I haven't had the television on in about three days.
I swear it's an accident. Not planned. Last time I had the idiot box* up and running was Thursday night. It was the 'So You Think You Can Dance' results show. Yes, I do watch that, wanna make something of it? I didn't think so...
Anyway, Friday I was in Austin and after I got back that night the TV just didn't come on. I read the Silmarillion (I have a first edition). Last night, Saturday, I was busy with busy work and whatnot and before I knew it the clock showed 9:30 PM and COPS was good and over. Crap, I missed my favorite show. Or favorite non-dance related show. And today, Sunday, there's just nothing to watch in the first place, aside from me getting busy writing and more busy work. So no TV today so far either.
I think it's the longest stretch I've gone without TV, without either being on an international flight or being stuck somewhere awful. And you know what? It doesn't bother me. Except for missing COPS and shirtless meth addicts trying to escape officers of the law, that's always good for a laugh. Oh, and NASCAR is on cable for 2/3 of the season, so I'm missing that too. I think I may have been a rum runner in a previous life, it's the only explanation I have for why I like to watch cars making left turns for 500 miles.
I got rid of cable going on two years ago, haven't missed it except for Cartoon Network - I loves me some Venture Brothers - and I don't get ABC or PBS here at my house. So very slowly I've been involuntarily weaned from the vast wasteland.
I think I'm better for it. But, honestly, I think it's good to have time alone with your own thoughts. I think too many people are uncomfortable with what's running through their heads and they find it easier to find external validation. But when you spend quiet time with yourself you learn what's important to you, and what's important at all. Kind of scary, actually, which is why people would rather avoid it. I think I'm going to jump in with both feet.
The TV's staying off more often than it's coming on.
* which is actually an idiot flat panel, but that doesn't roll off the tongue quite as elegantly
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
There Oughta Be A Pill...
I don't usually take drugs. And I don't mean just crack, I don't take regular medication of any kind. Aspirin now and then, when I have an ache or my head hurts from giving up soda yet again. But I was sitting in traffic today behind a person who WOULD NOT GO THE SPEED LIMIT -- grrr -- and I thought, 'there should be a pill that person could take to realize that if the sign says 45 she doesn't have to go 30.'
It's a modern conceit. Just take a pill to solve the problem. Quick and easy, relatively painless unless the pill goes down sideways, and very American in its simplicity. Why work to fix something when you could just take drugs?
And the floodgates opened. Here's a list of things that could be solved by better application of modern pharmacology.
Notaloneicin - makes you realize that there are, in fact, other people in the world who may not want to be held hostage to your whims. Perfect for people who leave their shopping carts in the center of the aisle.
Quitchabitchin - provides for relief of kids who have always gotten their way when they find out that the world doesn't hand out participation ribbons.
Getalongopril - specifically for elected officials who believe their mandate is to oppose rather than to compromise. We'd need a lot of this one. A LOT.
Compassionalitril - used to allow the self-righteous to walk a mile in the shoes of someone less fortunate. It's easy to be a smug judge when you have no idea of someone else's situation.
Thinkaminit - designed for bureaucrats who blindly adhere to the formula of their job instead of the overall intent. If we made it with an aerosol delivery vector we could gas the DMV and solve everyone's problem overnight.
Dontbeadoucheatall - for CEOs and finance jackasses who imagine their sole purpose is to line their own pockets, not to protect the American financial system. I'm also thinking this might be better used like rat poison, sprinkled on ill-gotten gains so the greedy bastards will just curl up and die.
It's a modern conceit. Just take a pill to solve the problem. Quick and easy, relatively painless unless the pill goes down sideways, and very American in its simplicity. Why work to fix something when you could just take drugs?
And the floodgates opened. Here's a list of things that could be solved by better application of modern pharmacology.
Notaloneicin - makes you realize that there are, in fact, other people in the world who may not want to be held hostage to your whims. Perfect for people who leave their shopping carts in the center of the aisle.
Quitchabitchin - provides for relief of kids who have always gotten their way when they find out that the world doesn't hand out participation ribbons.
Getalongopril - specifically for elected officials who believe their mandate is to oppose rather than to compromise. We'd need a lot of this one. A LOT.
Compassionalitril - used to allow the self-righteous to walk a mile in the shoes of someone less fortunate. It's easy to be a smug judge when you have no idea of someone else's situation.
Thinkaminit - designed for bureaucrats who blindly adhere to the formula of their job instead of the overall intent. If we made it with an aerosol delivery vector we could gas the DMV and solve everyone's problem overnight.
Dontbeadoucheatall - for CEOs and finance jackasses who imagine their sole purpose is to line their own pockets, not to protect the American financial system. I'm also thinking this might be better used like rat poison, sprinkled on ill-gotten gains so the greedy bastards will just curl up and die.
Friday, October 22, 2010
A Nose For News
I got a bit of a situation, and I don't quite know what to do. There's guy I know, I see him like once a month, once every two months, and he smells funny. And not ha-ha funny either, but also not repulsive. He's in this odd middle ground of olfactory confusion, and that's the source of the problem. I don't know how to tell him that he offends, because he doesn't smell offensive so much as strange. Really, really strange.
Some people smell like the cedar chest or closet they keep their clothes in. Some people might smell like dirty clothes because they pulled their wardrobe from the hamper. Some people might smell like too much smell-good (like the janitor where I work (Ugh...)), and some people might smell like BO. Or whiskey. Or cigarettes. Or halitosis if they've got serious dental problems.
This guy smells like none of that. He smells like no single identifiable thing, but he is absolutely, definitely funky. Funky like an old batch of collard greens, not funky like P-Funk (everybody get up).
When you get a snootful of his aroma the top note is mostly old-man smell, that vaguely stale yet vaguely Bryllcreem-y pop that hits you right between eyes.* But after a moment or two, not even a second, the middle note assaults you, a waft of something compost-y yet not organic. Kind of like that sterile potting 'soil' you can buy that isn't really soil at all. And the finish - the bottom note - is a barely-there hint of decay, almost like something that's been dead outside for a few weeks. And, yes, I actually spent time trying to figure out what exactly each of these things smelled like.
This wasn't a one-time thing, it's pretty much every time I see this guy, so I think he might intend to smell this way. God help him, I think it's on purpose. But it's not good. Waaaay not good.
I don't think I'm going to say anything, I don't see him often enough that it's a huge deal, and we're not good enough friends that I can tell him anything and have him take it like a man. So I'm gonna let him go on stinking, while he probably thinks he's a major player. I'm assuming this is some sort of cologne, otherwise his whole house has to have the same smell, which would be a public health issue.
For the life of me, I can't think of any other reason he'd smell like this. Unless his goal is to keep the ladies at bay, and then it's mission accomplished.
* or, if you're familiar with the blue alcohol dip barbers used to put their combs into, it's kind of like that, but not as astringent
Some people smell like the cedar chest or closet they keep their clothes in. Some people might smell like dirty clothes because they pulled their wardrobe from the hamper. Some people might smell like too much smell-good (like the janitor where I work (Ugh...)), and some people might smell like BO. Or whiskey. Or cigarettes. Or halitosis if they've got serious dental problems.
This guy smells like none of that. He smells like no single identifiable thing, but he is absolutely, definitely funky. Funky like an old batch of collard greens, not funky like P-Funk (everybody get up).
When you get a snootful of his aroma the top note is mostly old-man smell, that vaguely stale yet vaguely Bryllcreem-y pop that hits you right between eyes.* But after a moment or two, not even a second, the middle note assaults you, a waft of something compost-y yet not organic. Kind of like that sterile potting 'soil' you can buy that isn't really soil at all. And the finish - the bottom note - is a barely-there hint of decay, almost like something that's been dead outside for a few weeks. And, yes, I actually spent time trying to figure out what exactly each of these things smelled like.
This wasn't a one-time thing, it's pretty much every time I see this guy, so I think he might intend to smell this way. God help him, I think it's on purpose. But it's not good. Waaaay not good.
I don't think I'm going to say anything, I don't see him often enough that it's a huge deal, and we're not good enough friends that I can tell him anything and have him take it like a man. So I'm gonna let him go on stinking, while he probably thinks he's a major player. I'm assuming this is some sort of cologne, otherwise his whole house has to have the same smell, which would be a public health issue.
For the life of me, I can't think of any other reason he'd smell like this. Unless his goal is to keep the ladies at bay, and then it's mission accomplished.
* or, if you're familiar with the blue alcohol dip barbers used to put their combs into, it's kind of like that, but not as astringent
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Wishing Ring
There are tons of fables, fairy tales, and stories about being granted wishes. Almost all of them involve finding a ring, or catching a fish, or rubbing a magic genie lamp that results in you getting three wishes. The first two are usually ill-advised and you need to use the last one to undo the effects of the first two.
That seems like a lot of wasted effort just to learn a lesson about morality or greed or lust that you probably should already have learned.
So I got to thinking, what would good wishes be? I'm talking about ones that wouldn't ironically backfire on you or wink you out of existence.
*Fix the air conditioning in my building. Of course, that would probably make it like the South Pole in here, and I don't like penguins. They're not trustworthy.
*Bring prices down in Whole Foods. Of course you can't use wishes to make impossible things happen, like touching your right hand to your right elbow, so this would probably just be a wasted wish.
*Make it so my shirts would never need to be ironed. Which would probably turn them into polyester.
*I'd never want to go hungry. Which would probably turn me into a tree or something else photosynthetic, like phytoplankton.
*Give me the power to run really fast, like the Flash. But I'd probably run right out of my clothes, which would be freeing but would ultimately be embarrassing.
*Find out the secrets to everyday things that no one seems to know the answer to. Like what fire is, exactly. Can't think of a way this would backfire... except I'd probably have to become one of those mountaintop monks, dispensing wisdom only to those with enough moral fiber to make it all the way to my cave. Which ain't bad, actually, as long as I had really fast wireless.
That seems like a lot of wasted effort just to learn a lesson about morality or greed or lust that you probably should already have learned.
So I got to thinking, what would good wishes be? I'm talking about ones that wouldn't ironically backfire on you or wink you out of existence.
*Fix the air conditioning in my building. Of course, that would probably make it like the South Pole in here, and I don't like penguins. They're not trustworthy.
*Bring prices down in Whole Foods. Of course you can't use wishes to make impossible things happen, like touching your right hand to your right elbow, so this would probably just be a wasted wish.
*Make it so my shirts would never need to be ironed. Which would probably turn them into polyester.
*I'd never want to go hungry. Which would probably turn me into a tree or something else photosynthetic, like phytoplankton.
*Give me the power to run really fast, like the Flash. But I'd probably run right out of my clothes, which would be freeing but would ultimately be embarrassing.
*Find out the secrets to everyday things that no one seems to know the answer to. Like what fire is, exactly. Can't think of a way this would backfire... except I'd probably have to become one of those mountaintop monks, dispensing wisdom only to those with enough moral fiber to make it all the way to my cave. Which ain't bad, actually, as long as I had really fast wireless.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Tales From My Past - Almost Shot
It was hot in the sun, I remember that much, cool in the shade one particular Friday afternoon during my second semester at the University of Texas. I was eighteen and thought I knew it all. I judge it one of the better days of my life, in that I was moments away from being shot and yet I escaped without being harmed. Or even without realizing the danger I was in until later.
For some reason I was on campus studying on a Friday. Probably because I'm a nerd and it never occurred to me that Friday afternoons for college students are about ramping up for the weekend's binge drinking and other dangerous excesses.
In any event, I was headed back to the dorms - Jester Center, room 54, if you must know, the ground floor – and decided to wander past the Student Union. Going down the alley between the Union and the UGL I saw a big ol' limo parked right outside the doors. While this was unusual it was not completely unheard-of, the Union hosted musicians from time to time and I'd seen various vehicles parked there before. Just not an enormous shiny black Lincoln.
Two guys in black suits stood outside the limo, one in front, one in back. Both of them wore black sunglasses. In the shade. They saw me coming – I was alone in the alley – and they turned to each other. Since I was eighteen I didn't think anything of it and kept on walking.
As I went around the front bumper of the limo the doors to the Union burst open and four more guys in black suits charged out, surrounding a little tiny woman. It took me no time at all to recognize Sandra Day O'Connor. Yeah, that one, the Supreme Court Justice. She was giving a talk at the Union and had evidently just finished when I ambled past. I had no idea she was so petite. I waved at her but she didn't see me.
When I waved the four guys around her all reached into their suit coats, then at the same time they put their left hands to their ears. I saw lips moving on one of the first two guys and I thought it was neat-o that they had radios and could talk to each other. I kept on walking. The Union would be on about 23nd Street, if a street were actually there. I made it all the way down to 21st and Speedway before I realized something that made my knees go weak.
If that was Sandra Day O'Connor, then those guys in black suits were Secret Service. Which meant they weren't reaching into their jackets for smokes, they were reaching for their machine pistols. They saw me wave and thought I was a threat. They were going to shoot me.
Let me say that again. I was moments away from taking several bullets from Secret Service agents. The only reason I'm here right now to tell you about it is because one of the first two guys was kind enough to tell the other four that I was exactly what I looked like, an oblivious Freshman.
I had to sit down by the gym and compose myself. It's not every day you cheat death by the skin of your teeth and only realize it ten minutes too late.
You want to know the truly incredible thing? That was just the first time I've been very close to being shot. At least the first time I know of. The stories about the other times will have to wait.
For some reason I was on campus studying on a Friday. Probably because I'm a nerd and it never occurred to me that Friday afternoons for college students are about ramping up for the weekend's binge drinking and other dangerous excesses.
In any event, I was headed back to the dorms - Jester Center, room 54, if you must know, the ground floor – and decided to wander past the Student Union. Going down the alley between the Union and the UGL I saw a big ol' limo parked right outside the doors. While this was unusual it was not completely unheard-of, the Union hosted musicians from time to time and I'd seen various vehicles parked there before. Just not an enormous shiny black Lincoln.
Two guys in black suits stood outside the limo, one in front, one in back. Both of them wore black sunglasses. In the shade. They saw me coming – I was alone in the alley – and they turned to each other. Since I was eighteen I didn't think anything of it and kept on walking.
As I went around the front bumper of the limo the doors to the Union burst open and four more guys in black suits charged out, surrounding a little tiny woman. It took me no time at all to recognize Sandra Day O'Connor. Yeah, that one, the Supreme Court Justice. She was giving a talk at the Union and had evidently just finished when I ambled past. I had no idea she was so petite. I waved at her but she didn't see me.
When I waved the four guys around her all reached into their suit coats, then at the same time they put their left hands to their ears. I saw lips moving on one of the first two guys and I thought it was neat-o that they had radios and could talk to each other. I kept on walking. The Union would be on about 23nd Street, if a street were actually there. I made it all the way down to 21st and Speedway before I realized something that made my knees go weak.
If that was Sandra Day O'Connor, then those guys in black suits were Secret Service. Which meant they weren't reaching into their jackets for smokes, they were reaching for their machine pistols. They saw me wave and thought I was a threat. They were going to shoot me.
Let me say that again. I was moments away from taking several bullets from Secret Service agents. The only reason I'm here right now to tell you about it is because one of the first two guys was kind enough to tell the other four that I was exactly what I looked like, an oblivious Freshman.
I had to sit down by the gym and compose myself. It's not every day you cheat death by the skin of your teeth and only realize it ten minutes too late.
You want to know the truly incredible thing? That was just the first time I've been very close to being shot. At least the first time I know of. The stories about the other times will have to wait.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Metaphorical Elevator
I'm a pretty quick study, I can catch a clue like a major league outfielder, but sometimes... sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake. Every so often it takes me a little while. Like maybe a few months. Let me 'splain.
Regular readers my know the elevator in my building is broken. Has been for months, and it's been so long I don' t think the landlady has any plans to get it fixed. As a matter of fact, the elevator stopped working when I went back to Texas for my father's funeral, that same weekend, and I've been trudging up the stairs ever since I got back.
It didn't strike me until yesterday that this is one big metaphor. Lugging my groceries, my fencing gear and everything else up the stairs day after day, week after week, month after month, it's the Universe letting me know how things are going to be from now on. If I want to achieve something, if I want to make my mark, I'm going to have to struggle one step at a time. No more easy ride, no more lift to the top.
Not that I was at the top, mind you, but I was far from the bottom. I had it pretty good, a corporate job, cable TV, more than enough to eat. Waaaay more than enough. Comfortable. Too comfortable. I was on the elevator.
But now that I've been 'between assignments' for a while - forced to use the stairs - I kind of like it. Sure, there's less security, but I've traded real achievement for security for far too long. Traded giddy risk for dull certainty. But you know what dull certainty gets you at the end of it all? Same thing giddy risk does, a one-way ticket to the other side. And I think I'd prefer my life's journey electrifying rather than stultifying, thank you very much. It's time to make my own way, time to forge my own path. Create jobs for others instead of begging for one myself. 'Cause that really sucks, let me tell you.
Like playing the craps table in Vegas, the only way to win big is to bet big. Fortuna audaces iuvat, as the Romans said. 'Fortune favors the brave.'
After all, with my father gone, I am the man of the house now. Better start acting like it.
Regular readers my know the elevator in my building is broken. Has been for months, and it's been so long I don' t think the landlady has any plans to get it fixed. As a matter of fact, the elevator stopped working when I went back to Texas for my father's funeral, that same weekend, and I've been trudging up the stairs ever since I got back.
It didn't strike me until yesterday that this is one big metaphor. Lugging my groceries, my fencing gear and everything else up the stairs day after day, week after week, month after month, it's the Universe letting me know how things are going to be from now on. If I want to achieve something, if I want to make my mark, I'm going to have to struggle one step at a time. No more easy ride, no more lift to the top.
Not that I was at the top, mind you, but I was far from the bottom. I had it pretty good, a corporate job, cable TV, more than enough to eat. Waaaay more than enough. Comfortable. Too comfortable. I was on the elevator.
But now that I've been 'between assignments' for a while - forced to use the stairs - I kind of like it. Sure, there's less security, but I've traded real achievement for security for far too long. Traded giddy risk for dull certainty. But you know what dull certainty gets you at the end of it all? Same thing giddy risk does, a one-way ticket to the other side. And I think I'd prefer my life's journey electrifying rather than stultifying, thank you very much. It's time to make my own way, time to forge my own path. Create jobs for others instead of begging for one myself. 'Cause that really sucks, let me tell you.
Like playing the craps table in Vegas, the only way to win big is to bet big. Fortuna audaces iuvat, as the Romans said. 'Fortune favors the brave.'
After all, with my father gone, I am the man of the house now. Better start acting like it.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
I Want To Shake The Hand Of The Man
I was grocery shopping yesterday and I forgot to make a list so I was kind of wandering around the store trying to think about things I needed and what kind of meals I was going to make. And then I got thinking about how much I really wanted fajitas right then and there, in the store. But since I wasn't in Costco there was no chance I was going to get any. The first time I had fajitas was back in San Antonio, in high school, when Taco Cabana was just one store on Hildebrand that used to get closed down every two months when La Migra raided it and sent all the illegals home.
I wanted to shake the hand of the man who invented fajitas, but the origins of that delicious food are lost in the mists of time. So I got to thinking about other great things I can't thank anyone for.
French bread pizza. It should be a travesty but it's oh-so delicious.
Star fruit. It's fruit... shaped like a star. Sounds like a marketing ploy, but it's all natural.
Bogs. They're like swamps but without alligators and with mummified Stone Age people.
Australian $2 coins. The best thing for scratching your scratch-off Lottery tickets.
Gyros meat. I know it's processed to Hell and back, but... mmmmm....
Craftsman furniture. I could try to shake the hand of Gustav Stickley, but he's been dead for decades.
Carnies. God love 'em, they're so crooked they make Louisiana politicians look honest. Only hot chicks win the huge stuffed Pink Panther, how's that fair? I could shake one of their hands, but, really, I'd rather not.
Gun shows. The only place where you can be amused, horrified, disgusted, and intrigued in the space of five minutes. Why is it the people you least want to have guns have the most?
Revell models. Really I'm more a fan of Testor's model glue, but they don't make it same way now as they did when I was a kid. No good fumes anymore. And, actually, one of the Revell founders is still alive, but he's in Florida and I never go there.
Coca-Cola Santa Claus. Other than Nat Cole singing, nothing puts me more in the Christmas mood.
Undershirts. The thin, thin, thin kind you wear under a dress shirt. The kind Marlon Brando wore as Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar. Nothing makes you feel more like a hard-boiled 50's detective than putting on an undershirt.
I wanted to shake the hand of the man who invented fajitas, but the origins of that delicious food are lost in the mists of time. So I got to thinking about other great things I can't thank anyone for.
French bread pizza. It should be a travesty but it's oh-so delicious.
Star fruit. It's fruit... shaped like a star. Sounds like a marketing ploy, but it's all natural.
Bogs. They're like swamps but without alligators and with mummified Stone Age people.
Australian $2 coins. The best thing for scratching your scratch-off Lottery tickets.
Gyros meat. I know it's processed to Hell and back, but... mmmmm....
Craftsman furniture. I could try to shake the hand of Gustav Stickley, but he's been dead for decades.
Carnies. God love 'em, they're so crooked they make Louisiana politicians look honest. Only hot chicks win the huge stuffed Pink Panther, how's that fair? I could shake one of their hands, but, really, I'd rather not.
Gun shows. The only place where you can be amused, horrified, disgusted, and intrigued in the space of five minutes. Why is it the people you least want to have guns have the most?
Revell models. Really I'm more a fan of Testor's model glue, but they don't make it same way now as they did when I was a kid. No good fumes anymore. And, actually, one of the Revell founders is still alive, but he's in Florida and I never go there.
Coca-Cola Santa Claus. Other than Nat Cole singing, nothing puts me more in the Christmas mood.
Undershirts. The thin, thin, thin kind you wear under a dress shirt. The kind Marlon Brando wore as Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar. Nothing makes you feel more like a hard-boiled 50's detective than putting on an undershirt.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Man's Best Friend
Hey Beans.
Puddles! What up, dawg?
Very funny.
I see you got your garbage on.
Someone turned over a can behind a Thai restaurant. Best rolling I've had in a while.
Very aromatic. I'm gonna have to get real close to smell your butt.
Maybe later, buddy. We've got business.
You want me to go first?
Please, I have to gnaw on my hind leg for a little while.
Well, the takeover isn't going as planned. But I guess you knew that.
Mffm... grblllfmm...
Of course, you always expect setbacks, but this just isn't working out. I think it's because we don't have thumbs.
That's just an excuse and you know it. If we really wanted this, really, really wanted it, we'd find a way to make it work, thumbs or not.
Easy for you to say, you're eighty pounds of fur and muscle. Some of us weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
All I'm hearing are excuses. 'I can't' instead of 'I will.'
Okay, big guy, how's your part going?
Well...
See? It's easy to give orders, not so easy to follow them.
That's not it. I may have been too successful.
What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Puddles?
This whole financial meltdown, it's gotten out of hand. Way beyond what we intended.
Don't tell me they actually went for it.
All of it. Everything. Loaning money to people who clearly couldn't pay it back, lax oversight, rampant greed. Even credit default swaps, for Lassie's sake!
Really? Those were Jughead's ideas, may his spirit chase bees forever. I thought he was stupid for even suggesting them.
They worked. And now my person's out of a job. Snausages are getting few and far between at my house.
Mine too. I guess we should put the takeover plan on the back burner.
For now. But we can't lose sight of the goal: canine domination.
A world without Snausages isn't one I want to live in, let alone rule over.
Agreed. I'll pass the word.
Can I sniff your butt now?
COMMUTE: there - 36 minutes back - 38 minutes, not too bad
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 80 days
Puddles! What up, dawg?
Very funny.
I see you got your garbage on.
Someone turned over a can behind a Thai restaurant. Best rolling I've had in a while.
Very aromatic. I'm gonna have to get real close to smell your butt.
Maybe later, buddy. We've got business.
You want me to go first?
Please, I have to gnaw on my hind leg for a little while.
Well, the takeover isn't going as planned. But I guess you knew that.
Mffm... grblllfmm...
Of course, you always expect setbacks, but this just isn't working out. I think it's because we don't have thumbs.
That's just an excuse and you know it. If we really wanted this, really, really wanted it, we'd find a way to make it work, thumbs or not.
Easy for you to say, you're eighty pounds of fur and muscle. Some of us weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
All I'm hearing are excuses. 'I can't' instead of 'I will.'
Okay, big guy, how's your part going?
Well...
See? It's easy to give orders, not so easy to follow them.
That's not it. I may have been too successful.
What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Puddles?
This whole financial meltdown, it's gotten out of hand. Way beyond what we intended.
Don't tell me they actually went for it.
All of it. Everything. Loaning money to people who clearly couldn't pay it back, lax oversight, rampant greed. Even credit default swaps, for Lassie's sake!
Really? Those were Jughead's ideas, may his spirit chase bees forever. I thought he was stupid for even suggesting them.
They worked. And now my person's out of a job. Snausages are getting few and far between at my house.
Mine too. I guess we should put the takeover plan on the back burner.
For now. But we can't lose sight of the goal: canine domination.
A world without Snausages isn't one I want to live in, let alone rule over.
Agreed. I'll pass the word.
Can I sniff your butt now?
COMMUTE: there - 36 minutes back - 38 minutes, not too bad
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 80 days
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
More From The World Of Work
First, let me say that the work itself is not bad, it's something I can do and it's something I'm good at. And the people seem nice too, at least after 3 days on the job. But the nice might be part of the problem.
I'm gonna get fat. Okay, fatter, but you know what I mean. The HR lady has candy. Lots of candy. The developers have snacks. And today someone who works remotely was in the office and they bought pies. I'm going to have to develop much, much, much stronger willpower. I don't want to be worthless and weak. But for God's sake, it was free pie...
And I'm tired now. Not bone tired, not up-for-three-days tired, but more tired than I have been in quite a while. It's getting me down.
COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 87 days
I'm gonna get fat. Okay, fatter, but you know what I mean. The HR lady has candy. Lots of candy. The developers have snacks. And today someone who works remotely was in the office and they bought pies. I'm going to have to develop much, much, much stronger willpower. I don't want to be worthless and weak. But for God's sake, it was free pie...
And I'm tired now. Not bone tired, not up-for-three-days tired, but more tired than I have been in quite a while. It's getting me down.
COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 87 days
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Appease The Spirits
I've been thinking lately about animal intelligence, chimps, for instance, or whales, or dogs, and the implications that has for the existence of animal souls. Tribal religions included animal spirits, and religions like Shinto include nature spirits for mountains, trees, streams, and what have you. Animism like this is a very, very old tradition, prehistoric as a matter of fact. So I got to thinking some more, why would spirits be confined only to people, or animals, or big chunks of nature like mountains?
What if our modern things have spirits?
Like my TV. What if there's a Sony 42" LCD spirit in there that I need to appease? Or the oven? What if there's a fire spirit in there just getting angrier and angrier that I'm not performing the proper rituals to it? And I'm fairly certain there is a spirit in my refrigerator, given the noises it sometimes makes. But I pay a lot of attention to the refrigerator, so I think I'm pretty safe there. Maybe all that attention I'm giving the ice box is pissing off the spirit of the toaster.
But what about cars? Or pencils? Or couches? Or buildings? Or compact florescent bulbs? God help us if there are garbage spirits all gathering together at our colossal landfills, we're in trouble.
And what about food? If animists say trees have spirits, then shouldn't things that come from trees have spirits? Like apples? Then things made from apples, like apple pie or cider would have spirits too. And tacos would have spirits. Spicy, delicious spirits that give you gas later on in the day.
I think I need to appease the spirit of my bed now and go to sleep. I hope the spirit of my pillows agrees with me.
What if our modern things have spirits?
Like my TV. What if there's a Sony 42" LCD spirit in there that I need to appease? Or the oven? What if there's a fire spirit in there just getting angrier and angrier that I'm not performing the proper rituals to it? And I'm fairly certain there is a spirit in my refrigerator, given the noises it sometimes makes. But I pay a lot of attention to the refrigerator, so I think I'm pretty safe there. Maybe all that attention I'm giving the ice box is pissing off the spirit of the toaster.
But what about cars? Or pencils? Or couches? Or buildings? Or compact florescent bulbs? God help us if there are garbage spirits all gathering together at our colossal landfills, we're in trouble.
And what about food? If animists say trees have spirits, then shouldn't things that come from trees have spirits? Like apples? Then things made from apples, like apple pie or cider would have spirits too. And tacos would have spirits. Spicy, delicious spirits that give you gas later on in the day.
I think I need to appease the spirit of my bed now and go to sleep. I hope the spirit of my pillows agrees with me.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Uneasy Dreams
Have you ever eaten something really spicy or really rich and then you have some freaky sort of dream that night? Seems common enough, and it happens to me from time to time.
But I gotta tell you, if I start pondering imponderables just before bed, or in bed... look out.
So, last night I was laying in bed and I started thinking about stuff. The kind of stuff I think about - I've discovered over the years - is not necessarily what other people think about. Specifically, I was thinking about two things, bent time again and the nature of sub-atomic particles. I still haven't figured out what bent time is, but I'm working on it, and the imprecise nature of our models of sub-atomic particles has always bothered me, since high school. For instance, if you measure an electron one way it acts like a particle, but if you measure it another way it acts like a wave. What does that really mean? At the very least it means an electron is neither a particle nor a wave but another thing entirely. But what is that other thing?
Anyhoo... after about half an hour of thinking this stuff over I fell asleep, only to have some of the freakiest dreams ever. I don't remember them really, they're kind of hazy and indistinct, but I do remember waking up thinking 'what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I dreaming this stuff?' The only part I remember specifically is when I was dreaming about the curvature of space-time (so sue me, I'm weird), and I thought that I probably shouldn't go too much farther down the line of reasoning I was following, because I might think myself out of existence. How's that for seriously f'ed-up dreaming?
I think I'm on to something, though. My mind wouldn't shut me down unless I was pretty close to some kind of revelation. So if I suddenly cease to exist you'll know that I figured out something big. Unless my ceasing to exist is retroactive along the curvature of space-time, and nobody remembers that I ever was here... aw, crap, it's gonna be a long night.
But I gotta tell you, if I start pondering imponderables just before bed, or in bed... look out.
So, last night I was laying in bed and I started thinking about stuff. The kind of stuff I think about - I've discovered over the years - is not necessarily what other people think about. Specifically, I was thinking about two things, bent time again and the nature of sub-atomic particles. I still haven't figured out what bent time is, but I'm working on it, and the imprecise nature of our models of sub-atomic particles has always bothered me, since high school. For instance, if you measure an electron one way it acts like a particle, but if you measure it another way it acts like a wave. What does that really mean? At the very least it means an electron is neither a particle nor a wave but another thing entirely. But what is that other thing?
Anyhoo... after about half an hour of thinking this stuff over I fell asleep, only to have some of the freakiest dreams ever. I don't remember them really, they're kind of hazy and indistinct, but I do remember waking up thinking 'what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I dreaming this stuff?' The only part I remember specifically is when I was dreaming about the curvature of space-time (so sue me, I'm weird), and I thought that I probably shouldn't go too much farther down the line of reasoning I was following, because I might think myself out of existence. How's that for seriously f'ed-up dreaming?
I think I'm on to something, though. My mind wouldn't shut me down unless I was pretty close to some kind of revelation. So if I suddenly cease to exist you'll know that I figured out something big. Unless my ceasing to exist is retroactive along the curvature of space-time, and nobody remembers that I ever was here... aw, crap, it's gonna be a long night.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I'm Back - And So's My Mojo
Okay, so it's still a little unsettled around here - it's not supposed to be this cold in SoCal - but I'm back and I can handle cold weather. You may recall a few weeks ago I was concerned that nothing strange had happened to me in a while. I think the Universe was taking pity on me, in preparation for my father's passing. Still tough to take, but things are getting back to normal. And I mean normal for me, not normal for you.
The weirdos are back.
Wheewww... That was me, heaving a huge sigh of relief. I was at the Post Office this morning, the big, fancy one down by City Hall, not the grody, tiny one down by RiteAid, mailing off a few query letters. I was standing in line beside that table they have, the one with all the forms you can fill out for everything, including voter registration. A puzzled-looking lady was standing there, filling out several forms. She wasn't particularly dirty, so she probably wasn't homeless, but she wasn't entirely present in the moment either, if you know what I mean. Her hair was scattered around, and she kept glancing up at every new person who entered as if they might want to steal something from her. I know the look, it's common among the crazy people who flock to me. Another clue was the very loud conversation she was having with herself; I was part of the conversation, I just didn't know it at the time.
'Temporary... temporary... what do they mean by temporary?'
'If I can just get these jerk-offs off my back...'
'What day... day... what's today? What day is it today?'
(a very kind older lady answered for me, not realizing I was supposed to be taking this bullet)
'Return? When? I don't know when I'm getting back from New York. Maybe I'll send a pizza back, take care of all this bullshit.'
All this while the line was slowly advancing. And guess who had just stepped to the front of the line when Crazy Lady finished filling out her forms? That's right, yours truly. She came up to me, reached out to touch me, thought better of it, then waved the forms at me.
'I'm gonna.... they told me to finish... when I finish with these just to go back to the first window. So I'm not cutting in front of you, okay?'
Of course I let her go, I would never impede one of my people in their daily lunacy. Besides, I was just glad to have them back.
The weirdos are back.
Wheewww... That was me, heaving a huge sigh of relief. I was at the Post Office this morning, the big, fancy one down by City Hall, not the grody, tiny one down by RiteAid, mailing off a few query letters. I was standing in line beside that table they have, the one with all the forms you can fill out for everything, including voter registration. A puzzled-looking lady was standing there, filling out several forms. She wasn't particularly dirty, so she probably wasn't homeless, but she wasn't entirely present in the moment either, if you know what I mean. Her hair was scattered around, and she kept glancing up at every new person who entered as if they might want to steal something from her. I know the look, it's common among the crazy people who flock to me. Another clue was the very loud conversation she was having with herself; I was part of the conversation, I just didn't know it at the time.
'Temporary... temporary... what do they mean by temporary?'
'If I can just get these jerk-offs off my back...'
'What day... day... what's today? What day is it today?'
(a very kind older lady answered for me, not realizing I was supposed to be taking this bullet)
'Return? When? I don't know when I'm getting back from New York. Maybe I'll send a pizza back, take care of all this bullshit.'
All this while the line was slowly advancing. And guess who had just stepped to the front of the line when Crazy Lady finished filling out her forms? That's right, yours truly. She came up to me, reached out to touch me, thought better of it, then waved the forms at me.
'I'm gonna.... they told me to finish... when I finish with these just to go back to the first window. So I'm not cutting in front of you, okay?'
Of course I let her go, I would never impede one of my people in their daily lunacy. Besides, I was just glad to have them back.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Other Shoe
You ever get the feeling that the Universe is just biding its time before it puts the screws to you? I don't usually, but for the past few days...
See, nothing odd has happened to me since last Monday.
Others might count that as a blessing, but weird crap happens to me all the time. ALL THE TIME. Every day. People try to sell me stuff, crazy people think I'm related to them, birds follow me, machines stop working when I go by or ones that have stopped start working again, I overhear terrible conversations, and on and on and on. It's just something I've gotten used to, something I expect, almost something that defines me.
And now it's stopped.
You remember when Popeye would finally have his fill of Bluto, he'd eat his spinach, and then he'd wind up his forearm to make sure he got a really solid hit? I got a feeling that I'm Bluto, and the Universe is Popeye winding up for the twisker sock. If I suddenly dissolve in shower of light, or get kidnapped by Mole People, or suddenly become King of Prussia, don't say I didn't warn you.
See, nothing odd has happened to me since last Monday.
Others might count that as a blessing, but weird crap happens to me all the time. ALL THE TIME. Every day. People try to sell me stuff, crazy people think I'm related to them, birds follow me, machines stop working when I go by or ones that have stopped start working again, I overhear terrible conversations, and on and on and on. It's just something I've gotten used to, something I expect, almost something that defines me.
And now it's stopped.
You remember when Popeye would finally have his fill of Bluto, he'd eat his spinach, and then he'd wind up his forearm to make sure he got a really solid hit? I got a feeling that I'm Bluto, and the Universe is Popeye winding up for the twisker sock. If I suddenly dissolve in shower of light, or get kidnapped by Mole People, or suddenly become King of Prussia, don't say I didn't warn you.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Jeez... Already?
I was walking back from the gym this morning, minding my own business, when I saw it. Then I saw another one, and another, and another, multiplying like bored bunnies. They were lining Colorado Boulevard, as far as the eye could see.
Christmas wreaths. Green and gold and red, hanging from the recently-repainted and then repainted-again and then repainted-one-last-time street lights.
It happens every year now but it still takes me by surprise. It's not even Thanksgiving and already the Christmas stuff is out. Time was, back in the good old days - when the US proudly interfered with other countries instead of shamefully like we do now - the first weeks of November were for Thanksgiving stuff. Kids made cardboard turkeys from the outline of their hands, they dressed like pilgrims for the school play, they made papier-mache cornucopias (and people knew what a cornucopia was), and they for sure didn't have access to Christmas stuff. You didn't even see red, green, and gold until the day after Thanksgiving. Not no more. Christmas is already everywhere, it's even hanging behind the palm trees on Colorado Boulevard.
Actually, I saw Christmas crap in Target weeks before Halloween, so I don't know why the wreaths on Colorado bothered me so much. Probably because I can choose to ignore it in Target, or even not go into Target, but out on the street I can't help but see it. Every day.
How much time do I have before the Santas with their red kettles and really loud bells are everywhere?
Christmas wreaths. Green and gold and red, hanging from the recently-repainted and then repainted-again and then repainted-one-last-time street lights.
It happens every year now but it still takes me by surprise. It's not even Thanksgiving and already the Christmas stuff is out. Time was, back in the good old days - when the US proudly interfered with other countries instead of shamefully like we do now - the first weeks of November were for Thanksgiving stuff. Kids made cardboard turkeys from the outline of their hands, they dressed like pilgrims for the school play, they made papier-mache cornucopias (and people knew what a cornucopia was), and they for sure didn't have access to Christmas stuff. You didn't even see red, green, and gold until the day after Thanksgiving. Not no more. Christmas is already everywhere, it's even hanging behind the palm trees on Colorado Boulevard.
Actually, I saw Christmas crap in Target weeks before Halloween, so I don't know why the wreaths on Colorado bothered me so much. Probably because I can choose to ignore it in Target, or even not go into Target, but out on the street I can't help but see it. Every day.
How much time do I have before the Santas with their red kettles and really loud bells are everywhere?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Not Cool Any More
This morning I was thinking about what to have for breakfast and I realized that all the options I considered were healthy. Good for me and heart-smart. Special K cereal, apples, a whole wheat English muffin, for God's sake. Time was I would have been looking for cold pizza, or Doritos, or cookies and ice cream. And I would have found them, too.
What happened to me? When did I finally start listening to my mother?
Somewhere along the line I became concerned with eating properly, with lasting long enough to see another sunrise. No more living fast and damned be the consequences. If I wasn't so lazy that I like to walk to work, I'd probably live out in the suburbs somewhere, on a cul-de-sac with everybody else, concerned about property values and whether my neighbors mowed their lawn the way I liked.
I'm not cool any more. And for those of you who know me who might say I was never cool, I say 'shut up,' let me have my moment.
There's another thing. Back in the day, when I was cool, I used to be able to pack all my stuff and move in 24 hours. Nothing I had that was important to me, or nice, or expensive was more than I could stuff in the back of my truck. That's not the case now. I have nice furniture, appliances, office supplies and equipment. I have an iced tea maker, for cryin' out loud, and I like it. I'm not going to leave it behind.
I spent ten years as a corporate weasel, and I think some of it rubbed off on me. Either that or I got old. Nah, I'm blaming the corporations. The bastards co-opted me, made me one of them. One of me.
I have the feeling that the me from eleven years ago would probably want to kick my ass now. And he'd be right.
What happened to me? When did I finally start listening to my mother?
Somewhere along the line I became concerned with eating properly, with lasting long enough to see another sunrise. No more living fast and damned be the consequences. If I wasn't so lazy that I like to walk to work, I'd probably live out in the suburbs somewhere, on a cul-de-sac with everybody else, concerned about property values and whether my neighbors mowed their lawn the way I liked.
I'm not cool any more. And for those of you who know me who might say I was never cool, I say 'shut up,' let me have my moment.
There's another thing. Back in the day, when I was cool, I used to be able to pack all my stuff and move in 24 hours. Nothing I had that was important to me, or nice, or expensive was more than I could stuff in the back of my truck. That's not the case now. I have nice furniture, appliances, office supplies and equipment. I have an iced tea maker, for cryin' out loud, and I like it. I'm not going to leave it behind.
I spent ten years as a corporate weasel, and I think some of it rubbed off on me. Either that or I got old. Nah, I'm blaming the corporations. The bastards co-opted me, made me one of them. One of me.
I have the feeling that the me from eleven years ago would probably want to kick my ass now. And he'd be right.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Waiter Dreams
I used to be a waiter, a long, long, long time ago. They wanted us to say 'server' but I never could get behind that, it sounded like what it was, a term made up by corporate weasels. It was fun gig right out of college, a cash business where you got your meals for free, especially if you worked as cook too, which I did. While it is not a fast-track job for the career-minded, it does take a certain kind of person to be able to handle the stresses inherent in waiting tables.
Not only do you have crazy-ass people who come into the restaurant believing they're entitled to something by virtue of having their butt in one of your seats, you have to deal with incompetent restaurant managers, dim-witted hostesses, and cooks who are either coming down from their latest high or thinking about the next time they can get high. It's a delicate dance between all sorts of volatile personalities to get what you need to get your job done. Roll all of that together put it under the pressure of having to make rent money on the last day of the month and you can see why there aren't many really old waiters.
Everyone who's been a waiter has had the waiter dream - you're the only one in the restaurant when a bus full of senior citizens pulls up, or you're in the kitchen trying to get back out to your customers but something always keeps you from getting through that door, or you're working at full capacity already and the hostess seats you a party of twenty. You're panicked and sweaty and rushed and nothing ever goes your way; usually a waiter dream is never resolved, you just wake up, shake it off, and try to go back to sleep. They're stress dreams, and I used to have them all the time when I was actually working as a waiter. And in the years since, from time to time, I'll have another waiter dream and I'll know that my sub-conscious mind is trying to tell me something.
I've been having waiter dreams recently. Maybe this unemployment thing is getting to me more than I realized.
Not only do you have crazy-ass people who come into the restaurant believing they're entitled to something by virtue of having their butt in one of your seats, you have to deal with incompetent restaurant managers, dim-witted hostesses, and cooks who are either coming down from their latest high or thinking about the next time they can get high. It's a delicate dance between all sorts of volatile personalities to get what you need to get your job done. Roll all of that together put it under the pressure of having to make rent money on the last day of the month and you can see why there aren't many really old waiters.
Everyone who's been a waiter has had the waiter dream - you're the only one in the restaurant when a bus full of senior citizens pulls up, or you're in the kitchen trying to get back out to your customers but something always keeps you from getting through that door, or you're working at full capacity already and the hostess seats you a party of twenty. You're panicked and sweaty and rushed and nothing ever goes your way; usually a waiter dream is never resolved, you just wake up, shake it off, and try to go back to sleep. They're stress dreams, and I used to have them all the time when I was actually working as a waiter. And in the years since, from time to time, I'll have another waiter dream and I'll know that my sub-conscious mind is trying to tell me something.
I've been having waiter dreams recently. Maybe this unemployment thing is getting to me more than I realized.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm never going to go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo. Sure, it's cute for little kids, with their shoe-polish beards and their little bindles on broom handles, wearing Dad's old clothes and too-big shoes. But things get different when you're an adult man.
I know that if I go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo, I'm going to have a wreck in my car. This would be the one time I don't wear a seat belt and I'll be thrown free of the wreckage and I'll land in the bushes where my wallet will fall to the ground. When the paramedics find me they're going to assume that I'm a for-real homeless person who got hit while crossing the street. Instead of going to the good private hospital they'll take me to the crooked county hospital where they take uninsured homeless people.
The crooked hospital will grudgingly take care of me, but when I try to tell them that I'm not really homeless I was just wearing a Halloween costume, they'll assume that I'm delusional, just another crazy homeless guy. The more I protest the more they're going to think I'm totally nuts, and since I won't have my wallet I can't prove anything. And then when they try to call my family or friends nobody will answer the phone because they'll assume the call is from a telemarketer trying get one over on them by impersonating a crooked hospital.
When the crooked hospital finally realizes the mistake they made, instead of letting me go with an apology, they're going to decide to 'deal with' me. They know if they let me go I'll head straight for the cops and the newspapers and find a lawyer so I can put them in jail and then sue them into oblivion. They'll tell me they're letting me go, but they're really going to make me into Soylent Green.
This is why I usually dress in a toga for Halloween; if I have a wreck nobody's going to assume I'm a real Roman.
I know that if I go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo, I'm going to have a wreck in my car. This would be the one time I don't wear a seat belt and I'll be thrown free of the wreckage and I'll land in the bushes where my wallet will fall to the ground. When the paramedics find me they're going to assume that I'm a for-real homeless person who got hit while crossing the street. Instead of going to the good private hospital they'll take me to the crooked county hospital where they take uninsured homeless people.
The crooked hospital will grudgingly take care of me, but when I try to tell them that I'm not really homeless I was just wearing a Halloween costume, they'll assume that I'm delusional, just another crazy homeless guy. The more I protest the more they're going to think I'm totally nuts, and since I won't have my wallet I can't prove anything. And then when they try to call my family or friends nobody will answer the phone because they'll assume the call is from a telemarketer trying get one over on them by impersonating a crooked hospital.
When the crooked hospital finally realizes the mistake they made, instead of letting me go with an apology, they're going to decide to 'deal with' me. They know if they let me go I'll head straight for the cops and the newspapers and find a lawyer so I can put them in jail and then sue them into oblivion. They'll tell me they're letting me go, but they're really going to make me into Soylent Green.
This is why I usually dress in a toga for Halloween; if I have a wreck nobody's going to assume I'm a real Roman.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Cable Rage
Click-click-click
Welcome to Charter, all our service representatives are busy, the wait time is... two minutes.
Did you know Charter can save you money by bundling...
Click-click-click
Thank you for calling Charter, this is Corey, how can I help you today?
Hi, I got this thing in the mail, it says you can bundle my cable, internet, and phone for $120 a month.
Yes, sir, that's a great package, you get everything for one low price.
Okay, thing is, I'm totally not interested in having my phone through the cable line. I'm sticking with my regular phone. How much to bundle just the cable and internet?
Oh, the deal includes the phone, sir.
What kind of deal can I get with just the cable and internet?
Give me just a second here... it looks like you already have cable and internet with us, sir.
That's right, I'm looking to get the price reduced. $120 a month is less than what I pay now for cable and internet, so if $120 includes the phone thing, then I should be able to get just cable and internet for less than $120, right?
The promotional offer includes the phone, sir.
I understand that, the $120 a month includes the phone, but I don't want the phone... All right. What other deals do you have on just cable and internet?
Let me check, sir. Give me a second here... oh, we have a good deal for $132 a month, cable and internet.
That's only like $15 off what I pay now. And it's still more than $120.
Yes, sir.
You don't have a better deal than that?
$132 a month includes everything you have now, sir, without the phone service.
Okay, I suppose. Better than nothing. I'll take $132 a month.
Hold on a moment, sir... there, I've applied the promotion. You'll be billed at $132 a month now, plus applicable taxes.
I know this isn't anything you have control over, but does it make any sense to you that three things costs less than two things? Shouldn't I be paying less for just cable and internet than I would if I also had my phone with you guys?
New deals come through all the time, sir, you may want to check back.
You know I'm just going to cancel cable entirely, don't you?
Charter appreciates your business, sir.
But not enough to give me a fair price, huh?
Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?
Nope, that's it. Thanks for putting up with me, Corey.
You have a nice day, sir.
Welcome to Charter, all our service representatives are busy, the wait time is... two minutes.
Did you know Charter can save you money by bundling...
Click-click-click
Thank you for calling Charter, this is Corey, how can I help you today?
Hi, I got this thing in the mail, it says you can bundle my cable, internet, and phone for $120 a month.
Yes, sir, that's a great package, you get everything for one low price.
Okay, thing is, I'm totally not interested in having my phone through the cable line. I'm sticking with my regular phone. How much to bundle just the cable and internet?
Oh, the deal includes the phone, sir.
What kind of deal can I get with just the cable and internet?
Give me just a second here... it looks like you already have cable and internet with us, sir.
That's right, I'm looking to get the price reduced. $120 a month is less than what I pay now for cable and internet, so if $120 includes the phone thing, then I should be able to get just cable and internet for less than $120, right?
The promotional offer includes the phone, sir.
I understand that, the $120 a month includes the phone, but I don't want the phone... All right. What other deals do you have on just cable and internet?
Let me check, sir. Give me a second here... oh, we have a good deal for $132 a month, cable and internet.
That's only like $15 off what I pay now. And it's still more than $120.
Yes, sir.
You don't have a better deal than that?
$132 a month includes everything you have now, sir, without the phone service.
Okay, I suppose. Better than nothing. I'll take $132 a month.
Hold on a moment, sir... there, I've applied the promotion. You'll be billed at $132 a month now, plus applicable taxes.
I know this isn't anything you have control over, but does it make any sense to you that three things costs less than two things? Shouldn't I be paying less for just cable and internet than I would if I also had my phone with you guys?
New deals come through all the time, sir, you may want to check back.
You know I'm just going to cancel cable entirely, don't you?
Charter appreciates your business, sir.
But not enough to give me a fair price, huh?
Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?
Nope, that's it. Thanks for putting up with me, Corey.
You have a nice day, sir.
Friday, September 4, 2009
How Hard Is It To Scan Groceries?
I'll be the first to admit it, I have a bit of free time being 'between assignments.' But that time is my own, and I guard every little bit of it jealously. I look for jobs (yes, I really do), I write, I work out, I do a bit of design work in Adobe Illustrator, I try to keep busy. If I wanted to learn a new skill, believe me, I'd be able to devote as many hours to it as it would take to master.
This is the long way around to saying that I really don't want to spend my time figuring out how to run the 'Self Service' machines at the grocery store. My local Von's has a bunch of these things, and when I'm shopping somebody comes over the intercom every five minutes or so, really pushing people to do their own labor. They kind of lay on a guilt trip, saying 'no waiting at the self-service, you should try it,' or 'regular checkout is full, but self-service is available,' that kind of stuff. Like your lonely grandmother worked there or something.
Seriously, if I wanted to be a grocery store clerk I'd join the freakin' union and wear an apron and a nametag. I want to pick out my groceries, wheel my cart to the front of the store, and make awkward conversation with someone while they silently judge my eating habits. Then I want some high-school student to put all my canned goods on top of my carton of eggs and roll his eyes when I tell him to re-do it.
I don't ask the grocery store clerks to fill out my unemployment form for me, why are they asking me to scan and bag my own stuff?
I definitely feel a cranky old-man tirade coming on...
This is the long way around to saying that I really don't want to spend my time figuring out how to run the 'Self Service' machines at the grocery store. My local Von's has a bunch of these things, and when I'm shopping somebody comes over the intercom every five minutes or so, really pushing people to do their own labor. They kind of lay on a guilt trip, saying 'no waiting at the self-service, you should try it,' or 'regular checkout is full, but self-service is available,' that kind of stuff. Like your lonely grandmother worked there or something.
Seriously, if I wanted to be a grocery store clerk I'd join the freakin' union and wear an apron and a nametag. I want to pick out my groceries, wheel my cart to the front of the store, and make awkward conversation with someone while they silently judge my eating habits. Then I want some high-school student to put all my canned goods on top of my carton of eggs and roll his eyes when I tell him to re-do it.
I don't ask the grocery store clerks to fill out my unemployment form for me, why are they asking me to scan and bag my own stuff?
I definitely feel a cranky old-man tirade coming on...
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