In case you haven't heard, I'm working now. It's a three-month gig, which if you're new explains the countdown at the bottom of this post. Now that I have money coming in again I'm starting to loosen the purse strings just the tiniest bit. No big extravagances ('cept maybe the book case, but that's an investment), I'm mostly just paying more on my regular bills. But there is one thing I'm looking forward to spending some hard-earned dough on.
I'm gettin' me some new undies.
My trusty old ones have been getting me by for a year now, and while they're holding up, I can't fight entropy forever. Underwear is a depreciating asset, after all.
If you've been following me since the beginning you may remember that underwear is the deciding factor on when I do laundry, so I do keep track of my stockpile pretty closely. And, sure as a Wall Street Broker is cheating on his taxes, they're wearing out. My 'good' ones are becoming 'acceptable' and more of my 'acceptable' are edging towards 'workout.' And several in the 'workout' category are one good skid mark away from 'emergency.'
So the next time Macy's has a sale - like, what? every weekend? - I'm going to walk in with my head held high, my credit card in hand, and say "A three-pack of your finest Jockey, my good man. I'm in the mood for a splurge."
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 50 minutes to get to Burbank. You read that right, traffic was insane in the membrane today. I blame the Lakers.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 20-something days, I'm losing track...
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Monday, June 21, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
You May Have Already Won...
Guess what? I just won $150,000. No, seriously, it's for real. I got a letter from England and they said my name was drawn from different sweepstakes and lottery databases around the world. Evidently they've tried to contact me for years now, and it's down to the wire, only three more weeks left before I forfeit this forever. And all I have to do is call a number in England... hold on a second. This sounds fishy. I'm beginning to suspect this letter from 'Standard Links Alliance' might be a scam. Or scam-ola...
You know, now that I think about it, I've never entered a British lottery. I don't even know if they have one. I know they have a lottery in Australia because I did buy lotto tickets there, but all I won was a kangaroo with a pouch full of beer. I'm kidding, the beer came in its own crate.
A while back I wrote about a Nigerian scam e-mail I received, one that claimed to be from our own FBI. I could tell immediately that was a scam because it wasn't from some prince, but from a US Federal police force operating on behalf of a foreign lottery and I was supposed to have won almost a million dollars. Only the truly desperate would believe that kind of pitch.
But these Standard Links Alliance guys are good. Really good. The letter was indeed mailed from England, and it's written on A-4 paper (what they use in Europe instead of 8.5 x 11), and the phone number they tell you to call is in London, England just like they claim. Aside from the complete nonsense of the letter itself, which never quite explains where they got my name or how I came by this sum, it's almost totally believable. Even the dollar amount itself, $150,000, seems within the realm of possibility. Not too large to be ridiculous like the Nigerian e-mail, and not so small that most people would ignore it. $150,000 is that Goldilocks spot for generating interest in free money. If, of course, you don't ask yourself why a British bank is issuing checks in American currency.
I'm half tempted to give these guys a call - from a work phone, of course - just to screw with them. But, nah, this will just go in the trash with the other garbage.
Still... you gotta give them an 'A' for execution on this one.
You know, now that I think about it, I've never entered a British lottery. I don't even know if they have one. I know they have a lottery in Australia because I did buy lotto tickets there, but all I won was a kangaroo with a pouch full of beer. I'm kidding, the beer came in its own crate.
A while back I wrote about a Nigerian scam e-mail I received, one that claimed to be from our own FBI. I could tell immediately that was a scam because it wasn't from some prince, but from a US Federal police force operating on behalf of a foreign lottery and I was supposed to have won almost a million dollars. Only the truly desperate would believe that kind of pitch.
But these Standard Links Alliance guys are good. Really good. The letter was indeed mailed from England, and it's written on A-4 paper (what they use in Europe instead of 8.5 x 11), and the phone number they tell you to call is in London, England just like they claim. Aside from the complete nonsense of the letter itself, which never quite explains where they got my name or how I came by this sum, it's almost totally believable. Even the dollar amount itself, $150,000, seems within the realm of possibility. Not too large to be ridiculous like the Nigerian e-mail, and not so small that most people would ignore it. $150,000 is that Goldilocks spot for generating interest in free money. If, of course, you don't ask yourself why a British bank is issuing checks in American currency.
I'm half tempted to give these guys a call - from a work phone, of course - just to screw with them. But, nah, this will just go in the trash with the other garbage.
Still... you gotta give them an 'A' for execution on this one.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Tales From My Past - Condemned
Time was, I used to work for the US Government as a contractor. I deployed military medical systems across the country and across the globe. I got to go to England, Japan, and Germany on the taxpayer's dime, so thank you very much, those who paid their taxes. But for every time I got to go to a different country, I paid for it with a trip to places like Beaufort, SC, or O'Fallon IL. Uncle Sugar giveth, Uncle Sugar taketh away...
This tale, however, is about a building. A creaky, condemned building that was my office for quite a while. It had been built during World War I - seriously - when Brooks AFB was brand-new,and had a twenty-year life span. Which would put the building's demise some time during the Depression. The one in the 1930's, not the one now. But the Army Air Corps didn't tear it down, and neither did the Air Force. In the decades between the Great War and my time there, it had been a mess hall, a morgue, a place to store office furniture, temporary living quarters, a supply depot, and even a youth center.
It had been condemned since the late 80's as a place unsuitable for habitation, a twenty-year building that had lasted seventy years. That didn't stop commanders from claiming it as soon as it was empty, however, including the commander of our element. The place was crumbling, literally, and was not level, not plumb, and it was wracked. Not a straight line in the place. The windows didn't shut properly so it was drafty in the winter and hot in the summer. One conference room was the worst, as we measured an eleven-inch difference in the height from one corner to the diagonally opposite corner. You could lay a pencil on the high side of the conference table and it would roll down and shoot off the far side as if someone had thrown it. I'm sure it was full of mold and whatever you get from corpses in a morgue, and there were for certain mice, rats, possums, skunks, and armadillos all vying for space under the building. Ah, good times, good times...
At long last our commander surrendered the place and we moved to better quarters. The Engineer Corps did something amazing to this building to finally put it out of its misery. They got six guys with chainsaws and took one side of the building away. I watched them do it, the engineers sawed the back half of the building off, to make it completely unsuitable for habitation, and to make it so that no one would try to squat. But it gets better.
Fast forward to six months later. I've gotten another job, working for an insurance company, and I came back to Brooks to visit the old team. We went by our old place, the one they'd sawn in half. The Engineer Corps had salted the earth. They had torn up the curbs and put entirely new ones in, they'd torn up the parking lot and put in grass, they'd torn up the sewer lines, the water lines, the electric transformer, and the gas lines. They dug up the foundation posts and hauled the cement away. They even re-numbered the street address, made it appear that there had never been any structure there in the first place. They erased the building.
That's ruthless efficiency right there. Admirable and yet a little disturbing at the same time. Makes you realize that with the right motivation and the right people in charge, almost anything can get done.
This tale, however, is about a building. A creaky, condemned building that was my office for quite a while. It had been built during World War I - seriously - when Brooks AFB was brand-new,and had a twenty-year life span. Which would put the building's demise some time during the Depression. The one in the 1930's, not the one now. But the Army Air Corps didn't tear it down, and neither did the Air Force. In the decades between the Great War and my time there, it had been a mess hall, a morgue, a place to store office furniture, temporary living quarters, a supply depot, and even a youth center.
It had been condemned since the late 80's as a place unsuitable for habitation, a twenty-year building that had lasted seventy years. That didn't stop commanders from claiming it as soon as it was empty, however, including the commander of our element. The place was crumbling, literally, and was not level, not plumb, and it was wracked. Not a straight line in the place. The windows didn't shut properly so it was drafty in the winter and hot in the summer. One conference room was the worst, as we measured an eleven-inch difference in the height from one corner to the diagonally opposite corner. You could lay a pencil on the high side of the conference table and it would roll down and shoot off the far side as if someone had thrown it. I'm sure it was full of mold and whatever you get from corpses in a morgue, and there were for certain mice, rats, possums, skunks, and armadillos all vying for space under the building. Ah, good times, good times...
At long last our commander surrendered the place and we moved to better quarters. The Engineer Corps did something amazing to this building to finally put it out of its misery. They got six guys with chainsaws and took one side of the building away. I watched them do it, the engineers sawed the back half of the building off, to make it completely unsuitable for habitation, and to make it so that no one would try to squat. But it gets better.
Fast forward to six months later. I've gotten another job, working for an insurance company, and I came back to Brooks to visit the old team. We went by our old place, the one they'd sawn in half. The Engineer Corps had salted the earth. They had torn up the curbs and put entirely new ones in, they'd torn up the parking lot and put in grass, they'd torn up the sewer lines, the water lines, the electric transformer, and the gas lines. They dug up the foundation posts and hauled the cement away. They even re-numbered the street address, made it appear that there had never been any structure there in the first place. They erased the building.
That's ruthless efficiency right there. Admirable and yet a little disturbing at the same time. Makes you realize that with the right motivation and the right people in charge, almost anything can get done.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Job Yawn-Fest
Is it just me, or do most of the jobs posted out there seem completely boring and awful wastes of time? I know I'm probably looking at this with a jaded eye, but, seriously... 'Infrastructure Solutions Consultant?'... 'Franchise Development Manager?'... 'Sales Planner?'... 'Contracts Manager?' Companies couldn't put a little more effort into a job title than that? No wonder those jobs are never filled, only a zombie would apply for them, and zombies are too busy prowling for delicious brains to bother applying for a job.
Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.
Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Another Career
I've been watching the History Channel a lot lately, I can't get enough of R. Lee Ermey blowing away watermelons (he was Gunny Hartman in 'Full Metal Jacket'), or the hefty proprietors in Pawn Stars, or nerds on TV in The Universe. But I really get into the Nostradamus/2012/Armageddon stuff, probably for the same reason I love circus sideshows and carnival midways, it's just too crazy to ignore. Watching the nearly-unhinged people who delve into medieval French and Mayan calendar stuff made me realize there's a career opportunity there.
I'm going to become a Doomsday predictor.
You know, one of those guys who gets on TV, wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket and looking all serious, proclaiming the end of the world is just around the corner. I don't want to be a crazy megachurch preacher - yet - I'm talking about the kind of guy who can get on a morning talk show and get people to buy into his ration of crap just by seeming to be sincere about it. I'll have a book to sell too, obviously. I'm thinking if I can get an appearance on Rachael Ray and The View, then Oprah can't be far behind. And everyone knows if you have the Oprah stamp of approval, you're golden.
The only thing is, I may be late to the bandwagon on this one. 2012 is only three years away, and if the shows on the History Channel are any indication, the crazy-eyebrowed Nostradamus-and-Mayan doomsday guys may already have the market sewn up.
But there's always room for one more loud, ill-informed pundit on TV, isn't there?
I'm going to become a Doomsday predictor.
You know, one of those guys who gets on TV, wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket and looking all serious, proclaiming the end of the world is just around the corner. I don't want to be a crazy megachurch preacher - yet - I'm talking about the kind of guy who can get on a morning talk show and get people to buy into his ration of crap just by seeming to be sincere about it. I'll have a book to sell too, obviously. I'm thinking if I can get an appearance on Rachael Ray and The View, then Oprah can't be far behind. And everyone knows if you have the Oprah stamp of approval, you're golden.
The only thing is, I may be late to the bandwagon on this one. 2012 is only three years away, and if the shows on the History Channel are any indication, the crazy-eyebrowed Nostradamus-and-Mayan doomsday guys may already have the market sewn up.
But there's always room for one more loud, ill-informed pundit on TV, isn't there?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My Next Job
I've been giving this a lot of thought - well, at least some thought - trying to come up with a new career path for myself. What am I good at, that I like doing, that I could make a living doing? After much consideration, I've hit on the perfect job.
I'm going to become a beach spoilsport.
Imagine this, if you will: me with a solid mahogany tan, the kind of dark brown-with-undertones-of-painful-sunburn that makes people cringe. I'm wearing a bright red Speedo thong, the kind of banana hammock European guys like to rock. I have several bright gold chains around my neck, not as many as Mr. T, but too many for a white guy to have on. I'm wearing douchebag sunglasses and I've whitened my teeth so much they glow. And the capper, the pièce de résistance, is my glistening, baby-oiled body.
Who would want to be around that? Precisely my point. As a beach spoilsport, I would get people to pay me to go away, to take my bright red Speedo and go offend someone else. I could sit in a chaise lounge with a mai tai, I could dance awkwardly to 80's Kraftwerk, anything to make a spectacle of myself and increase the payout to go away.
The only problem I can forsee is the set-up costs. Gold chains and baby oil ain't cheap, and I'd need to maintain just the proper amount of butt-crack tan line to provide maximum offense when I bend over to adjust my beach towel. Details...
I'm going to become a beach spoilsport.
Imagine this, if you will: me with a solid mahogany tan, the kind of dark brown-with-undertones-of-painful-sunburn that makes people cringe. I'm wearing a bright red Speedo thong, the kind of banana hammock European guys like to rock. I have several bright gold chains around my neck, not as many as Mr. T, but too many for a white guy to have on. I'm wearing douchebag sunglasses and I've whitened my teeth so much they glow. And the capper, the pièce de résistance, is my glistening, baby-oiled body.
Who would want to be around that? Precisely my point. As a beach spoilsport, I would get people to pay me to go away, to take my bright red Speedo and go offend someone else. I could sit in a chaise lounge with a mai tai, I could dance awkwardly to 80's Kraftwerk, anything to make a spectacle of myself and increase the payout to go away.
The only problem I can forsee is the set-up costs. Gold chains and baby oil ain't cheap, and I'd need to maintain just the proper amount of butt-crack tan line to provide maximum offense when I bend over to adjust my beach towel. Details...
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