because I will fear you have otherwise arbitrarily put off reading it for several days. If by some miracle you read this fully a week ago, I was on the verge of including this message as well: do not mention UFOs in your interview. You are not going to care how relevant it will have been. Do not mention UFOs.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Adulthood Survival Guide: Cuckoo for Frugality
What is Adulthood? Adulthood is buying Cocoa Crunchies instead of Cocoa Puffs. You save a dollar, and you still get chocolate milk for breakfast.
Responsibility In Perspective: Any child could tell you the proper technique for cultivating the best cocoa cereal chocolate milk: eat slowly and stir often. Many adults let their morning schedules become too crowded to invest the time and concentration that proper breakfast chocolate milk requires. Does that sound like you? If so, what can you do to change? Couldn't you iron that shirt before you go to bed? How much time do you waste making the bed every morning? Don't you just mess it up again every night? Is being to work exactly on time really all that important? What if you get all green lights... won't you be early?
Remember: you're an adult now; you are in control.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Pick of the Litter
The worst thing about my dog is that when her breath smells like poo, it probably is poo, and it isn't her poo, it's cat poo, and she eats cat poo.
Monday, May 04, 2009
How to Wake Up Stressed
Two nights ago I dreamt I had a baby. Not that I gave birth to a baby, but that I was in possession of a baby—presumably my own, though the dream didn't specify the origin of the baby, just that it was my responsibility. I'm not even sure if it was a boy or a girl, but since it was a baby, the pronoun it will suffice. So I'm wandering around with this baby, and we're in some sort of wooded area like a retreat campground—lots of tall evergreens, log cabins and dirt paths, and nobody else is around.
From the get-go I have no idea what to do with this baby. I don't know if it needs to eat, or what to even feed it, or if I should put it to bed, or what. And not only is the baby small enough to hold in one hand, but it keeps getting smaller, which is not something I thought babies did and only underscores the point that I am not fit to care for this baby.
So we're wandering, and we're wandering, and the next thing I know I'm walking into a log cabin, and inside it looks like some creepy tarot card/palm reader type place, with all manner of unnecessarily bedazzled cloths hanging at random points from the ceiling, eerie flickering candlelight, gratuitous creepy shadows, and a general shouldn't-be-here/shouldn't-bring-a-baby-here ambiance.
The next thing I know I'm sitting at a little round table across from an old woman (old hag, really) who looks tailor-made for the live-action role of the witch from Snow White. I'm in some sort of trance at this point and barely paying attention while she's whispering this and that incantation, making strange hand motions, and basically doing her witch thing. Suddenly I notice that I'm not holding the baby anymore. The witch has the baby, and she's packed it in rice, sort of like sushi. Not a bit of the baby is showing, just a vaguely baby-shaped ball of rice, and she's drawing eyes and a mouth over the baby's rice-packed head.
This, even I know, is no way to handle a baby, so I quickly snatch it away from the witch and get out of there. I run to my own cabin, put the baby in the bathroom sink, and start washing off the rice, hoping the baby hasn't been crushed or suffocated. Once the rice is washed away, I'm still not sure that the baby is all right until it begins to poop—a sure sign, in my dream, that the baby is in perfect health.
However, the baby is pooping an exorbitant amount (much more than would logically fit inside what is now an inch-tall baby [yeah I said it, logically]), so I turn up the faucet to wash away the mess, and to my horror the baby gets caught in the stream of water that's rushing down the drain. I fumble for the baby and manage to pin it against the side of the drain with one finger at the last possible moment. And now I'm completely freaking out, because I know that if I push too hard, the baby could be killed, but if I don't push hard enough, it will fall down the drain. I'm struggling to get ahold of one of the baby's arms and pull it out of the drain, but all the while the water keeps rushing down the drain and I can't get a good grip.
And then I woke up. Recurring dream, let's hope not.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
An American Favorite Since 1918
Printed on the wrapper of the Chase's Cherry Mash candy bar I just ate:
BEST IF
USED BY
9 1 5 9
BEST IF
USED BY
9 1 5 9
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Product Plugs for People Who Sleep Past Noon, 1
Ready for that first trip to the bathroom? Yesterday's t-shirt will get you through the hall. That's right, t-shirts—because, "they're not on backwards if they're inside out."
Such a Good Pop Song Dot Com
Online t-shirt model
I think you're just my size
Online t-shirt model
Whoa, oh oh oh
Scrolling through a merch site
I wasn't looking for love
Then I saw your picture
Now you're all I think of
Online t-shirt model
Yeah you've captured my heart
Online t-shirt model
I wanna add you
(I wanna add you)
I wanna add you
(I wanna add you)
I wanna add you to my cart
I think you're just my size
Online t-shirt model
Whoa, oh oh oh
Scrolling through a merch site
I wasn't looking for love
Then I saw your picture
Now you're all I think of
Online t-shirt model
Yeah you've captured my heart
Online t-shirt model
I wanna add you
(I wanna add you)
I wanna add you
(I wanna add you)
I wanna add you to my cart
Monday, April 13, 2009
This is Part One of a Two-Part Series
This is a rabbit with a parachute. I own this rabbit.
This is the Foresthill Bridge. I live near this bridge.
This is cause for celebration.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Swoon
Today I heard a song called "Help I'm Alive" by Metric on the radio, but I didn't know it was "Help I'm Alive" by Metric, I only knew that it was a trip, it had a funky beat, and you could really bug out to it, if you will.
I thought maybe it was from the new Silversun Pickups album coming out next week. Metric and Silversun Pickups don't sound a lot alike, but Brian Aubert of Silversun Pickups sounds like a girl sometimes, almost as much as Emily Haines of Metric sounds like a girl all the time, so I'm not ashamed of my initial impression. Emily Haines, though... Oh man, Emily Haines. Dang. (She's really good at the vox.)
So, in review, or things to do:
April 14: purchase Fantasies by Metric and Swoon by Silversun Pickups, and get to bed early so you'll be bright eyed and such for Tax Day, which is all day Wednesday.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
The Pizza Man is Here
"It's the pizza man."
...a child's voice, barely audible through the closed front door, 10 seconds after I knocked... I don't think the doorbell worked...
"Mom."
...silence... I'm waiting, counting again, backward from 20 so the seconds won't feel like minutes...
"Mom! The pizza man is here."
...17, 16, 15, 14... remember to smile...
"The pizza man. The pizza man is here."
...5, 4, 3, 2... the muffled voice of an adult, confused... the door cracks open and now a kid is looking up at me... he's no more than five years old... shy, but excited because...
The Pizza Man is here.
"Hey buddy," I say, smiling.
A woman appears behind him and opens the door further.
"We... didn't order a pizza," she says.
"What? Isn't this..." double checking the delivery tag... "5238? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be at 5239." dangit. dangit. dangit.
"That's all right," she says. She laughs, probably relieved that it really was a mix up and not a visit from The Pizza Man Ripper.
"I'm so sorry about that. Have a great day."
Still smiling, I turn around and start walking away. That was awkward, but it could have been worse.
The kid starts bawling.
I keep walking. And I keep smiling.
...a child's voice, barely audible through the closed front door, 10 seconds after I knocked... I don't think the doorbell worked...
"Mom."
...silence... I'm waiting, counting again, backward from 20 so the seconds won't feel like minutes...
"Mom! The pizza man is here."
...17, 16, 15, 14... remember to smile...
"The pizza man. The pizza man is here."
...5, 4, 3, 2... the muffled voice of an adult, confused... the door cracks open and now a kid is looking up at me... he's no more than five years old... shy, but excited because...
The Pizza Man is here.
"Hey buddy," I say, smiling.
A woman appears behind him and opens the door further.
"We... didn't order a pizza," she says.
"What? Isn't this..." double checking the delivery tag... "5238? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be at 5239." dangit. dangit. dangit.
"That's all right," she says. She laughs, probably relieved that it really was a mix up and not a visit from The Pizza Man Ripper.
"I'm so sorry about that. Have a great day."
Still smiling, I turn around and start walking away. That was awkward, but it could have been worse.
The kid starts bawling.
I keep walking. And I keep smiling.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Greetings from Pizza Camp
Despite organized protests from my friends in the "globe-o-sphere," there are reasons that I haven't written about my experiences as a pizza delivery driver, and most of them are related to the idea that a potential employer might read my blog and discover, not that I hate almost everyone I deliver pizza to (which is a perfectly rational feeling for a pizza delivery driver), but that I hate everyone on a public forum (which is generally bad for business). However, a pizza delivery event occurred yesterday that has forced me to reconsider. I will tell this story soon, and likely other pizza stories will follow now that the pizza gates have opened, but right now it's 4:30, and that means I have to trade my pajama pants for big boy pants and live the lie called "I like working here, and I like these pants."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Late Night Musings from Earlier This Morning
Oh geez it's past 4.
I'm not gonna get any sleep. When do I have to get up? Not until 4 p.m., but... I'll probably wake up at noon anyway. Dangit. How much time does that give me?
Let's see... 9, 10, 11, 12... Only three hours?
Wait, where did I get 9 from? It's 4:45. That's 4, 5, 6... forget it.
I'm not gonna get any sleep. When do I have to get up? Not until 4 p.m., but... I'll probably wake up at noon anyway. Dangit. How much time does that give me?
Let's see... 9, 10, 11, 12... Only three hours?
Wait, where did I get 9 from? It's 4:45. That's 4, 5, 6... forget it.
YouTube Comment of the Year, Yeah it's Only February and I'm Calling it. And Yeah the Comment is a Year Old but I'm Still Calling it.
"Spokane is in WASHINGTON ho."
-PLASTICmoonFACEOFF
Thursday, January 15, 2009
May I Just Say, "Yub Yub?"
The Jedi have (has?) returned. Ewoks are dancing. We have succeeded. All four of us, except for Kevin, because Kevin fell asleep. Kevin claims he did not fall asleep, but we all know that he fall asleep for a little bit because he asked "wait, I distinctly remember Luke getting in a shuttle and leaving the Death Star, but, did they edit that out?" But they didn't edit that out, because all the rest of us saw it, because the rest of us were awake for that part.
"And it's only 10:30." - Garrett
Kevin maintains that he did not fall asleep. But he fell asleep. Even if he didn't fall asleep, right now it's really funny to see how angry he's getting at the idea that I would lie about such a thing on my blog. But he shouldn't be angry because he actually did fall asleep for a little bit.
My Brain is Tired and I Don't Want to Anymore
Warwick Davis played Wicket in this movie. Wicket is the little Ewok. The cuddly one with the spear. Davis was also Willow in Willow. Or maybe the baby was Willow in Willow. I think there was a baby in that movie, and Wicket had to protect it. I'm online right now so I could easily double check, but instead I'll just keep, you know, doing this.
I want to say something right now and I need you to listen, okay? I need you to listen.
Star Wars. Star Wars man. It's great but, it's a movie, you know? I mean, it's just a movie. Movies are great, but... Do you know what I'm saying? Are you listening to me? No, stop, look... look at me man. Star Wars, man. They just, they have all these people, these people and they got them all together and they paid them and they had costumes and a script and copies of the script and copies of the copies and they were using, probably highlighters and stuff on them and making them up, and you know? I mean... that's not life. You can't, can't highlight, what you're going to say and like, add stuff in in post-production. You don't get action figures. There aren't action figures of going to the bank or, you know, vacuuming or for when you mess up or have a good idea or whatever. You don't get to rerelease and have deals with Taco Bell. George Lucas isn't going to be like "yeah, yeah I like that, role with that, we'll do that" and it doesn't matter what "that" is. It could be anything. Your life, or people or building a... house or a sandwich. In life you can't be like, "okay hang on, I'm making this sandwich." That's, how can people... who do people, I mean what do they even, where are we even going?
And you can't fight it. You can't fight it. What are you going to do? There's all these lasers flying everywhere and everything is blowing up. And you're throwing rocks at them and they're all rolling around on trees. Where'd that get us? We're no better. We're no better than the enemy.
Yeah, the Ewoks are all excited because they blew up an AT-ST, but what about the people... what about the people in that. I mean, that could have been me. That could have been you. That could have been both of us.
The Twelfth Hour
We're about to watch Star Wars Episode VI: The Empire Strikes Back. We just took a break and had frozen yogurt. We're arguing about how big the second Death Star is. We just took a break and had frozen yogurt. Bret is commenting that the alarm in the Death Star landing bay sounds like a Dewback lizard being squeezed. We just took a break and had frozen yogurt. We just took a break and had frozen yogurt.
Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back, Hour 11
"No! that's not true. That's impossible! ... No... no..." - Luke Skywalker
DIRECTV's Log Line for Star Wars Episode IV
"Robots and other allies help a youth and a space jokey rescue a rebel princess and battle dark forces bent on intergalactic rule."
"I would rent that." - Brea
For Those Interested in Further Reading
Funny thing... I was searching for good B-Wing photos on Google Images when I happened upon Action Figure of the Day. They post photos of and info about a classic Star Wars action figure every day, and they've been doing it since November 2007.
Hour Nine
Something walked into the apartment toward the end of Episode IV, something that bore remarkable resemblance to a human, only somehow different looking. What is that, Leia? I thought. Oh yeah, one of those.
Hour Eight: Delirium Sets In
Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, still.
We just finished laughing for five minutes about what it would have been like if Yoda were hiding inside R2-D2. It might have gone on longer if Garret hadn't pointed out that we'd laughed for five minutes about what it would have been like if Yoda were hiding inside R2-D2.
Bret, on the Millennium Falcon Getting Caught in a Tractor Beam
"Too bad they don't have phase modulation. The Enterprise would never get caught in something like that."
Star Wars vs. Current Events
Watching Episode IV: A New Hope. Almost halfway done with my Fat Tire. If I pretend to be chewing it, rather than drinking it, it's less gross.
But watching all the movies in a row is giving me a new perspective. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away... the greedy Galactic Trade Federation got itself entrenched in politics for economic gain. Then we have a few wars that seem to be going on with no clear causes or goals other than showing off how far special effects have come since Who Framed Roger Rabbit (read: military-industrial complex). Then we have Episode IV. Set some 16 years later, the ships are slower, the weapons are less effective, touch screen and hologram technologies have been predominantly replaced with simple flashing buttons and levers... the signs of a galaxy-wide recession are clear. Bravo, Lucas, bravo. If only we had listened.
Who Works on a Thursday?
Hour 5, Episode III: Darth Sidious is droning on about something to Anakin. Something about midichlorians.
Attack of the Clones
Today I am having my first beer. It's a Fat Tire, and I'm told it's good, but I think mine is actually some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant. My hope was that it would be enough to help me forget, or at least enjoy, Attack of the Clones. Turns out 5.2 percent is not enough.
"We decided to call it 'Attack of the Clones' because there are clones in it. Yeah, the 'attack' doesn't happen until the end of the third film, but... Shoot. Yeah I'm not sure what we were thinking." - probably some idiot
Kevin to Bret, After Bret Turned Off the Sound While I Showed Everyone a YouTube Video
K: "Did you pause it?"
B: "No."
K: "Good."
Bathroom Breaks, a Reflection from a Former Star Wars Fan Club Member
We have finished The Phantom Menace and are now watching The Clone Wars.
"So this is when you're invited back to the restaurant and everyone's starting to feel indigestion." - Garret
Fun fact brought to you by Yahoo! Answers: The average adult bladder can hold 500 ml. before "you absolutely have to pee like a racehorse."
When Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace came out in 1999, I was excited because Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace hadn't come out yet, and therefore I hadn't seen it yet, and therefore I was excited. I bought my ticket days in advance, left school early to wait in line and guarantee a good seat at the midnight showing, and gladly paid eight dollars for my 64-oz. commemorative cup. I finished my 64 ounces of Root Beer before the movie started, and I noticed that I needed to pee right about the time Jar Jar decided to do a triple flip into shallow water (right about the time I was getting worried about Jar Jar).
Fun fact brought to you by metric-conversions.org: Sixty-four fluid ounces is 1,892,705.92 milliliters.
I usually watch the credits after movies, but as soon as the closing music started I jumped over the railing behind the handicapped section, ran to the bathroom and peed for about 3 minutes.
The next day I saw the movie again (in a state of denial that lasted about a year), bought another commemorative cup, and did the exact same thing.
Today I look forward to bathroom breaks as a legitimate excuse to leave the room and shut the door.
"We Don't Have Time for This, Captain"
"Hey mom, did I tell you about my exciting Thursday plans?"
"No, do you have a job interview?"
"Nope, even better. I'm attending an all-day Star Wars marathon."
"What!? Drew! I raised you for more than Star Wars!"
A sampling of other reactions:
Jon: Cool, um... I'm at work so I've got to get going.
Johnny: Hey, Drew, this is Johnny, uh... I just want to let you know I am 100 percent in support of you and look forward to reading your blog and pinpointing the exact moment where you start to hate yourself. I'm guessing about halfway through movie three.
Lindsay: I think you need to rethink your definition of "exciting."
Bret and Kevin at 9:44, While Anakin is Hitting on Padme
B: "Does anyone want a beer?"
K: "It's 9:45."
B: "All right, if nobody else wants one..."
Episode I is Getting Worse
Anakin to Padme: "Are you an angel?"
Padme: "A-what?"
Garret to me: "Have you seen Jizzed in My Pants?"
Concerning Jar Jar, by Garret and Kevin
G: "They've been trying to redeem Jar Jar in the Clone Wars, but he's still Jar Jar. It's like you went to a restaurant, and after you ate, you had explosive diarrhea, and you were vomiting uncontrollably, like... you were vomiting more than you had eaten..."
K: "Like your stomach had traveled into the future and consumed food you hadn't even eaten yet."
G: "Exactly. And then the restaurant invited you back, and they were all, 'don't worry, the food is the same, but that won't happen again.'"
Episode I: The Phantom Menace
We're less than 10 minutes into the first film and I already want to leave.
We should be farther along by now but some of us were held up in traffic from all the people who go to work in the morning. Admittedly there's a lot of cool lightsabery in the first 10 minutes, but I still feel like I should have been taking notes for an economics quiz.
Monday, January 12, 2009
2009: It's Just a Number or, Mark Your New Calendars
Here we are almost more than 12 days into 2009 and someone thought it was plausible that I would have wanted to acknowledge that fact with a new blog post just after noon this afternoon. But the jokes on him/her (let's face it, probably him or her), because I haven't even thought about wanting to blog since more or less four, five, or three posts ago, present post excluded.
In light of that person's comment/impersonation on my final post of 2008, I think I/he/she owe(s) him/her/you/me an explanation. I'll go first. For the past two weeks I've been nerding out on Morrowind, the very game I ridiculed in two out of three of my last three posts. While writing a faux Christmas letter, I foolishly allowed myself to enter the mindset of a Morrowind addict without establishing an exit strategy or telling anyone what I was doing in case something went wrong. The result was a lot like in The Lost Weekend, only for twice as many weekends and without the drunken hallucinations or (go figure) the love story, and just with me playing Morrowind for nigh on a fortnight, completely sober but still running from my potential (so, yeah, that was a good example).
To celebrate the end of my weeks-long nerd binge, and to live up to my position on some of your bookmarks bars, I have decided to attend a Star Wars Eps. I-VI marathon this Thursday and blog about it as it is happening. (That "as it is happening" part is in italics within italics, which is why it doesn't appear to be italicized. To read that sentence properly, please get more excited as you go.)
That's right kids, I'm going to kick off my video gaming recovery with an irony-laden 12-hour Star Wars blogathon. This Thursday. Unless I have work. Get ready to giggle.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A Candy Situation that Demands a Verdict
Situation: there is one piece of See's Famous Old Time Candy left in the box. That piece of candy is cut in half. That makes two pieces.
Question: Can I have both?
Monday, December 22, 2008
Merry Christmas 2008 from the Hutchinsons
As I sit to type this letter my hands still quake from the excitement of battle, for I have just completed a most dangerous quest in which I slew a pack of foul rats in the basement of commoner Drarayne Thelas. Thelas is a dark elf (or Dunmer, in her native tongue) and it is my hope that the completion of this quest will soften the cold reception I have received in Balmora, if even the smallest bit. Otherwise all I will have to show for my peril is a few pounds of rat meat, which has no effect on Wood Elves whatsoever and for which I can find no other use, not even the proverbial relief of fatigue. Neverthelater, life goes on. “Such,” Nalcarya of White Haven would say, “is the life of a Witchhunter.”
Indeed much has happened in the land of Vvardenfell since last Christmas (a holiday which is not, might I add, celebrated anywhere in Morrowind), but I am reminded that many of this letter’s recipients spend no part of their lives in that realm and that still more maintain that my expanded existence as Drookox is... not worthy of the time it requires. Being that as it is, not the case, I am yet amusedly reminded of the lesson recorded in The Homilies of Blessed Almalexia, which Sotha Sil learned from the scribs while casting stones in the egg mines, namely that “The idle amusements of one may be the solemn tortures of another.” Therefore, as I am sure your interests lie more in the adventures of my non-virtual family, and as I am by this time well enough recovered from my skirmish with the rats, I will do as best I can at my current level to impart to you some knowledge as to the happenings of my wife and child.ren
Megan is still happy at her job at the hospital, which isn’t as a nurse but still involves answering phones and provides free childcare. As there are no children in Morrowind I am not proficient in the care of children and we’re all very happy about the free childcare. Megan also still likes to do different things outside like walk and drive around to places. Sometimes she leaves for days at a time for something about her dad, and by the time she gets back she hardly recognizes my avatar and is too busy feeding the kids at all hours of the day to fully appreciate my upgraded stats. The new Daedric weapons I can conjure mid-battle amaze even myself and have made quite a stir in the forums that are still active (for some reason, whenever a sequel to a game comes out, that’s all anyone wants to talk about even if it isn’t as good as the first, or the third in this case).
Most of you already know about the newest addition to our family, little Justin Eärendil, who was born on July 25 (a date I will always remember because I had to miss Max Brooks at Comic-Con 08). Justin is like his brother Denethor was at that age (who, I remind you, was named after the canonical character of the books, NOT the abomination in Peter Jackson’s three-part crapogy) in that he basically sits around and always needs stuff when Megan is at her parents’ house. Sometimes he can be a real handful (I’m constantly having to save), but what I lack in willpower and agility I more than make up for in endurance. Denethor is usually quiet and enjoys his ant farm.
Now, as my time allotted for writing this letter is coming to a close (as once more the thirst for adventure spurs me on to greater things), I would like to leave you with an excerpt from Saryoni’s Sermons as collected in the Hierograph by Archcanon Tholer Saryoni, words I find particularly applicable at Christmas time. From The Grace of Humility, “Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec [read: Jesus]. I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world.” Amen.
Indeed much has happened in the land of Vvardenfell since last Christmas (a holiday which is not, might I add, celebrated anywhere in Morrowind), but I am reminded that many of this letter’s recipients spend no part of their lives in that realm and that still more maintain that my expanded existence as Drookox is... not worthy of the time it requires. Being that as it is, not the case, I am yet amusedly reminded of the lesson recorded in The Homilies of Blessed Almalexia, which Sotha Sil learned from the scribs while casting stones in the egg mines, namely that “The idle amusements of one may be the solemn tortures of another.” Therefore, as I am sure your interests lie more in the adventures of my non-virtual family, and as I am by this time well enough recovered from my skirmish with the rats, I will do as best I can at my current level to impart to you some knowledge as to the happenings of my wife and child.ren
Megan is still happy at her job at the hospital, which isn’t as a nurse but still involves answering phones and provides free childcare. As there are no children in Morrowind I am not proficient in the care of children and we’re all very happy about the free childcare. Megan also still likes to do different things outside like walk and drive around to places. Sometimes she leaves for days at a time for something about her dad, and by the time she gets back she hardly recognizes my avatar and is too busy feeding the kids at all hours of the day to fully appreciate my upgraded stats. The new Daedric weapons I can conjure mid-battle amaze even myself and have made quite a stir in the forums that are still active (for some reason, whenever a sequel to a game comes out, that’s all anyone wants to talk about even if it isn’t as good as the first, or the third in this case).
Most of you already know about the newest addition to our family, little Justin Eärendil, who was born on July 25 (a date I will always remember because I had to miss Max Brooks at Comic-Con 08). Justin is like his brother Denethor was at that age (who, I remind you, was named after the canonical character of the books, NOT the abomination in Peter Jackson’s three-part crapogy) in that he basically sits around and always needs stuff when Megan is at her parents’ house. Sometimes he can be a real handful (I’m constantly having to save), but what I lack in willpower and agility I more than make up for in endurance. Denethor is usually quiet and enjoys his ant farm.
Now, as my time allotted for writing this letter is coming to a close (as once more the thirst for adventure spurs me on to greater things), I would like to leave you with an excerpt from Saryoni’s Sermons as collected in the Hierograph by Archcanon Tholer Saryoni, words I find particularly applicable at Christmas time. From The Grace of Humility, “Thank you for your humility, Lord Vivec [read: Jesus]. I shall neither strut nor preen in vanity, but shall know and give thanks for my place in the greater world.” Amen.
Great News
I found out last night that I don't hate life enough to enjoy playing Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Game of the Year Edition, even when I'm trying to justify its purchase.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Facebook Chat that Just Happened
TG [11:15pm]
hey how come you look like that lady? that's weird and so are you
Matthew [11:15pm]
thats my sister
bits
TG [11:16pm]
her name is bits?
as in, kibbles and?
if I'd only known, I could have started calling you kibbles a long time ago
Matthew [11:17pm]
no
sorry
my sister's name is martha
I don't know why I typed bits
hey how come you look like that lady? that's weird and so are you
Matthew [11:15pm]
thats my sister
bits
TG [11:16pm]
her name is bits?
as in, kibbles and?
if I'd only known, I could have started calling you kibbles a long time ago
Matthew [11:17pm]
no
sorry
my sister's name is martha
I don't know why I typed bits
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Oh Hey Hole in the Crotch of My Jeans
Oh, hey hole in the crotch of my jeans, when did you get here?
Were you planning to say hello, or were you just gonna see how long it took me to notice?
Uh huh, and how long did it take?
For a lot of reasons, hole. Just tell me.
Well I thought I'd hear you coming, for one thing. Does anyone else know you're here?
How is that a weird question?
Okay, okay, forget it. So... was there something you needed or...?
Well, yeah sure, but I've got to go get a new pair of jeans, so you'll have to come along.
Seriously, hole, how long have you been here?
Okay, fine, forget it.
Were you planning to say hello, or were you just gonna see how long it took me to notice?
Uh huh, and how long did it take?
For a lot of reasons, hole. Just tell me.
Well I thought I'd hear you coming, for one thing. Does anyone else know you're here?
How is that a weird question?
Okay, okay, forget it. So... was there something you needed or...?
Well, yeah sure, but I've got to go get a new pair of jeans, so you'll have to come along.
Seriously, hole, how long have you been here?
Okay, fine, forget it.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
Don't Buy Fundraiser Chocolate Bars for a Dollar
They are gross. Just donate the dollar. Dollars are cheap.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Do the Apricot Jam
Apricot jam on my hand.
On my hoodie, near the zipper.
On the counter.
On my hoodie, again, right pocket.
Left shoulder, too.
And once more, on my hand.
Where else, on my hoodie,
Apricot jam?
On my hoodie, near the zipper.
On the counter.
On my hoodie, again, right pocket.
Left shoulder, too.
And once more, on my hand.
Where else, on my hoodie,
Apricot jam?
Thursday, October 23, 2008
A Misunderstanding at Work: Ordering Boxes
"That girl who takes your order, she can be pretty scary."
"She seemed nice to me."
"Yeah, okay maybe she does on the phone, but I'll tell you this, she's covered from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet in tattoos. When you get there you'll see what I mean."
"Oh, well, I was just gonna have them deliver. Where are they located?"
"Uhh... I've only seen the ones that are exposed."
"She seemed nice to me."
"Yeah, okay maybe she does on the phone, but I'll tell you this, she's covered from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet in tattoos. When you get there you'll see what I mean."
"Oh, well, I was just gonna have them deliver. Where are they located?"
"Uhh... I've only seen the ones that are exposed."
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
You Must Not Know 'Bout Me
Facebook,
We all know that you glean personal information from my account profile and use it to target advertising directly at me. But seriously, "Are you tired of jeans?" Come on, Facebook, you know I'm not in a relationship.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
An Awkward Conversation at WinCo with the Shampoo I Forgot to Use this Morning
Oh, hey there. Uh... how've you been?
Yeah? Good. That's great, Shampoo. Uh... can I... what are you looking for?
Really? Ha! What, do I have gum in my hair or something?
Oh, and jelly? That makes sense.
No, I totally agree. You can buy whatever you want. It doesn't all have to be about me, or... anyone else.
Milk. Yeah, we're almost out of milk. Do you... drink milk?
Seriously, Shampoo, I really didn't see you this morning. Believe me, if I had, I definitely would have washed my hair because my hair feels like crap right now. It's seriously gross.
No, I don't doubt it. I'm sure you were right in front of me. It's just... sometimes you just get really busy doing other--huh? I mean, I meant you, as in me... sometimes I get really busy.
Uh... I'm not sure. Probably, you know... soaping up.
No, I guess I didn't...
True. Well, like I said, it really was a mistake.
Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Definitely. No I'm really sorry.
Listen, are you doing anything tonight?
Oh.
Well... can I see you tomorrow?
Yeah? Good. That's great, Shampoo. Uh... can I... what are you looking for?
Really? Ha! What, do I have gum in my hair or something?
Oh, and jelly? That makes sense.
No, I totally agree. You can buy whatever you want. It doesn't all have to be about me, or... anyone else.
Milk. Yeah, we're almost out of milk. Do you... drink milk?
Seriously, Shampoo, I really didn't see you this morning. Believe me, if I had, I definitely would have washed my hair because my hair feels like crap right now. It's seriously gross.
No, I don't doubt it. I'm sure you were right in front of me. It's just... sometimes you just get really busy doing other--huh? I mean, I meant you, as in me... sometimes I get really busy.
Uh... I'm not sure. Probably, you know... soaping up.
No, I guess I didn't...
True. Well, like I said, it really was a mistake.
Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Definitely. No I'm really sorry.
Listen, are you doing anything tonight?
Oh.
Well... can I see you tomorrow?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Sunday, August 03, 2008
More Minutes, Please
"Because safety is a priority, 'You Got 30 Minutes' is not a guarantee, but an estimate. You may get more."
I wish AT&T was more like Domino's.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Leave It
I'm taking care of my friends' dog while they're out of town for a few days. Consequently, it isn't weird that I watched a dog pee this afternoon. The dog's name is Silas, and the session went a little bit like this:
"Buds, go potties" ("Buds" is short for Silas).
Silas dashes to the lawn, sniffs around for a suitable location and does the deed.
"Good Buddies. Come on."
Silas walks away toward the edge of the property and sniffs in the grass by the front gate.
"Silas, come here."
He sniffs some more, then picks something out of the grass with his mouth and looks at me apprehensively.
"What'cha got there Buds? Leave it."
He sets the object on the ground without breaking eye contact. It looks like a piece of bark. I pick it up and toss it over the fence into the road.
"Come on Silas. Go inside."
Silas hesitates. He looks back at the spot where he found the piece of bark, then looks back at me. I don't have anything new to say, but the silence is awkward and I'm ready to put in a couple hours on my friends' Playstation 3, so I more or less repeat myself until he decides to listen and goes inside without a word.
Part 2: the good part
Inside the house, I find that my friends have taken the Playstation 3 with them on their vacation, which makes perfect sense. I set down the game I rented and search for any instructions they may have left, like "please water the lawn every other morning," or "please sit around in our empty house bored out of your mind." There's no note, so I opt for the latter.
Sometime later one of the culprits calls to check in and, among other things, asks me to pay their rent for the month. I start to wonder if I accidently joined a cult when I offered to take care of the dog until she clarifies that I'm supposed to use one of her own checks and forge the signature. Okay, good, because that was getting shady.
"Oh yeah," she says, "and there's some poop by the front gate that Silas was interested in yesterday, so make sure he doesn't eat it."
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
A Flaw in the System
If you woke up at 3 a.m. and someone had set your alarm clock to military time, how would you ever know?
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Regardings Your Job Offer
Editor's Note: The following conversation is presented in its entirety. The names have not been changed because neither/none of them are the actual names of the parties involved, except maybe Mick D William/Williams/Williamson... one of those, anyway. The Hotmail alias "BobbyGeneric88" is indeed a reference to the character of the same name from the 90s cartoon "Bobby's World" and is used without permission. Should FOX and/or Howie Mandel seek legal recourse, we at This Guy ask that they start with the jerks who took "BobbyGeneric" and all the BobbyGenerics numbered one through 22.
Part 1: sacramento craigslist > media jobs
Job Offer/Stress Free Apply Now
Reply to: job-752091721@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-07-12, 8:38AM PDT
Job Offer/Stress Free Apply With Resume.
Compensation: 400
This is a part-time job.
This is a contract job.
OK to highlight this job opening for persons with disabilities
OK for recruiters to contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
You may contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
PostingID: 752091721
Part 2: Stress Free Application
From: Bobby Generic (bobbygeneric88@hotmail.com)
Sent: Sat 7/12/08 11:17 AM
To: job-752091721@craigslist.org
Hi,
I saw your job offer on craigslist and it sounded really interesting. You will find that I am already more than qualified for the described position and would be a great asset to your company/household/workplace/whatever it is you're looking for. I do however, have a question about compensation. What exactly would I be receiving 400 of, and how often?
Thanks,
Your Favorite Applicant
Resume
Objective: to get a stress free job
Education: a college one time
Major coursework: 135
Employment History: some jobs
Job Related Skills: aplenty
Other Interests: stress free recreation, stress free volunteer work
References: people I know (they’re great)
Part 3: Regardings Your Job offer as an Executive Trustee
From: Mick Williamson (m.williamjobtile2@netscape.com) [You may not know this sender. Mark as safe|Mark as unsafe]
Sent: Sat 7/12/08 10:15 PM
Reply-to: mick.williamscarpetsuk@hotmail.com
To: m.williamcarpetsuk@inc.net
Hi,
Thanks very much for the response. I must say it’s highly appreciated.
The job does not entail much. All you would be doing is receiving these payments in form of Money Orders/Check or Bank Wire Transfers, which would be coming from clients of mine in the United States via courier e.g. FedEx or UPS.
So when you get these Funds all you have to do is have them cashed and deduct your share (10%) and wire the rest down to me here in UK or anywhere our correspondent is in the world via (Western Union Money Transfer) or (Money Gram Money Transfer).
I would also need some proof of Identity. So I have attached an Employment form for you to fill and send back to me via email.
Vinyl Carpets vary in prices but most purchases range from about $3000 and above. Well you would be receiving funds ranging from over $3000 and you are meant to take out 10% from the funds you received and then forward the remaining balance as instructed via Wire Transfer. You are likely to be receiving these funds every week and possibly twice a week, so you are meant to take 10% out of every Transaction processed.
With this offer, you'll be earning at least $300 a week.
NOTICE: This is strictly a legal offer and your Private personal information is not needed e.g. Social Security # or anything that can be of adverse effect to your personal security and privacy.
APPLICANT INFORMATION NEEDED FOR EMPLOYMENT CONFIRMATION
FIRST NAME…………………………
LAST NAME………………………………
HOME ADDRESS (* NO P.O. BOXES*)
…………………………………………………………
CITY……………………………………..
STATE…………………………………..
ZIP CODE………………………………..
COUNTRY……………………………...
PHONE NUMBER (S) CELL ……………………………………
HOME ………………………………
WORK.........................................
GENDER……………………………..
MARITAL STATUS (OPTIONAL)……………………………
AGE (OPTIONAL)…………………………………..
NATIONALITY (OPTIONAL)…………………………………..
PRESENT PLACE OF WORK…………………………………………………………
ATTESTATION
According to how you have been briefed earlier. You are required to receive payment on behalf of the above-mentioned firm. You are to deduct 10% of all funds processed on a particular order & forward the balance payment via Money gram or Western Union to any of the company’s regional warehouses that will be given to you later.
You will notify the company a week ahead if eventually you want to discontinue this job. This will enable us stop any payments coming your way and it would also reduce conflicts.
You will not be held liable for any issues arising from shipping errors you will also not be accountable for funds not collected and all order implementation errors. My instruction will be followed to provide the best possible service for both parties and the Client in Question
In agreement to this kindly append signature below.
………………………………………
As soon as the form is signed and returned to us you will receive an email from us accepting or declining your application within 24 hours. Note in the event that your application is turned down it will not be as a result of any of the optional data supplied those are just to enable us know you (our employee) better.
Thanks.
M D Williamson Carpets Ltd,
12B Norwich Road,
Fakenham, Norfolk,
NR21 8AX
Email: mick.williamscarpetsuk@hotmail.com
VAT Registration No: 787 4632 80
MD Williamson tm 2008
Part 1: sacramento craigslist > media jobs
Job Offer/Stress Free Apply Now
Reply to: job-752091721@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-07-12, 8:38AM PDT
Job Offer/Stress Free Apply With Resume.
Compensation: 400
This is a part-time job.
This is a contract job.
OK to highlight this job opening for persons with disabilities
OK for recruiters to contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
You may contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
PostingID: 752091721
Part 2: Stress Free Application
From: Bobby Generic (bobbygeneric88@hotmail.com)
Sent: Sat 7/12/08 11:17 AM
To: job-752091721@craigslist.org
Hi,
I saw your job offer on craigslist and it sounded really interesting. You will find that I am already more than qualified for the described position and would be a great asset to your company/household/workplace/whatever it is you're looking for. I do however, have a question about compensation. What exactly would I be receiving 400 of, and how often?
Thanks,
Your Favorite Applicant
Resume
Objective: to get a stress free job
Education: a college one time
Major coursework: 135
Employment History: some jobs
Job Related Skills: aplenty
Other Interests: stress free recreation, stress free volunteer work
References: people I know (they’re great)
Part 3: Regardings Your Job offer as an Executive Trustee
From: Mick Williamson (m.williamjobtile2@netscape.com) [You may not know this sender. Mark as safe|Mark as unsafe]
Sent: Sat 7/12/08 10:15 PM
Reply-to: mick.williamscarpetsuk@hotmail.com
To: m.williamcarpetsuk@inc.net
Hi,
Thanks very much for the response. I must say it’s highly appreciated.
The job does not entail much. All you would be doing is receiving these payments in form of Money Orders/Check or Bank Wire Transfers, which would be coming from clients of mine in the United States via courier e.g. FedEx or UPS.
So when you get these Funds all you have to do is have them cashed and deduct your share (10%) and wire the rest down to me here in UK or anywhere our correspondent is in the world via (Western Union Money Transfer) or (Money Gram Money Transfer).
I would also need some proof of Identity. So I have attached an Employment form for you to fill and send back to me via email.
Vinyl Carpets vary in prices but most purchases range from about $3000 and above. Well you would be receiving funds ranging from over $3000 and you are meant to take out 10% from the funds you received and then forward the remaining balance as instructed via Wire Transfer. You are likely to be receiving these funds every week and possibly twice a week, so you are meant to take 10% out of every Transaction processed.
With this offer, you'll be earning at least $300 a week.
NOTICE: This is strictly a legal offer and your Private personal information is not needed e.g. Social Security # or anything that can be of adverse effect to your personal security and privacy.
APPLICANT INFORMATION NEEDED FOR EMPLOYMENT CONFIRMATION
FIRST NAME…………………………
LAST NAME………………………………
HOME ADDRESS (* NO P.O. BOXES*)
…………………………………………………………
CITY……………………………………..
STATE…………………………………..
ZIP CODE………………………………..
COUNTRY……………………………...
PHONE NUMBER (S) CELL ……………………………………
HOME ………………………………
WORK.........................................
GENDER……………………………..
MARITAL STATUS (OPTIONAL)……………………………
AGE (OPTIONAL)…………………………………..
NATIONALITY (OPTIONAL)…………………………………..
PRESENT PLACE OF WORK…………………………………………………………
ATTESTATION
According to how you have been briefed earlier. You are required to receive payment on behalf of the above-mentioned firm. You are to deduct 10% of all funds processed on a particular order & forward the balance payment via Money gram or Western Union to any of the company’s regional warehouses that will be given to you later.
You will notify the company a week ahead if eventually you want to discontinue this job. This will enable us stop any payments coming your way and it would also reduce conflicts.
You will not be held liable for any issues arising from shipping errors you will also not be accountable for funds not collected and all order implementation errors. My instruction will be followed to provide the best possible service for both parties and the Client in Question
In agreement to this kindly append signature below.
………………………………………
As soon as the form is signed and returned to us you will receive an email from us accepting or declining your application within 24 hours. Note in the event that your application is turned down it will not be as a result of any of the optional data supplied those are just to enable us know you (our employee) better.
Thanks.
M D Williamson Carpets Ltd,
12B Norwich Road,
Fakenham, Norfolk,
NR21 8AX
Email: mick.williamscarpetsuk@hotmail.com
VAT Registration No: 787 4632 80
MD Williamson tm 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Breakfast Sausage
Most people, and by most people I mean all people, either agree that breakfast sausage is not a tasty meat or are wrong in their opinion about breakfast sausage (And yes, opinions can be wrong [And yes, your opinion that my opinion that opinions can be wrong is wrong ((should you have such an opinion)) not only supports that my opinion is, if not right, at least valid, but certainly invalidates your own.] including opinions of personal taste, if such things even exist. [And no, as I will soon explain, I don't think they do; and yes, you can start a sentence with and; and no, you shouldn't do it very often, and, yes, that's the same as saying "and yes, you shouldn't do it very often" as long as it answers your question]). There are no exceptions to this rule. None. Not even my roommate, who eats breakfast sausage almost every day and who just yesterday used breakfast sausage as the primary, if not the sole, meat component of a meat loaf unbeknownst to me and to my eternal detriment. And no, that wasn't a complete sentence.
What foul, Hellborn, most assuredly twisted and rheumatoid hand first penned such a recipe I know not, yet I count such ignorance a blessing most sweet. Should I ask my roommate, he would probably answer "my mother," and might take issue with some or all of the adjectives in the previous sentence, but I cannot take them back, for I have tasted the meat loaf, and the loaf has spoken. "Well, I like it," he might say in defense of his disgusting meat loaf, but that's not good enough. Because of his choices, stemming no doubt from his so-called "personal" opinions, I was encouraged to have some of the meat loaf for myself today. I've since brushed my teeth and still I taste it.
What foul, Hellborn, most assuredly twisted and rheumatoid hand first penned such a recipe I know not, yet I count such ignorance a blessing most sweet. Should I ask my roommate, he would probably answer "my mother," and might take issue with some or all of the adjectives in the previous sentence, but I cannot take them back, for I have tasted the meat loaf, and the loaf has spoken. "Well, I like it," he might say in defense of his disgusting meat loaf, but that's not good enough. Because of his choices, stemming no doubt from his so-called "personal" opinions, I was encouraged to have some of the meat loaf for myself today. I've since brushed my teeth and still I taste it.
This horrible, horrible taste of breakfast sausage.
Imagine that a wild boar has come to the end of his life and now wanders through the jungle. Once strong and proud, he is now weak from years of struggle and a lingering disease. His eyes are glazed and see nothing until a harsh light awakens them to their purpose. He sees that he is no longer in the jungle but now stands in a clearing. The boar's first thought is to run back into the jungle, but he is too tired to run, too tired to even turn around.
Imagine that a wild boar has come to the end of his life and now wanders through the jungle. Once strong and proud, he is now weak from years of struggle and a lingering disease. His eyes are glazed and see nothing until a harsh light awakens them to their purpose. He sees that he is no longer in the jungle but now stands in a clearing. The boar's first thought is to run back into the jungle, but he is too tired to run, too tired to even turn around.
He scans the clearing for danger but finds nothing but an open box of romaine lettuce. He approaches the box and sniffs a leaf. Unharmed, he takes a bite, then a second. Instinct shoots powerful electrical messages to every part of his body telling him to eat—eat until the food is gone. Soon his powerful jaws tear at lettuce and box indiscriminately. The boar slips into a blind frenzy and does not notice that beyond the top layer of fresh romaine the lettuce is wet and rotten and only barely covers a giant block of putrid beef fat. He gorges on the contents of the box. His stomach becomes distended with rotten lettuce and fat, then bursts, and the boar, too maddened by his frenzy to feel any pain, lies down on the unfinished pile of putrid fat and dies.
Now there appears a man who has come to check on his trap. Indeed he has caught and killed a mighty beast of the jungle. He knows that a catch this size will have to be left out to stew in the sun for at least a week before it is ready to grind, but soon he will have a bounty of breakfast sausage to sell in the market. This summer, his family will have all that it needs.
This is more that just an unpleasant and pointless tangent, it is probably a true story. If nothing else, I think it accurately describes the taste I'm dealing with right now, still.
Friday, July 11, 2008
A Song Called Gift Cinnamon Bun
I actually started this song a month ago but never finished it. Today I decided it was done. It's called Gift Cinnamon Bun. it's about a gift cinnamon bun.
(Whoa cinnamon bun)
What gives, cinnamon bun?
(Dry cinnamon bun)
You're a bad cinnamon bun
(Yeah cinnamon bun)
But you're a gift cinnamon bun
(Thanks man I owe you one)
This Guy is Always Looking on the Bright Side
The best thing about working at a job where I get a lot of tips is that now, if I ever get mugged, I stand to really make someone's day.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
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