(Note: That title has nothing to do with this post, it's just the damnable truth.)
I have a secret to confess: When I was nothing but a wee youngling, I absolutely hated my truck. It's true. And this was back in the day before it was the Truck of Malfunction. It was a Truck of Precision in comparison. But oh how I hated it.
Primarily because I could not drive a stick shift to save my life. That's literally 'save my life' by the way - my existence was constantly in peril whenever I would get behind the wheel of that thing. Originally I would only drive it under extreme duress, preferring to instead drive our incredible clunker of a minivan instead, with its propensity for squealing fan belts, a marked lack of air conditioning, and a smell that on a good day ranked somewhere around 'expired milk'. That's how much I loathed the TOP.
On my very first real date with a girl (shut up!) wherein I actually picked her up by myself, drove her places, and then back home, the minivan refused to work on my way to pick her up. Thus with no warning or preparation time, I was required to utilize the TOP to go get her.
At this point in time, I had driven the truck perhaps 4 times, never longer than 5 miles in any direction. And following each of those adventures I had immediately vowed never to get behind the wheel ever again. Said girl's house was at least a 10 minute drive under ideal conditions.
About 15 minutes into the 10 minute drive, I realized that in my nervous state, I was keeping my foot on the gas every time I tried to shift into 4th gear, which is why the TOP was making that horrible noise. I'm not exactly sure when I realized that I was driving with the parking brake on, but I know it was considerably later in the process than either God or man intended.
I arrived at her house 30 minutes later, following three failed passes at trying to find the house on the side of a busy street while worrying endlessly about the transmission not falling out of the bottom of the truck thanks to my ministrations. By this point every single change in my driving caused anywhere between 3 and 7 horrible noises to occur at once.
Once the girl was actually secured, the fun really began. Because now am I not only nervous about driving, I have a date in the car (a girl!) who I am now responsible for when I manage to throw the car into the wrong gear and off a cliff, or what have you. And we're not even going to scratch the surface of my neuroses involving the actual date itself, wherein I am trying to impress a member of the opposite sex while being the single most awkward pubescent thing on the planet at any given moment in time. Suffice it to say that tensions were high.
Once we were back underway, it became readily apparent that I had no concept of the difference between first gear and third gear. For me, they were interchangeable. Every time I would get to a red light, it was akin to a scene from a horror movie. Only instead of a large breasted woman who keeps falling and breaking her heel, it was a car bucking and stalling every 3.5 seconds. The girl in distress would have outpaced me by miles. And the other motorists, they were not exactly understanding about my difficulties. It was like a cadre of disgruntled New York cab drivers had been hand picked to be behind me at every intersection.
By the time we had made it through the drive to the restaurant and back home, my nerves were so shot that I was twitching and shaking right out of my seat, even more pale than normal, which doesn't seem possible, and yet. Plus...well 'sweating' doesn't actually cut it. It was more a complete aura of perspiration surrounding me, accompanied by a stench of automotive failure so strong that I doubt it has ever been recreated.
Considering the tour of near death I subjected her to, I was remarkably impressed by my date's response to the entire thing - she had obviously been through much worse on dates in the past (which frankly may be the saddest part of the entire ordeal). I actually remember nothing of the date itself, except that I think that the movie Titanic was involved somewhere, which I thought was rather apropos, if nothing else.
---------------------------------------
All that to say, I'm very, very close to trading in my beautiful TOM for a brand new used car. And I can hardly bear to part with it, it is now like a physical part of my body. It seems almost ludicrous to think about the old days when I used to fervently wish for its untimely death by explosion, when it had the most amazing A/C unit and brand new everything. Now it has no air conditioning, no gas gauge, and makes loud beeping noises at random intervals for no apparent reason and I love it like it was my own son. Or more to the point, like it was my disowned bastard son who was constantly unemployed, broke, and in trouble with the law. Who I still loved anyway.
God, the similes are failing me today, and hard.
Weird.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Whickety and/or Whack
Frothing rage on a blog? So cliché. But check it anyways, not like you're getting any gems of wit from me not writing. At least this way you can point and laugh at me when I go all off-color and capslock-y and start yelling about old people and assholes (Those two are unrelated, just in case you were overcome with any unfortunate imagery there. Not my fault.)
I've been in this extended bad mood for about 4 days now, and it's getting really ugly. Like, normally I am fine with pretense and smiling insincerely and making peace with imbeciles and all. This week I cannot muster up the energy. So in this story, I'm actually the asshole, but whatever, we are truth-in-reporting here.
------------------------------
So when I get into work this morning, I get on the elevator with a woman and this old guy. I hit my floor button, she hits hers. The doors start to close, and the old man reaches over to hit his floor, but hits the ground floor button for some reason. Doors slide open. We both look at the old man, who just goes to settle back against the wall. Doors start to close again, old man realizes that the button he just pushed has gone out, so he hammers it again. Doors reopen.
Okay, this man is old, he's been around for some time, he has to understand how an elevator works, correct? It's not like this is his first trip on one, I am assuming.
So I ask him, "What floor are you looking for?"
Old man gets this ugly, accusing look on his face "I'm trying to get to the third floor, if this elevator wasn't broken!" (Apparently I am now responsible for this broken elevator) He hits the button again, as an example. Doors push open again.
I muster all my available peacemaking powers, "Oh, well I've already pushed the button for three, that's where I'm going, you're good to go."
Old man keeps hitting the first floor button, doors keep opening up. "No, see, I keep hitting the button and the light is going out."
He switches over to the most condescending tone I have ever heard used on someone over the age of 4 "You see, the button lights up when it's going to go to your floor." He hits the first floor button again for emphasis. "Only, it's not working."
We have now been standing in this elevator for about 3 minutes. I grit my teeth. "Sir, that's the button for the ground floor, that button above it that is already lit is for the third. See it has a three next to it."
Old man is now offended. "Don't take that tone with me. I know what I'm doing." He hits the goddamn first floor button again.
I have lost any and all sense of decency that I once possessed. "Stop hitting that button!"
"Don't tell me what to do!" (No, seriously, this actually happened. 'Don't tell me what to do.' This man is at least 70.) He hits it three times in rapid succession.
"Oh my God. Seriously, stop hitting that button."
He fucking sneers at me, and starts holding the button down with his thumb. Have you ever actually wanted to physically punch an old man? Do you know what that feels like? It's not cool.
Finally, the woman on the elevator with us (who has been watching the two of us go at it like a cross between a fascinated scientist observing something under a microscope and a spectator at the front row of a boxing match) comes forward before the old man and myself engage in literal fisticuffs.
"Sir, he's right, if you'll stop hitting that button, we'll go to the right floor."
I'm completely ready for him to turn on her too, like some sort of old-man/jackal that's been surrounded and backed into a corner. Instead, he stops, turns, and smiles sweetly.
"Certainly, my dear," and takes his thumb off the button. (Jason's brain: "AAAAAHHHHH!!!")
He finally steps away from the panel. We arrive at the 3rd floor without further incident.
And because I'm a huge asshole, when the doors open: "Imagine that, the third floor. Who would've guessed?"
------------------------
This week, man, I am telling you. I am not normally like this.
I've been in this extended bad mood for about 4 days now, and it's getting really ugly. Like, normally I am fine with pretense and smiling insincerely and making peace with imbeciles and all. This week I cannot muster up the energy. So in this story, I'm actually the asshole, but whatever, we are truth-in-reporting here.
------------------------------
So when I get into work this morning, I get on the elevator with a woman and this old guy. I hit my floor button, she hits hers. The doors start to close, and the old man reaches over to hit his floor, but hits the ground floor button for some reason. Doors slide open. We both look at the old man, who just goes to settle back against the wall. Doors start to close again, old man realizes that the button he just pushed has gone out, so he hammers it again. Doors reopen.
Okay, this man is old, he's been around for some time, he has to understand how an elevator works, correct? It's not like this is his first trip on one, I am assuming.
So I ask him, "What floor are you looking for?"
Old man gets this ugly, accusing look on his face "I'm trying to get to the third floor, if this elevator wasn't broken!" (Apparently I am now responsible for this broken elevator) He hits the button again, as an example. Doors push open again.
I muster all my available peacemaking powers, "Oh, well I've already pushed the button for three, that's where I'm going, you're good to go."
Old man keeps hitting the first floor button, doors keep opening up. "No, see, I keep hitting the button and the light is going out."
He switches over to the most condescending tone I have ever heard used on someone over the age of 4 "You see, the button lights up when it's going to go to your floor." He hits the first floor button again for emphasis. "Only, it's not working."
We have now been standing in this elevator for about 3 minutes. I grit my teeth. "Sir, that's the button for the ground floor, that button above it that is already lit is for the third. See it has a three next to it."
Old man is now offended. "Don't take that tone with me. I know what I'm doing." He hits the goddamn first floor button again.
I have lost any and all sense of decency that I once possessed. "Stop hitting that button!"
"Don't tell me what to do!" (No, seriously, this actually happened. 'Don't tell me what to do.' This man is at least 70.) He hits it three times in rapid succession.
"Oh my God. Seriously, stop hitting that button."
He fucking sneers at me, and starts holding the button down with his thumb. Have you ever actually wanted to physically punch an old man? Do you know what that feels like? It's not cool.
Finally, the woman on the elevator with us (who has been watching the two of us go at it like a cross between a fascinated scientist observing something under a microscope and a spectator at the front row of a boxing match) comes forward before the old man and myself engage in literal fisticuffs.
"Sir, he's right, if you'll stop hitting that button, we'll go to the right floor."
I'm completely ready for him to turn on her too, like some sort of old-man/jackal that's been surrounded and backed into a corner. Instead, he stops, turns, and smiles sweetly.
"Certainly, my dear," and takes his thumb off the button. (Jason's brain: "AAAAAHHHHH!!!")
He finally steps away from the panel. We arrive at the 3rd floor without further incident.
And because I'm a huge asshole, when the doors open: "Imagine that, the third floor. Who would've guessed?"
------------------------
This week, man, I am telling you. I am not normally like this.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Embarrass-what?
Someone recently mentioned to me in passing that they were really impressed with my lack of clumsiness lately. I was sort of thrown for a second, because I couldn't think of any reason why they would draw that assumption, since I'm just as clumsy as always lately, if not crazily moreso, to the degree that I've been managing to make a public spectacle of myself pretty much on a daily basis.
A quick follow up revealed that I hadn't blogged about any hideous injuries/embarrassments recently, so they just assumed that I had gotten over my inherent qualities of ineptness. (Note: I have not.) I checked and they're right, I haven't written an entry about such ridiculousness in a long time. And then it hit me: the reason I haven't written about being horribly embarrassed lately is because I haven't been embarrassed. I mean, my behavior/mannerisms/tendency to make a fool of myself have not gone down at all, I just don't care anymore.
For instance: At McDonalds on Tuesday, I finish my lunch while reading a book and go to throw away the remains. I pick up my tray one handed, so as to be able to carry my drink at the same time so's I can fulfill my God-given right of as many free refills as I can drink. Unfortunately, the tray is completely unbalanced because half of it is covered by mostly-empty wrappers, french fries, and ketchup and the other half is covered in a 600 page book. This results in me basically flipping the entire tray of crap across the room catapult-style, including the ketchup (which splatters across every available surface in the place in crazy Rorschach designs), and the huge book which sails all the way to the feet of a small family eating a late lunch in the far corner, before slamming to the ground with a noise like a gunshot.
Everyone in the entire place turned to look at me, holding an empty tray, looking very much like I just flung my trash across the restaurant on purpose, like an errant monkey escaped from the zoo.
Normally this would cause me to go into a fit of embarrassment so intense that I would have had to curl up into a ball underneath one of those ugly Formica tables until every single person had left the building, and even then, I would have blushed every time I passed by the McDonalds for at least a week.
Instead, I didn't care at all. I sort of just shrugged and walked over to get the book. Then, when I managed to immediately drop the book again and spill my drink down the front of my shirt when I overcompensated trying to grab it mid-air during the fall, I didn't even pay attention to see if anyone noticed or cared, or was calling the police to deal with the nutbar by the napkin dispenser who was destroying the place. I went and got a napkin, dried myself off, got my goddamn free refill, put on my gigantic aviator sunglasses, and strode confidently out to bake in my non-air conditioned TOM.
As such, I didn't even think to write about it, even though it was pretty much the equivalent of an improbably lame slapstick routine from a bad movie.
I can't tell if this means I'm suddenly desensitized to all forms of embarrassment relating to my super-clumsy powers, or if I'm just too exhausted from all this work lately to properly focus on my basic Jason responses to most stimuli (read: intense overreactions and detailed examination of the tiniest disruption in my everyday life to the point of obsession and madness.)
I will go with a little from Column A, and a little from Column B.
A quick follow up revealed that I hadn't blogged about any hideous injuries/embarrassments recently, so they just assumed that I had gotten over my inherent qualities of ineptness. (Note: I have not.) I checked and they're right, I haven't written an entry about such ridiculousness in a long time. And then it hit me: the reason I haven't written about being horribly embarrassed lately is because I haven't been embarrassed. I mean, my behavior/mannerisms/tendency to make a fool of myself have not gone down at all, I just don't care anymore.
For instance: At McDonalds on Tuesday, I finish my lunch while reading a book and go to throw away the remains. I pick up my tray one handed, so as to be able to carry my drink at the same time so's I can fulfill my God-given right of as many free refills as I can drink. Unfortunately, the tray is completely unbalanced because half of it is covered by mostly-empty wrappers, french fries, and ketchup and the other half is covered in a 600 page book. This results in me basically flipping the entire tray of crap across the room catapult-style, including the ketchup (which splatters across every available surface in the place in crazy Rorschach designs), and the huge book which sails all the way to the feet of a small family eating a late lunch in the far corner, before slamming to the ground with a noise like a gunshot.
Everyone in the entire place turned to look at me, holding an empty tray, looking very much like I just flung my trash across the restaurant on purpose, like an errant monkey escaped from the zoo.
Normally this would cause me to go into a fit of embarrassment so intense that I would have had to curl up into a ball underneath one of those ugly Formica tables until every single person had left the building, and even then, I would have blushed every time I passed by the McDonalds for at least a week.
Instead, I didn't care at all. I sort of just shrugged and walked over to get the book. Then, when I managed to immediately drop the book again and spill my drink down the front of my shirt when I overcompensated trying to grab it mid-air during the fall, I didn't even pay attention to see if anyone noticed or cared, or was calling the police to deal with the nutbar by the napkin dispenser who was destroying the place. I went and got a napkin, dried myself off, got my goddamn free refill, put on my gigantic aviator sunglasses, and strode confidently out to bake in my non-air conditioned TOM.
As such, I didn't even think to write about it, even though it was pretty much the equivalent of an improbably lame slapstick routine from a bad movie.
I can't tell if this means I'm suddenly desensitized to all forms of embarrassment relating to my super-clumsy powers, or if I'm just too exhausted from all this work lately to properly focus on my basic Jason responses to most stimuli (read: intense overreactions and detailed examination of the tiniest disruption in my everyday life to the point of obsession and madness.)
I will go with a little from Column A, and a little from Column B.
Monday, August 14, 2006
A Fifth Grade Book Report, only with More Swearing
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger sent me into a fit of white-hot, completely incomprehensible rage, to the point that I wanted to find the main character of the book, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her as hard as possible, in the hopes that it would jar her brain into functioning. This report will be an exploration of exactly why I could not accept this perfectly normal jaunt into chick lit without resorting to violence.
First, just to address it and get it out of the way, I absolutely cannot stand the way the book was written. I don't know if it was just the tone the writer took, or if she is just deficient in the area of the English language, but it's poorly written. Which is painfully ironic, since the book is written from the first-person perspective of someone who aspires to write for The New Yorker more than anything. Sigh. Anyway, that's not what sent me into my fit, I just figured it needed saying.
I'm sure everyone and their brother is now well acquainted with the story, but to shorthand it: Girl fresh out of college with no experience in fashion gets a job as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of the premier American fashion magazine, said editor turns out to be ludicrously demanding to the point of insanity, girl attempts to learn an important lesson about something (note: she does not). Adding a good hook to the whole thing, the author spent a real-life year as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of Vogue, giving it at least the potential to be somewhat autobiographical. The book has since been adapted into a (far better (and far worse, in certain ways)) movie recently, which prompted this reading in the first place.
Where to start? My primary problem with this entire setup is that continually throughout the entire book, Andrea (the assistant/narrator/my nemesis) displays such continuous contempt for her job/boss/co-workers/everything, that it makes her utterly unlikeable. Utterly. I assumed that this would be addressed at some point near the end of the book as one of the lessons that she was going to learn, that part of the reason her job was so untenable was her own outlook. I was incorrect in this assumption, to a gigantic degree.
Yes, her job does suck. Badly. She is forced to do all the menial tasks of an assistant, without the slightest notice of her work (or even her name) unless she screws up. She is given completely impossible and ridiculous tasks (getting an advance copy of the latest Harry Potter, tracking down a restaurant review from a newspaper without even the basest of information) and is berated even when she manages to be mildly successful. She has to work horrible hours and misses many important dates.
But really? Whatever. It's your job, you do it. There are so many moments of sheer pettiness and ridiculousness on her part I want to stop and question her whether or not she understands what the concept of an assistant is. When she has to remind herself not to spit in the coffee that she was picking up for her boss. When she gets upset that her boss does not acknowledge her as she is dropping off a book at her apartment. When she literally sighs at requests given to her but [paraphrased] "not loud enough to be commented on." I understand that it's a cumulative sort of thing, that the larger abuses build up to make everything seem like unbearable, but for the purposes of the book, it makes her look incompetent and unprofessional beyond words.
Not only that, but she actually is a bad assistant constantly throughout the book. She gets four times the orders of coffee at Starbucks to hand out to the homeless and gets frustrated when she gets in trouble for taking so long. She spends an extra 20 minutes talking on the phone for a personal call on the way to pick up her boss's lunch, and then is enraged when her boss has already eaten lunch.
She has this sense of complete entitlement that makes absolutely no sense, that she thinks she is so much better than everything she is a part of. The running line in the book that she uses as her ironic fallback - everyone always tells her "a million girls would die for" her job. Like, haha everyone would die for her job but actually it is so horrible, amirite? Except no, really, this is an incredible opportunity that she is fucking up, because she thinks she's somehow above it. Yeah the job itself sucks, but the perks and connections she is getting are incredible and the job is exceedingly short term. At least in the movie version, they address this issue and she sort of rolls with it and grows with her new understanding. In the book, by the end she decides she was completely justified in her contempt and is proud that was able to escape from it all without being changed.
I... seriously... white hot rage. I could easily go on and on with my issues, but my blood pressure would probably suffer as a result. I just cannot wrap my mind around how anyone is expected to identify with this girl. Yes, her boss is crazy and it's mind-blowing how demanding she is. It's interesting to read to find out how far she will actually do next, and the potential for the real-life connection makes it even moreso, but my final result is to just want to punch Andrea in the face, and read more about the crazy boss.
Just a horrible, horrible book, that I absolutely could not put down.
And we're not even going to get into my problems with the movie, lest I break the blogger.
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger sent me into a fit of white-hot, completely incomprehensible rage, to the point that I wanted to find the main character of the book, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her as hard as possible, in the hopes that it would jar her brain into functioning. This report will be an exploration of exactly why I could not accept this perfectly normal jaunt into chick lit without resorting to violence.
First, just to address it and get it out of the way, I absolutely cannot stand the way the book was written. I don't know if it was just the tone the writer took, or if she is just deficient in the area of the English language, but it's poorly written. Which is painfully ironic, since the book is written from the first-person perspective of someone who aspires to write for The New Yorker more than anything. Sigh. Anyway, that's not what sent me into my fit, I just figured it needed saying.
I'm sure everyone and their brother is now well acquainted with the story, but to shorthand it: Girl fresh out of college with no experience in fashion gets a job as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of the premier American fashion magazine, said editor turns out to be ludicrously demanding to the point of insanity, girl attempts to learn an important lesson about something (note: she does not). Adding a good hook to the whole thing, the author spent a real-life year as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of Vogue, giving it at least the potential to be somewhat autobiographical. The book has since been adapted into a (far better (and far worse, in certain ways)) movie recently, which prompted this reading in the first place.
Where to start? My primary problem with this entire setup is that continually throughout the entire book, Andrea (the assistant/narrator/my nemesis) displays such continuous contempt for her job/boss/co-workers/everything, that it makes her utterly unlikeable. Utterly. I assumed that this would be addressed at some point near the end of the book as one of the lessons that she was going to learn, that part of the reason her job was so untenable was her own outlook. I was incorrect in this assumption, to a gigantic degree.
Yes, her job does suck. Badly. She is forced to do all the menial tasks of an assistant, without the slightest notice of her work (or even her name) unless she screws up. She is given completely impossible and ridiculous tasks (getting an advance copy of the latest Harry Potter, tracking down a restaurant review from a newspaper without even the basest of information) and is berated even when she manages to be mildly successful. She has to work horrible hours and misses many important dates.
But really? Whatever. It's your job, you do it. There are so many moments of sheer pettiness and ridiculousness on her part I want to stop and question her whether or not she understands what the concept of an assistant is. When she has to remind herself not to spit in the coffee that she was picking up for her boss. When she gets upset that her boss does not acknowledge her as she is dropping off a book at her apartment. When she literally sighs at requests given to her but [paraphrased] "not loud enough to be commented on." I understand that it's a cumulative sort of thing, that the larger abuses build up to make everything seem like unbearable, but for the purposes of the book, it makes her look incompetent and unprofessional beyond words.
Not only that, but she actually is a bad assistant constantly throughout the book. She gets four times the orders of coffee at Starbucks to hand out to the homeless and gets frustrated when she gets in trouble for taking so long. She spends an extra 20 minutes talking on the phone for a personal call on the way to pick up her boss's lunch, and then is enraged when her boss has already eaten lunch.
She has this sense of complete entitlement that makes absolutely no sense, that she thinks she is so much better than everything she is a part of. The running line in the book that she uses as her ironic fallback - everyone always tells her "a million girls would die for" her job. Like, haha everyone would die for her job but actually it is so horrible, amirite? Except no, really, this is an incredible opportunity that she is fucking up, because she thinks she's somehow above it. Yeah the job itself sucks, but the perks and connections she is getting are incredible and the job is exceedingly short term. At least in the movie version, they address this issue and she sort of rolls with it and grows with her new understanding. In the book, by the end she decides she was completely justified in her contempt and is proud that was able to escape from it all without being changed.
I... seriously... white hot rage. I could easily go on and on with my issues, but my blood pressure would probably suffer as a result. I just cannot wrap my mind around how anyone is expected to identify with this girl. Yes, her boss is crazy and it's mind-blowing how demanding she is. It's interesting to read to find out how far she will actually do next, and the potential for the real-life connection makes it even moreso, but my final result is to just want to punch Andrea in the face, and read more about the crazy boss.
Just a horrible, horrible book, that I absolutely could not put down.
And we're not even going to get into my problems with the movie, lest I break the blogger.
Friday, August 11, 2006
A Million Ways (To Be Lame)
Y'all, my body is in full scale revolt. I don't know how exactly it came to this, but:
- Deaf in right ear
- Left bicep is spasming uncontrollably
- Left knee buckles at random intervals for no apparent reason
- Hair - completely unmanageable.
Toss on top of that my inability to stop sneezing and I'm about as useful as a hermit crab in a Jenga contest today. (I had to reach really hard for that simile, I hope you appreciate it.)
In this state of unrest, I'm going to return to my lamest incarnation - short form review Friday.
Books:
Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things..., Mc Sweeney's, et al. An incredibly uneven set of short stories with absolutely no common theme and the longest title I have ever seen. Aimed at "young adults first," it's actually not too bad. Some incredible writers contributed stories (Neil Gaiman's Sunbird story about a roundtable of gourmands is uniformly excellent and Nick Hornby's offbeat tale about the smallest country in the world is probably the most fun), but on the whole, the longer stories that take up the bulk of the book are the least interesting of the bunch (A detailed look at a quirky kid who's parents disappear to Peru just went entirely over my head. And it was a million pages long). A little disappointing, but mostly because I had expectations entirely unrelated to what was actually advertised. I'd recommend it anyways, solely based on the Gaiman story.
Fraud: Essays, David Rakoff - Yeah, not David Sedaris. That's pretty much the sum total I got out of this book, which is entirely unfair, but whatever.
Like Sedaris all the way down to the mannerisms practically, but more cynical, with a tighter focus on his subjects. Not necessarily more or less funny/insightful, but it didn't quite hit my taste. Really, I'm not objective in the slightest, don't go by me on this one. Even after the funniest of stories (his bit about playing Freud for Macy's at Christmas was awesome), all it really made me want to do was go read Me Talk Pretty One Day.
Music:
Christina Aguilera - Back to Basics. Umm, is it weird that I'm doing this review before the CD is actually released next week? Exactly what are you implying? That I am some sort of dirty internet stealer? I am shocked and appalled at how you think of me. (Think that of Frank) That said, seriously, this album is utterly awesome. Which is good, considering it's been, what, four years since her last album? I would have been crushed had it sucked. But there are so many standout great songs on this (two disc!) album, I am universally appeased. A lot of great jazz and blues numbers, some standard Aguilera belters, and a couple ridiculously dirty songs. Things to look out for: Ain't No Other Man (a song that has not left my iPod in over a month), Candyman and Nasty Naughty Boy (the aforementioned ridiculously dirty songs), and The Right Man (traditional overwrought ballad to close the album all full of organs and what have you).
Holly Brook - Like Blood Like Honey. Like: Jewel (before all the poetry), Vanessa Carlton (before she went all Goth and Wiccan and hilarious), Fiona Apple (without all the crazy), Sarah McLachlan(without all the sucking). Such a pretty CD. Listen to: Where'd You Go is a good starting place.
Ok Go - Ok Go & Oh No. God, I love when people recommend me music that is exactly in line with my tastes. This is firmly entrenched in my niche: namely, pop music that isn't too mainstream, a little smart, and a little off the goddamn wall. Kinda like the Orson I linked a couple of weeks ago, or the Franz Ferdinand (who I cannot stand for some reason) if you want to go popular. I cannot stop listening to this stuff, and I don't care. Must hear: A Million Ways to start, then The Fix is In and Hello, My Treacherous Friends to cement the love.
Bitter:Sweet - The Mating Game. Don't you just hate it when Frank is right about something? I know I do. This CD is so slick, it kills me that he was the one who recommended it to me. To just fall off the rails and just go with nonsensical ramblings: Cool jive, smooth jazz remixed with a little techno DJing, laid back grooves, with a synthesized orchestra always at the ready. Are you confused enough? I can't explain this album at all. Go listen to The Mating Game and Dirty Laundry and see if you can do it any justice with words.
Movies:
Pirates of the Caribbean - Dead Man's Chest. I'm allowed to review this decades after I first saw it because by some weird twist of fate, I have totally seen it three times now already. Words can't really do it justice, how big my love is for this movie. To get the complaint out of the way, did they really need that many action sequences? Three squid attacks and two instances of giant things rolling through jungles seems like a bit of overkill. But on the good side: Johnny Depp wins the world. In any other case ever has there been someone that can make me crack up laughing just by running across a screen? I was very surprised about the layers of motive with all the characters, which I didn't really notice on first viewing because I am lame. Like, Elizabeth with the compass, and the ending with Orlando Bloom where he ends up with the wrong conclusion but is still sort of right, you know?
Anyways, excellent excellent movie, a perfectly acceptable Empire Strikes Back sort of middle to go with the rest of the trilogy.
John Tucker Must Die. Oh, why? Also, no. Some good moments, a whole lot of bad ones. Mean Girls recast as Mean Boys without Tina Fey (instead we get Jenny McCarthy). Only real highlight - Sophia Bush absolutely ruling the entire movie with her somewhat sluttish vegan caricature. I love her.
The Davinci Code. I can muster no real emotion for this movie. I liked it better than the book. The blasphemous girl at the end was fun. Tom Hanks' hair still scares the bejesus out of me. Ian McKellen is the best thing in the world. But heck, I liked National Treasure better than this movie, and that movie was some crap. In that case, though, at least it was highly enjoyable crap.
------------------------------
Well, my arm is still spasming and I have sneezed approximately 48 times during the course of this entry, it's time to give it up. Play nice everyone.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Cask of Amontilldryer
You'll notice (from my recent posts/phone calls/in-house conversations/incessant and all consuming obsession) that I have recently acquired a washer/dryer combo for my own personal use, through a perfectly legitimate means. The day of installation was to be Saturday.
Let us begin the rundown:
Saturday Morning
To begin, we had already placed both the washer and dryer into what was previously named our Trash Room, now dubbed the Laundry Room of Excellence (and Also Potential Untimely Death, but that comes later). I look at the systems for attaching both of them to their respective walls and decide that the washer looks far more complicated (there are things that screw into things, electrical plugs, and a very menacing looking tube) so I decide to do it first, figuring that an easy dryer will be my reward for all that hard work.
Attempt to move the washer backwards into position - Failed, washer is heavy. I'm like an ant straining away at the side of an entire sandwich. Attempt rocking washer back and forth on each corner into position - Is successful, despite 3 near misses on cutting my toes off with a flailing washer.
After quick phone consultation with father on which pipes attach to which tubes, get tubes tightly screwed onto pipes. Turn pipes on - get doused with gallons of spraying water coming from previously thought to be tight connections. Turn off pipes, utilize pliers to tighten the connections as much as humanly possible. Really wish that I had a wrench specifically for such occasions, or any type of muscle mass to make this job even remotely easy.
Turn water back on, only mild dripping occurs. Consider the operation a success, plug machine into wall, test a rinse cycle. Huzzah and rejoicing, washer is installed. Now just need to move on to easier task - dryer install (Note: This is a misconception of epic proportions). First, get a towel and dry off from previous dousing. Shake all excess water off my head like a twitchy dog. Back to business.
Dryer only has a wall plug and little exhaust tube to attach, decide to do tube first. Problem being, in order to be able to reach said tube, one must be behind the dryer. Dryer is located in small alcove beneath the water heater. In order to get into position, one must slide through an 18 inch gap between top of dryer and shelf holding the heater, and wedge themselves into a space roughly 2'X4' in total floor space. As I am tiny, this is accomplished, just with excessive amounts of contortion and cursing.
Once properly in place, spend many a long hour trying to get the tube attached to both the wall and the back of the dryer. This is not just frustrating, this is how you distill pure frustration that you could bottle and sell. By the time I am done, my fingers are covered in deep scratches and no longer even care if I ever get to dry anything, just so long as I never have to see a dryer tube again. Deep breath and rejoicing.
Go to plug the dryer into the wall and get the hell out of there. Dryer Plug has 4 prongs, Dryer Outlet has 3. Look back and forth between the two approximated 25 times, for the life of me not comprehending how this is possible. 4 prongs, 3 holes, 4, 3. Four, three? FOUR, THREE!?
Decide that the world is fully against me, make up mind to get the hell away from this room and go have some ice cream to calm my nerves and sooth my ragged fingers. Attempt to get out from behind dryer. What was difficult to do from the outside seems physically impossible from behind the dryer. Can find no purchase to pull myself out of the tiny hole, no way to leverage the lower half of my body beyond the dryer. Not enough room to push the dryer out far enough to widen hole. Consider myself doomed.
Call for roommate to come to my aid, as I know he is in his room nearby. No answer. Increasingly desperate calls for his help, as visions of my death walled up behind an inoperable dryer dance in my head. Regret ever reading Edgar Allen Poe. Vow to haunt Frank for the rest of his life if I die lodged behind a large appliance while he sleeps in the room less than 10 feet away.
Finally, by wedging hips sideways between the shelf and top of the dryer and then pivoting the rest of my body up and against the wall, escape from my tiny lint-smelling prison. Intense bruises, but will not suffer ignominious death (just yet). Look around and realize reason that I could not move the dryer out far enough was due to a very strategically placed broomstick. Suspect sabotage, but as roommate was still asleep in next room, highly unlikely. File suspicion away for extended scrutiny later. Yell at Frank for not coming to my rescue. His response in total: "Yeah, I heard you calling, but figured it was for something lame, so I went back to sleep." Will totally haunt him now, no matter what.
Call father for further consultation, need to get a new plug for dryer, which I will have to manually install in a very electrical-wiry way myself. Fear for mankind's safety in general, my own in very specific. Go to Home Depot, am promptly supplied with proper plug and out of the store within 3 minutes, at 75% discounted price. HD knows their stuff. Return home, vow never to go out in 108 degree weather ever again, even for desperately wanted items that would allow me to dry wet things in the privacy of my own home without the use of quarters.
Exchanging of the electrical cords involves all of the following: The tipping over of the dryer (directly onto my foot, being the optional part there), the removal of the back panel, the poking of the multicolored wires while hoping not to be shocked to death, the reassuring call to my father that I could not die from electrocution while the dryer was not plugged into the wall, the discovery that the new plug was not color coordinated like the old plug, requiring a second consultation call to my father (including a second reassurance: "Gosh, Jason, no, you will not be electrocuted, the thing isn't even touching the wall."), the removal of the old plug, the installation of the new plug, the realization that I have an almost pathological fear of electricity, the affixing of the back of the dryer to the machine again, and the fervent prayer that nothing will explode
when I plug it into the wall.
Nothing explodes when plugged. Dryer makes appropriate whirring noises when started.
And there was rejoicing like you have no idea.
Still planning on totally haunting the heck out of Frank, though.
Let us begin the rundown:
Saturday Morning
To begin, we had already placed both the washer and dryer into what was previously named our Trash Room, now dubbed the Laundry Room of Excellence (and Also Potential Untimely Death, but that comes later). I look at the systems for attaching both of them to their respective walls and decide that the washer looks far more complicated (there are things that screw into things, electrical plugs, and a very menacing looking tube) so I decide to do it first, figuring that an easy dryer will be my reward for all that hard work.
Attempt to move the washer backwards into position - Failed, washer is heavy. I'm like an ant straining away at the side of an entire sandwich. Attempt rocking washer back and forth on each corner into position - Is successful, despite 3 near misses on cutting my toes off with a flailing washer.
After quick phone consultation with father on which pipes attach to which tubes, get tubes tightly screwed onto pipes. Turn pipes on - get doused with gallons of spraying water coming from previously thought to be tight connections. Turn off pipes, utilize pliers to tighten the connections as much as humanly possible. Really wish that I had a wrench specifically for such occasions, or any type of muscle mass to make this job even remotely easy.
Turn water back on, only mild dripping occurs. Consider the operation a success, plug machine into wall, test a rinse cycle. Huzzah and rejoicing, washer is installed. Now just need to move on to easier task - dryer install (Note: This is a misconception of epic proportions). First, get a towel and dry off from previous dousing. Shake all excess water off my head like a twitchy dog. Back to business.
Dryer only has a wall plug and little exhaust tube to attach, decide to do tube first. Problem being, in order to be able to reach said tube, one must be behind the dryer. Dryer is located in small alcove beneath the water heater. In order to get into position, one must slide through an 18 inch gap between top of dryer and shelf holding the heater, and wedge themselves into a space roughly 2'X4' in total floor space. As I am tiny, this is accomplished, just with excessive amounts of contortion and cursing.
Once properly in place, spend many a long hour trying to get the tube attached to both the wall and the back of the dryer. This is not just frustrating, this is how you distill pure frustration that you could bottle and sell. By the time I am done, my fingers are covered in deep scratches and no longer even care if I ever get to dry anything, just so long as I never have to see a dryer tube again. Deep breath and rejoicing.
Go to plug the dryer into the wall and get the hell out of there. Dryer Plug has 4 prongs, Dryer Outlet has 3. Look back and forth between the two approximated 25 times, for the life of me not comprehending how this is possible. 4 prongs, 3 holes, 4, 3. Four, three? FOUR, THREE!?
Decide that the world is fully against me, make up mind to get the hell away from this room and go have some ice cream to calm my nerves and sooth my ragged fingers. Attempt to get out from behind dryer. What was difficult to do from the outside seems physically impossible from behind the dryer. Can find no purchase to pull myself out of the tiny hole, no way to leverage the lower half of my body beyond the dryer. Not enough room to push the dryer out far enough to widen hole. Consider myself doomed.
Call for roommate to come to my aid, as I know he is in his room nearby. No answer. Increasingly desperate calls for his help, as visions of my death walled up behind an inoperable dryer dance in my head. Regret ever reading Edgar Allen Poe. Vow to haunt Frank for the rest of his life if I die lodged behind a large appliance while he sleeps in the room less than 10 feet away.
Finally, by wedging hips sideways between the shelf and top of the dryer and then pivoting the rest of my body up and against the wall, escape from my tiny lint-smelling prison. Intense bruises, but will not suffer ignominious death (just yet). Look around and realize reason that I could not move the dryer out far enough was due to a very strategically placed broomstick. Suspect sabotage, but as roommate was still asleep in next room, highly unlikely. File suspicion away for extended scrutiny later. Yell at Frank for not coming to my rescue. His response in total: "Yeah, I heard you calling, but figured it was for something lame, so I went back to sleep." Will totally haunt him now, no matter what.
Call father for further consultation, need to get a new plug for dryer, which I will have to manually install in a very electrical-wiry way myself. Fear for mankind's safety in general, my own in very specific. Go to Home Depot, am promptly supplied with proper plug and out of the store within 3 minutes, at 75% discounted price. HD knows their stuff. Return home, vow never to go out in 108 degree weather ever again, even for desperately wanted items that would allow me to dry wet things in the privacy of my own home without the use of quarters.
Exchanging of the electrical cords involves all of the following: The tipping over of the dryer (directly onto my foot, being the optional part there), the removal of the back panel, the poking of the multicolored wires while hoping not to be shocked to death, the reassuring call to my father that I could not die from electrocution while the dryer was not plugged into the wall, the discovery that the new plug was not color coordinated like the old plug, requiring a second consultation call to my father (including a second reassurance: "Gosh, Jason, no, you will not be electrocuted, the thing isn't even touching the wall."), the removal of the old plug, the installation of the new plug, the realization that I have an almost pathological fear of electricity, the affixing of the back of the dryer to the machine again, and the fervent prayer that nothing will explode
when I plug it into the wall.
Nothing explodes when plugged. Dryer makes appropriate whirring noises when started.
And there was rejoicing like you have no idea.
Still planning on totally haunting the heck out of Frank, though.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Labor Talks and Some Fabulous Parting Gifts
As some people who know me can attest, there was a time in my life where I was quite strong. To be precise about it, that time was from the start of my sophomore year of college, up through the end of the first semester of junior year. Approximately 18 months wherein I could lift huge amounts of weight, all over the place. Even above my head, if the occasion called for it. I also had a pretty impressive set of arms, if I do say so myself. All very much a "do you have your tickets? To the gun show!" sort of thing.
Only I would never have said such a thing, because I am classy.
For better or worse, those days are behind me, as my personal fitness correspondent/wacky best friend has moved on to the greener pastures of living in the desert managing hospitals, planes, and firearms. Nowadays I'm lucky to break 140 on the scale, can wrap my hand around my entire arm pretty much at any point on said arm, and get winded trying to move a box of copier paper across my office.
Which has been just loverly for the last two weeks, wherein all I have done is move gigantic things everywhere. This is all more or less neither here nor there in terms of importance, just some residual whinging about how I used to be so youthful and vibrant and muscley, whereas now I get invitations to chess clubs daily.
No, this blog is about my newest delicious acquisition for my apartment, my very-own personal in-house washer AND dryer (which were both very heavy and had to be moved this morning by just myself and a Franklin. See, there was a segue in there just waiting for me, but I'm way too tired to tease it out.)
Can you imagine a world where you can do laundry whenever you want? And you don't have to have quarters to do it? And you can just wash, like, one thing if you really wanted to, or do a whole load of nothing but whites. Or if something goes through the dryer and is still a tiny bit damp after the cycle ends, you can just run it for a little while longer. Can you feel my excitement actually pouring out of the internet? Because seriously. So excited that I may need to be sedated.
Actually no, I don't need to be sedated anymore because after moving them in, I am quite drained beyond normal measures. My injury level is quite low, considering it all, though. While Frank and I did manage to drop the washer on my foot twice, and we totally crushed Frank's hand on the doorframe into the apartment enough that I actually heard the "Crunch!" there was no ice, bandages, or excessive cursing required.
They still have to be installed, though, which is something that I don't really want to do myself, as I can barely hook-up a DVD player, let alone a major appliance. Hopefully we can recruit some buff maintenance sort of person who can do this sort of thing in his sleep. Otherwise it will be wise of you to avoid the entire uptown area of Dallas, just in case I cause some sort of washer related explosion that wipes out all of the West Village.
You know, like one does.
Only I would never have said such a thing, because I am classy.
For better or worse, those days are behind me, as my personal fitness correspondent/wacky best friend has moved on to the greener pastures of living in the desert managing hospitals, planes, and firearms. Nowadays I'm lucky to break 140 on the scale, can wrap my hand around my entire arm pretty much at any point on said arm, and get winded trying to move a box of copier paper across my office.
Which has been just loverly for the last two weeks, wherein all I have done is move gigantic things everywhere. This is all more or less neither here nor there in terms of importance, just some residual whinging about how I used to be so youthful and vibrant and muscley, whereas now I get invitations to chess clubs daily.
No, this blog is about my newest delicious acquisition for my apartment, my very-own personal in-house washer AND dryer (which were both very heavy and had to be moved this morning by just myself and a Franklin. See, there was a segue in there just waiting for me, but I'm way too tired to tease it out.)
Can you imagine a world where you can do laundry whenever you want? And you don't have to have quarters to do it? And you can just wash, like, one thing if you really wanted to, or do a whole load of nothing but whites. Or if something goes through the dryer and is still a tiny bit damp after the cycle ends, you can just run it for a little while longer. Can you feel my excitement actually pouring out of the internet? Because seriously. So excited that I may need to be sedated.
Actually no, I don't need to be sedated anymore because after moving them in, I am quite drained beyond normal measures. My injury level is quite low, considering it all, though. While Frank and I did manage to drop the washer on my foot twice, and we totally crushed Frank's hand on the doorframe into the apartment enough that I actually heard the "Crunch!" there was no ice, bandages, or excessive cursing required.
They still have to be installed, though, which is something that I don't really want to do myself, as I can barely hook-up a DVD player, let alone a major appliance. Hopefully we can recruit some buff maintenance sort of person who can do this sort of thing in his sleep. Otherwise it will be wise of you to avoid the entire uptown area of Dallas, just in case I cause some sort of washer related explosion that wipes out all of the West Village.
You know, like one does.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Where Cuteness and Gambling Reign Supreme
Not anything of actual consequence, (is anything on here ever of consequence?) but do you want to know how I've been spending every waking second of my downtime for the past three days?
KittenWar!
Seriously, has there ever been a more perfect site? Battle of who is cutest? Kittens who think they are cans of soda? Kittens that endorse McDonalds?
I also really love that they keep a statistical analysis of the kitten wars as well, so you can track the relative cuteness of your cat over periods of time. I now want to adopt a kitten for the sole purpose of trying to out-cute the obvious ringers.
And when I'm just too overwhelmed with the cuteness, I go on the gambling equivalent of Cute Battling Cats...
DiceWars!
Because it's like Risk, only you can play a whole game in about 10 minutes, but still feel like you've conquered the world. But watch out for those pink dice, man. Frickin' Pink is a bastard. Also, you will easily get violent with your computer the first time you roll a total of 8 with 6 dice. Exactly the same as in Risk, only there is less chance of fisticuffs with your friends and more chance of throwing your monitor through a window.
Good times, man.
KittenWar!
Seriously, has there ever been a more perfect site? Battle of who is cutest? Kittens who think they are cans of soda? Kittens that endorse McDonalds?
I also really love that they keep a statistical analysis of the kitten wars as well, so you can track the relative cuteness of your cat over periods of time. I now want to adopt a kitten for the sole purpose of trying to out-cute the obvious ringers.
And when I'm just too overwhelmed with the cuteness, I go on the gambling equivalent of Cute Battling Cats...
DiceWars!
Because it's like Risk, only you can play a whole game in about 10 minutes, but still feel like you've conquered the world. But watch out for those pink dice, man. Frickin' Pink is a bastard. Also, you will easily get violent with your computer the first time you roll a total of 8 with 6 dice. Exactly the same as in Risk, only there is less chance of fisticuffs with your friends and more chance of throwing your monitor through a window.
Good times, man.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Unsent #2
Now with 100% more Unoriginality!
-------------------------------------
To: The Woman in my Office, Three Doors Down
Re: Work Attire
Hi, so seriously? That was the best outfit you could come up with to wear to work today? You got up this morning, went to your closet and thought to yourself: "Self, you know what you should wear today? A lime green spandex top, a flowing brown peasant skirt, and a belt that is covered in tiny bells! So everywhere you go people will hear the delightful sound of ringing and think that Santa Claus and his reindeer have invaded the office in the middle of summer! Oh yeah, you are so fashion-forward!"
I can only assume that's how the thought process went, because...yeah.
Only, no dear. On every single level imaginable. I would wish for blindness, except that the shirt already did that job for me. And that still doesn't help with the constant ringing.
Yours Truly in Fashion Solidarity,
Jason
--------------------------------
To: Office Moving Guys
Re: The Concept of Moving
Okay guys, I understand. Our move is not that big, three offices moving to a different space on the same floor, we're not exactly a high priority on the list of Pressing Moving Issues. But when you show up three hours late, with three guys instead of the expected 5 (one of whom was at least 60 years old and walked with a limp), don't bring all of our equipment, and forget the keys to our filing cabinets, it is considered common courtesy to, I don't know, actually FINISH MOVING EVERYTHING, before bolting out of the office at 6:00, leaving a 140-pound former-computer-science-major with a propensity for clumsiness to move two 150 lb modular walls, three copiers from the 1980's and a filing cabinet that weighs as much as the space shuttle, by himself into the new offices.
And maybe I'm just old fashioned or something, but I would think that after all that you shouldn't also have the gall to then bill us for 3 additional hours (at the after-hours delivery rates), when you were only here for 2 hours total. It only incites my rage and gives me the intense urge to work up my own invoice that puts a dollar value on the difficulties I had moving those gigantic walls by myself after 6:00 on a Friday afternoon and deliver it to you in a fitting manner (read: wrapped around a brick through a window, or similar).
My Best in Back Pain,
Jason
-----------------------------------------
To: The Heat
Re: Yeah, The Heat
Okay, we get it, you're hot. Enough already. Seriously. You understand that I still don't have working air conditioning in my TOM right? Your point = Made. I don't need to walk into my office building, take a deep breath and literally feel the interior or my lungs cooling off.
Yesterday I was moving some boxes out of the back of the TOM around 3:oo in the afternoon and I got a physical burn on my arm from the surface of the truck. Where is the fun in that? Do you feel like a big man? Burning a poor innocent pale guy who is just trying to do his (amended to include new personalized tasks for a crazy person) job? Just wait until Fall gets here and then we'll see how tough you are.
(Incidentally, I don't mean all this in a goading fashion, because seriously, if it gets any hotter I may actually die. From spontaneous human combustion. We cool, right? (Geddit? Cool? That was a joke, from me to you, Heat.))
Face Meltingly Yours,
Jason
-------------------------------------------
To: The Cute Blockbuster Guy
Re: Totally not Stalking You
Hi. Yeah. So how's it going? Good. Okay, so recently when I was in the store, I know I totally brought up the fact that you had recently got a new haircut (by saying "OMG you got a haircut!" like a crazy person, or perhaps an awestruck 13 year old), despite the fact that we barely know each other beyond our near daily interactions at the checkout counter, in my seemingly unending quest to rent every movie Blockbuster has in stock. But that does not mean that I am a crazy stalker guy! I just really liked your hair before, so it was shocking when I came in and it was all different.
Yeah, okay, so that's a little weird, but everyone has their quirks, mine just happen to be a little more extensive in number and include an appreciation of a really good highlights job. Can't one guy just comment on a near stranger's haircut without seeming completely insane? And yeah, maybe I have a little crush on you, and your new haircut with even more prominent highlights, and your tendency to compliment my taste in movies. Totally doesn't mean I'm stalking you, though. Admiring from nearby is something totally different.
Anyways, what are you doing later?
With Movie Love,
Jason
-------------------------------------
To: The Woman in my Office, Three Doors Down
Re: Work Attire
Hi, so seriously? That was the best outfit you could come up with to wear to work today? You got up this morning, went to your closet and thought to yourself: "Self, you know what you should wear today? A lime green spandex top, a flowing brown peasant skirt, and a belt that is covered in tiny bells! So everywhere you go people will hear the delightful sound of ringing and think that Santa Claus and his reindeer have invaded the office in the middle of summer! Oh yeah, you are so fashion-forward!"
I can only assume that's how the thought process went, because...yeah.
Only, no dear. On every single level imaginable. I would wish for blindness, except that the shirt already did that job for me. And that still doesn't help with the constant ringing.
Yours Truly in Fashion Solidarity,
Jason
--------------------------------
To: Office Moving Guys
Re: The Concept of Moving
Okay guys, I understand. Our move is not that big, three offices moving to a different space on the same floor, we're not exactly a high priority on the list of Pressing Moving Issues. But when you show up three hours late, with three guys instead of the expected 5 (one of whom was at least 60 years old and walked with a limp), don't bring all of our equipment, and forget the keys to our filing cabinets, it is considered common courtesy to, I don't know, actually FINISH MOVING EVERYTHING, before bolting out of the office at 6:00, leaving a 140-pound former-computer-science-major with a propensity for clumsiness to move two 150 lb modular walls, three copiers from the 1980's and a filing cabinet that weighs as much as the space shuttle, by himself into the new offices.
And maybe I'm just old fashioned or something, but I would think that after all that you shouldn't also have the gall to then bill us for 3 additional hours (at the after-hours delivery rates), when you were only here for 2 hours total. It only incites my rage and gives me the intense urge to work up my own invoice that puts a dollar value on the difficulties I had moving those gigantic walls by myself after 6:00 on a Friday afternoon and deliver it to you in a fitting manner (read: wrapped around a brick through a window, or similar).
My Best in Back Pain,
Jason
-----------------------------------------
To: The Heat
Re: Yeah, The Heat
Okay, we get it, you're hot. Enough already. Seriously. You understand that I still don't have working air conditioning in my TOM right? Your point = Made. I don't need to walk into my office building, take a deep breath and literally feel the interior or my lungs cooling off.
Yesterday I was moving some boxes out of the back of the TOM around 3:oo in the afternoon and I got a physical burn on my arm from the surface of the truck. Where is the fun in that? Do you feel like a big man? Burning a poor innocent pale guy who is just trying to do his (amended to include new personalized tasks for a crazy person) job? Just wait until Fall gets here and then we'll see how tough you are.
(Incidentally, I don't mean all this in a goading fashion, because seriously, if it gets any hotter I may actually die. From spontaneous human combustion. We cool, right? (Geddit? Cool? That was a joke, from me to you, Heat.))
Face Meltingly Yours,
Jason
-------------------------------------------
To: The Cute Blockbuster Guy
Re: Totally not Stalking You
Hi. Yeah. So how's it going? Good. Okay, so recently when I was in the store, I know I totally brought up the fact that you had recently got a new haircut (by saying "OMG you got a haircut!" like a crazy person, or perhaps an awestruck 13 year old), despite the fact that we barely know each other beyond our near daily interactions at the checkout counter, in my seemingly unending quest to rent every movie Blockbuster has in stock. But that does not mean that I am a crazy stalker guy! I just really liked your hair before, so it was shocking when I came in and it was all different.
Yeah, okay, so that's a little weird, but everyone has their quirks, mine just happen to be a little more extensive in number and include an appreciation of a really good highlights job. Can't one guy just comment on a near stranger's haircut without seeming completely insane? And yeah, maybe I have a little crush on you, and your new haircut with even more prominent highlights, and your tendency to compliment my taste in movies. Totally doesn't mean I'm stalking you, though. Admiring from nearby is something totally different.
Anyways, what are you doing later?
With Movie Love,
Jason
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