Last Sunday, I attended an open house by the William Raveis real estate company. When I walked in the door, I was told that I must present a photo ID before I could see the house. Now, I have large enough issue with authority that I foolishly give the TIS gorillas at the airport shit for making me take my shoes off, and I’m paranoid enough that I don’t show my ID to anyone without a big, fat fight. My options were that I was either going to see the house or I wasn’t, but this woman was not going to see any ID from me. On seeing my indignation, the realtor was smart enough to cite an article from the Boston Globe that said that people were casing open houses and robbing them as her proof that her policy was acceptable and for the greater good. What she wasn’t bright enough to comprehend while abdicating responsibility for this bad policy was that she was insinuating that I was not a potential buyer, but a potential criminal.

Even if this house was being lived in, or was finished enough to have a sink, a kitchen, a bathroom, or even fixtures on the walls, I think I still would’ve been angry enough that steam poured out of my ears, but the complete and utter emptiness of the house made me even angrier. There wasn’t even a fricken floor for me to steal if I wanted to. The house wasn’t even close to finished.

I was so insulted by the request for ID, that my brain failed to provide me with even a slightly witty response like, “Oh, I don’t want to party, babe. I just want to see the house.” All I could do was lock up and try to contain the fuming. While I stood teetering on the edge of a flag waving, authority-hating meltdown, my GF was handing over her ID. Instead of protecting her with an identity-saving, yet embarrassing tackle and a 20 minute tirade on “What America Means to me as a Consumer,” I caught a look that said that it would be better for me in the long run if I choked it all back so that my GF could simply see the house.

Once my brain sweetened the deal by slipping in some hidden subsections promising some future glancing at the GF’s naughty bits in exchange for my silence, for the remainder of the 3 minute tour, I rolled around the house as silently as a grenade with a loose pin. So, although I never showed I.D. and left completely irritated at the realtor, I did the mature thing and later sent the following limp, little letter to their corporate e-mail: contact@raveisre.com. I’m learning to pick my battles and becoming such a fucking adult. But, I’m a fucking adult who gets to see boobies. High five.

To Whom it may Concern:

I was thoroughly disgusted when I went into an open house this weekend in Hull, Massachusetts, and was carded before I was allowed to see the house. Not only was the house so unfinished that there wasn’t even a floor down, but I was told that I was being carded in case I stole something. There weren’t even fixtures on the wall to steal, even if I had the inclination.

When I go to a restaurant for an expensive meal, I expect good service. When I buy an expensive car, I expect the dealer to at least pretend that he respects me. If I am spending over $XXX,000, I absolutely do NOT expect to be treated like a criminal.

I’ve sold a home and attended hundreds of open houses without issue. I am trying to find a home, and have a price range that bumps up on $XXX,000. After I was carded, I can say that I didn’t see anything in the house. I was disgusted. The house fell off my list immediately, and I can say that I won’t be attending any of your open houses in the future.

The realtor who carded me, said that my information would not be written down, but unless she has an iron clad memory, there is no way that she would be able to retain this information in a crime investigation. Given this, I can only determine that the ID check is merely a tactic to intimidate potential buyers. If you continue this policy, you may want to extend it to have the realtor carry a hand held metal detector, as it has been shown to be an effective deterrent to potentially armed criminals that might do harm to your personnel. You may even want to go the route of armed guard if your client’s safety is as important as it seems.

I hope that you understand that I’m being facetious, but the policies that you have enacted to protect your clients have taken that protection to a new level and completely alienated a potential buyer. And if you’ve alienated one buyer who’s upset enough to write a letter, there are hundreds that have silently written you off without action.

If you decide to change your policies in the future, please drop me a line so that I can write this matter off as a mistake and continue attending your open houses like a normal consumer.

Thanks for your time.

Jon Dyer

On re-reading this, I really should’ve added “Lick Balls” to the end. Ugh.

I am unsatisfied. My beard is getting on my nerves, but not enough to shave it off. I’m not happy about my complete decline in muscle mass, but not enough to go to the gym and do something about it. I do nothing more with the weeks than count the days until Friday. It’s a winter rut, and I’m too lazy to do anything about it.

I think this must be some dumbed down, leftover form human hibernation.

It’s all over
The relaxation that I stored up over that nice, long vacation was expected to last me at least two weeks. Unfortunately, I used up all my calm on dipshits and side tracks in a mere 2.5 days. At one point somewhere near the end, I think I actually referred to someone as a “stupid dick,” in a pretty matter-of-fact way that surprised my co-workers into a burst of laughter, but could probably be construed as “not very professional.” At least no one construed it as some form of pseudo-sexual harassment. So, I got that going for me…which is nice.

And it Tastes like Poop
Even though making a drink called Mexican Hot Chocolate sounds exotic, the smell of chili powder and cinnamon in your hot chocolate gives the distinct impression that you are drinking a steaming hot cup of poop.

Interestingly enough, after I made this connection, I took two more sips. And then left the rest on the counter for my GF to try.

Say You

To whom it may concern,

The lanes shifted when you were next to me, and I just didn’t feel like shifting with them. As a member of the rotary club, I feel it is my prerogative. I mean really. Could you imagine if Mr. Cuddles were to shift his pure bred form to the right? It might not only muss his coat, but send him to several more sessions in doggy therapy.

Next time, remember who rules the road, so you don’t have to slam on the brakes in that winged monstrosity that you call a car.

Stop ruining my drive home.

-Mrs. Margaret Gladstone-Williamson

Say Me

Dear Lexus-driving Uber bitch,

When the lanes shift to the right and you decide not to, I’m not the one who is a fucking asshole, so save the dirty looks for the butler. When you pull that shit, I have to refrain from reciprocating by giving you the finger or merging into the side of your overpriced, rebranded Toyota.

Refraining takes effort that I’m really not willing to expend on you these days, plus it blows Newton’s Third Law.

Stop fucking up science.

Love,
Jon

End on a High Note
Last night I searched the web for something to entertain me. Anything. I like my job, but after 8 days straight, I start to get a little tired of it. It starts wearing me down, and without any fun time, I start to remember that all this work is going towards a raise or promotion that the company isn’t in a position to give.

I’ll tell you though, even though it’s stressful and I’ve done it a ton of times, successfully planning, coordinating, and executing a 16,000+ machine rollout worldwide is pretty cool. And even though it wears me down, and no matter what crumbs fall of the table again this year, I am proud of my work and I feel accomplished in it. It’s a stupid ideal, but it seems to be the only reward available these days.

End on a Low Note

1. The world of technology is vast. As technical folks, we all have our areas of expertise, and I don’t expect you to know as much about my particular area of expertise is as I do. What I do expect from you as a technical person is that if you happen to get an error message that says “Error: See c:\windows\temp\errorlog.txt for details,” your intellectual curiosity will compel you to do the bare minimum and at least open the fucking log before you fire me an e-mail to look at the issue.
2. If my server is pegged because it’s pushing out installation after installation, don’t ride me about reports being slow. I know that they are slow. You know they are slow. We all know they are slow. There is no need to compound the problem by taxing the server with additional reports or taxing the administrator with additional troubleshooting just to provide proof that he knows his shit.
3. Whenever the administrator sees the little mail icon pop up in his system tray, he feels compelled to check it, lest it is an important question from his boss. When it turns out to be a Republican vs. Democrat flame war that incessantly interrupts his troubleshooting, and he asks you to take him off the thread, he’s not being anti-social. He’s really, really busy and needs all the time he’s got right now. So, grant him a small courtesy and take him off the fucking thread.

Optimism
The warm weather and rain in the last few days have caused moths all over the South Shore to assume that it is now spring. Their unbridled optimism has sealed their fate.

Pessimism
I heard on the news that some cheerleaders got drunk and did some, as one newsman said, “salty” cheers before being suspended from school. I found it surprising that although there was no criminal action, the kids’ names were given out on the air. What was even more surprising was how vehement the female news anchor was about a 10 day school suspension not being enough of a punishment for the behavior. She actually went on to say that the kids should be “banned from cheerleading for life.”

Seriously.

My questions are these:
Since when did simply getting drunk become enough to put a kid on the morning news in a major metropolitan area?

What the fuck is wrong with us as a society that now when kids make a mistake, we feel that the mistake should follow them around forever?

What made that news anchor so angry? Does she hold the sport of cheerleading in the highest esteem? Is she so bitter or beyond reproach that she has completely and utterly forgotten what it is to make a mistake? Or, is she regularly attending AA and wishes she could sit down with Johnny. Jim and Jack and throw some salty cheers at that unloving prick of a corporate suit she married. Man, she should’ve married Arty. With that motorcycle and fringed jacket, man, he knew how to live…but I digress.

When people feel the need to puritanically punish others(i.e. the punishment is much larger than the crime) or have extremely hard line views, I have to wonder how many hookers they lived with in that coke den before they found the “right” way to live, or how many they secretly want to live with now.

When you’re rushing to get to wherever you’re trying to get to this year, remember that general traffic speed increases if you avoid fighting for position and allow people to merge. By giving a little leeway, you increase the greater good.

So don’t be a fucking asshole this Thanksgiving.

Movie reviews #226458322
Man on Fire (action): Tired story of the washed up mercenary that turns himself around and saves the day. C (as in crap).
triggermen (action): 2 hours went by and I had no idea why. P.S. Donnie Wahlberg sucks. C- (as in crap minus).
Harold and Maude (drama): I’ve heard people love this movie. I didn’t really get it, but it had a lot of funny quotes and some funny parts. B- (as in not that bad).

Jay
My friend Jay came in to Boston from Sweden for 23 hours on his way to visit his parents in Georgia on Saturday and didn’t tell anyone that he was coming in except me. I think it was payback for having been in the U.S. for three weeks the last time he was here and not having more than 2 hours for me. It was unexpected, and nice.

While waiting at Terminal E and sipping my Dunkin Donuts coffee, I remembered why I like being at the airport: everyone is happy, hopeful, and well, huggy. I can stand and watch people come in for at least a couple of hours without getting the least bit bored. This goes double for the international terminal because the varied cultures of the happy greeters, and the high proportion of exotic looking people coming through the gates.

Jay came in at 6PM Saturday, ate at Grumpy’s, met some friends, and hung out, leaving little time for sleep before heading for the airport at 6:30AM Sunday morning. I give the visit a harried thumbs up.

On the way home from dropping him off at the airport, I encountered the exact opposite of the friendly, hopeful air of the airport at the tolls. There was a fat middle eastern guy with a grey moustache and not-blue-blockers-but-might-as-well-be-sunglasses in the booth. I pulled up, and handed him a $5, and fully expected $3 back. Not only was I surprised to find out that the toll had been bumped up to $3 for passenger cars, but that I only got $.50 back.

When I stared at him in dismay he barked, “4.50″ in a way that typing cannot do justice (but, of course, I’ll try).

I just stared confused and eeked out a confused, “What?”
“Dillehd pletts. Fwad fifteh!” he barked.
“Dealer plates?” I said confused.
“Dillehd pletts. Fwad fifteh!”
“I’m not a dealer, man, this is a loaner while they work on my car at the dealer.”
“Dilled pletts. Fwad fifteh!”
“I’m not a dealer. This is a loaner.”
I stared. He stared.
“Jeem! Check cahd fod dillehd pletts,” at which point Jim came out of the booth and said something ingenious like “Yep. Dealer plates.”
“Dillehd pletts. Fwad fifteh!!”

At that point I realized that this guy was happier with the letter of the law than the spirit, and that for me, the price was not the problem, but this guy’s attitude. It was at that point that driving away was well worth $1.50. Once I had gotten a mile up the road and all the fantasies of perfect snappy responses and choking had faded, I hoped that this guy’s attitude somehow bit him in the ass. Then, I left him behind.

Mouse
For the last couple of weeks, I refused to believe it, but we have had a mouse in the house. I don’t feel good about killing small animals that I don’t intend to eat, so neck snapping traps were out. I mean, it wasn’t the mouse’s fault that he was searching for food in a place that I claimed as my territory. Due to my lack of urinating in every corner of the apartment, the mouse had no idea that I claimed this area as mine. It was merely occupying some small portion of an area that I arbitrarily claimed as my own based on an arbitrary monetary system that it knew nothing about. So, how could I kill it?

My GF bought these clear plastic traps that only open in. Each had air holes, and could be emptied by simply flipping the trap over allowing the door to swing inward fully, releasing the mouse. I stuck a piece of peanut butter coated Wasa (Swedish mouse trap!) in there, and set it in the laundry room overnight.

While I was out with Jay, the ingenious little invention trapped our mouse. Although it was only an inch long, my GF really, really, really harbors some serious issues against mice. As she slept behind closed doors, I released the little thing into a field near my apartment. I think that she closed the door to be as far removed from that mouse as possible, while I, on the other hand, stared at it in wonder, and thought it was really, really neat.

I wonder if my propensity to move mice from the house and snails off of the path is an indication of a big pussy or if it’s more big-heart Buddhist. Then again, in trivial matters, “why” is inconsequential, so who cares?

This year I didn’t vote, but I don’t think it matters. For the last 12 years I’ve written in Ross Perot, as I see it as a vote for entropy. This year, with Kerry set to win Massachusetts, I thought a vote for entropy was a waste of gas.

I was surprised that middle America is retarded enough to vote King George the Religious into office for a second term, but not that surprised. I was surprised at how many people who seemed devastated by the loss.

To those people who find Kerry’s loss devastating, I have this:
1. Politicians lie for a living.
2. Don’t pin your hopes and dreams on a professional liar.

Chase and J.P. Morgan merged. Another large merger: whoopdeedoo. As a result, the newly formed megaglobal corporation sent me a new “privacy policy” and allowed me two ways to opt out of having my information shared with other companies. I was all set to call and opt out, until I read this paragraph right below the options:

“Even if you tell us not to share, we may share other types of information within our family. For example, we may share name and address, information about transactions or balances with us, as well as survey results.”

My first question is what information don’t they share, and how exactly do they define “opting out?”

I’ve been spending the last 2 weeks getting dicked around by car dealers and the corporate fates, so I have no real desire to write anything. Instead, I spend my free time playing Iron Stomach and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, and acting like an idiot until my GF laughs.

Bah
Kerry sucks, Bush is an idiot, and Nader is insane. Does anyone else feel that actually going and pulling the lever in the voting booth is going to do anything better than pulling it at home?

I’ve worked on a project for a number years, building a nice little one man empire of virus fighting with very little return on my investment as far as pay, promotions, or perks. I’ve done such a good job, that there are sites around the world pushing to get me to manage their systems for them. I also am heavy into scripting and have been at the grass roots working on a plan to bring more security to the desktops.

Today, we are faced with a re-org. Today, we are told do more with less. Today, my 1 man global project is mentioned no less than 5 times in a department meeting to discuss top priorities.

Given that I lack the resources to take on all that I would like to, it was proposed that I might gain some resources in the re-org to get me out of the day to day and back into the planning. As I have had various vapor carrots dangled in front of over the years, I truly had my doubts, but I really didn’t expect it to go the way it did: Two of my peers were moved into my group and given staffs of there own, and a good part of what I had been working on was metered between them. Not that they are not capable of the job, or that I have anything personal against them at all. I like them both and have faith in either of their abilities. I’m actually happy for them.

But, with a layoff coming up, and my projects getting metered out, and that even though I was working on these projects, other people got bumped up higher than me to work on them, I have to wonder if I’m expandable. Can they do my job without me? I have to admit that because of the way I have set things up, my job will run satisfactorily for some time with minimal intervention, giving plenty of time for a trainee to figure out the more advanced stuff.

Then, I have to wonder if I’m just some sort of joke. Is my vision of the work that I do different from the way my management team sees it? Do I do my job so well that no one even notices it’s benefits anymore? That can’t be right because of the number of nods my project got as a priority in the meeting. Could it be that the project is important, but not the person running it? Am I merely a big fucking joke?

I feel like one. I really do. I feel like no matter what kind of effort I put in, no matter how well I learn Perl, SQL, or set up the system to protect itself, no matter how nice my tie or shoes are, I’m never going to get the respect, the title, the pay, or the advancement. I can almost say with a complete lack of enthusiasm that in 5 years if I remain in the same environment, I will be in the same place, working with college kids taking orders from former colleagues. And that bothers the shit out of me.

And I can’t seem to get constructive criticism to help me to correct whatever the issues may be, as there doesn’t seem to be anything available that is worth being discussed. If it’s out there, it’s a secret. Maybe it’s that I don’t golf. Or lick balls. Or dress like I stepped on a Brooks Brother’s mine. I innovate, and get nothing but more work to fill the void. A script saves time that will be eaten up by extra work that I can take on because I wrote the script…until someone steps in, takes over the projects, and reaps the benefits. Looking back over the years, it seems to happen to me quite a bit. A hardworking field mule isn’t brought into the dinner table when he works harder. He just gets more work done. And that’s pretty fucking frustrating. And frustration creates a rotten attitude that I’m really not too comfortable harboring.

I hate ranting, especially about work, but I sink a lot of brain power into creating processes that manage themselves. I don’t try to just get it done, I try to get it done better. And honestly, I don’t think that anyone really gives a shit, and it really makes me wonder why I bother.

Anyone looking for someone who is fast on his feet, appreciates engineering processes, and with the experience to architect and run your 20,000 node enterprise virus protection scheme solo, drop me a line. And I am a stranger to reward, so I am easy to please. But please don’t read the rest of the site, as it makes me seem a little bonkers.

Fuck, this was a bad day for me.

Dear Folks
If you’ve never seen me outside of work, and you call me about what patch is required to fix your rebooting problem, don’t spend the downtime while I’m thinking to ask me pointed questions about my personal life. If you were in it, you’d have all the information you need. If you’re not, and there’s something that I wanted you to know, I’d probably tell you.

Otherwise, if I don’t feel that it’s your business, I’ll politely sidestep you, and then you can assume whatever the fuji you want and dish it to all your gossipy co-workers as if it were any of your business.

Let me know when you graduate from high school so that I can get some work done.

When in doubt, Link
Since I really have nothing to say, I provide links of joy for later amusement.

Shatner’s got a new album. It’s no transformed man…or is it. See for yourself: ShatnerHasBeen.com

I found a new site to waste time on called Screenhead.com that could easily be mistaken for boingboing.net’s evil twin brother.

On it I found C-Mon & Klypski’s who do a really old school-sounding DJ song called “shittybum” (link) which I really enjoyed. It reminded me of something from the Beat Street days.

On C-Mon & Klypski’s site, they also explain “Clocktaves”:

“A ‘Clocktave’ is a note scale to scratch with, with a range of 2 to 4 octaves. The notes of the octaves are divided between exactly ONE rotation of a record so when you look at the record as if it were a clock, the root note of the scale will always appear at, let’s say 12 o’ clock, depending on where you have your orientation sticker or marker.”

I had no idea. So the DJ essentially uses the turntable as a musical instrument, rolling the record to the notes that he or she wants. They provide some pretty kick ass examples, too. Tell me your not amazed by “All four” from this page.

Note: I accidentally hit ‘replace’ instead of ‘ignore’ when spell checking, and “whatever the fuck” became “whatever the fuji.” I laughed enough thinking of walking around my apartment saying “Oh what the fuji!” that it had to stay.

Dear Jon
I joined a new gym after 2 awesomely flabby months off.

Thanks to the town of Hingham for digging out a nice big trench in the pavement and forgetting to put a piece of steel over it, so that I could start today by cracking a rim. Fuck.

Tai Chi
Today I saw two people in the courtyard doing Tai Chi. Although I find it frustratingly slow in practice, I found it mesmerizing to watch. While trying to explain it to my GF, I talked and acted as if I were caught in an old Kung Fu movie, complete with lots of pointing and inappropriate grunts and laughing. As she has never seen A.) Star Trek, B.) Star Wars, or C.) any Kung Fu movies, she confusedly asked me, “What are you doing?”

Voting is Gross
Are you watching the debates tonight? No. You know why? No amount of sound bite fishing will tell me which candidate deserves my vote. Bush sucks major ass. He’s an autocrat, a liar, and serves the rich. Kerry also sucks major ass. He’s an autocrat, a liar, and serves the rich.

If you present me with two steaming hot piles of shit and tell me that I have to eat one, I’m going to ask you for another option. In America, it seems that most of us will just pick the one that looks the worst, and pop the other one right into their mouths.

Unfortunately, I don’t have lofty ideals that there is a politician out there who is any better. As usual, I’ll “throw my vote away” on a some third party steam pile in the simple hopes of expanding the number of candidates beyond the current two party, one candidate system.

Voting is gross. I’m going to watch a movie.

Movie Reviews #6822653
The Girl Next Store (Comedy): Typical story of “Nerd meets porn star, fall in love.” Although this movie could’ve been named Risky Business 2004, and, at times, I had no idea where the story was going, I admit that I found it entertaining. B

Kept Notes
I have a secret. If I find music that I like or if something funny happens during the day, I write it down on a small piece of paper and put it in my pocket. When I get home, I either blog it or throw it on my desk. Because the note taking is ultimately time-critical, this habit has left me with a whole pile of cryptic notes on my desk, some of which I haven’t the foggiest idea what they might mean.

One of which: “edit stages 4.99 dinner break-dancing,” I find almost as confusing as: “angry dog paper 100 ways to piss off your pet.”

Lost Notes
I wrote what I thought was a pretty nice post before this one until blogger decided to take a crap during the post sending it somewhere near the end of the internet. The internet can now officially bite me.

Vulgar Jon I
Boss to Jon: Ok, let’s do this. Pretend I’m an auditor…
[Jon gives boss the finger]
Boss: Nice one.

Vulgar Jon II
For some reason, right before I was going to leave today I started singing the theme to the Micky Mouse Club. Normally it would go: M… I… C… See you real soon! Given the frustration levels of the last few days, it went something like M… I… C… [stops] Screw this fuckin’ crap.

Once the laughter subsided I apologized to everyone for letting my brain get the best of my mouth.

Today, I had a meeting with my boss, my boss’s boss, and my boss’s boss’s boss to discuss general virus stuff. I figured that if my boss and his boss wore ties, and I didn’t, I’d look like an idiot. If I did, and they didn’t, no one would care. So, I played the odds and put on a tie.

On the way to work, I thought, “What the fuck am I doing? I’m wearing a tie. I’m not a little bit corporate and a little bit rock and roll, anymore. This tie is quickly and voluntarily choking the rock and roll out of me. I’ve somehow gone corporate.

How the fuck did this happen?

A small angel appeared on my left shoulder said, “Don’t worry about it. Patience is a virtue. The meek shall inherit the earth. You’ve taken your first steps toward a fine German automobile, which are heavenly. By the way, you look very nice.”

In a puff, a devil appeared on my right, jumped onto my left shoulder, and kicked the angel square in the ding-ding. Then he said, “I’ll tell you how this happened, dumb ass. You worked your ass off for the same department for the last 5 years on infrastructure that is done so well that no one even notices it, anymore. On the very rare occasion when the proverbial shit hits the fan, you jump in front of it and do a spotless clean up before anyone notices the mess, leaving you nothing but covered in shit.

Because no one really knew or cared what you do, that promotion that might’ve raised you to the level of your peers was tabled for two years unsigned, while some real pieces of work whizzed up the chain past you. Yea, you remember them don’t you? Real geniuses. Thanks for fucking things up, here’s your promotion. On the other hand, your responsibilities got bigger, your raises got smaller, and your grade level completely stagnated. You know why? Because smile beats substance. A tie beats merit. And all the while you sit and hope that your work will get noticed one day. Boo hoo.

Then one day you woke up and realized that it’s not going to happen. You’re not going anywhere. Nowhere. Because the harder you work, the more work you will be given to do. The reward for working hard is more hard work. The only time you will be rewarded is if your agenda somehow aids the agenda of someone more powerful than you. And even then, you’re probably screwed. The promotions will go to the guy wearing the tie or the guy with a better golf game over the guy who works hard and tows the company line. You like to pretend that it’s not, but it’s who you know, dumb ass. Good thing you wasted all that time reading documentation instead of people, huh? Your fault. Boodily hoo.

No major calls regarding virus protection are made at your company without your consultation, and you’d think that would be enough to get you noticed without having to resort to wearing a fucking tie, right? Well, it’s not. Get over it. It’s all about fucking marketing. And even if it makes you sick, all you are at work is a fucking brand.

Jon can be the best corporate antibiotic on the market, but until you get some prime shelf space and spend some money on advertising, getting it in everyone’s face and convincing them that Jon brand worker is better than the national leading brand hands-down, Jon will sit there on the bottom shelf for eternity while less reliable brands are brought in by the truckload. And you don’t even have to be the best. Just pretend you are. And bullshit people. And wear your tie. And become the tie-wearing, Yanni listening, BMW driving, enormous empty nest buying, golf playing, fake-smiling, non-committal corporate bitch motherfucker you’ve always dreamed of being.

Play the game. Buy the car. Buy the house. Make VP. Sell out. And know that hard work is not rewarded in this world. Perceptions are. P.S. You have a big goddamned nose and your ears stick out.”

With those words ringing in my ears, I found the magic and importance of my job sort of draining away, leaving me to give some serious consideration to handing in my resignation. Just then, the tiny angel reappeared and kicked the little devil square in his ding-ding, causing him to vanish in a tiny puff just like they do on bad sit-coms.

And I sat there in my car, with my tie, feeling like an asshole.

And all day I caught good natured shit for my tie. People joked about this being one of the signs of the apocalypse or asked how my interview went. And all the while I knew it wasn’t working.

But when my band takes off, man, I mean it: I’m totally out of here.

A while back I wrote a post about a woman at work who was prying into my personal life by circulating rumors about me behind my back. I don’t believe that work and High School are identical, I didn’t ask my GF to kick her ass in the parking lot at 3:00. I simply told her that she was making my work life difficult and professionally but firmly asked her to stop minding my business.

I never heard another word from her.

As I was walking down a big empty hall the other day, I happened to see her coming the other way. I decided that it would be best to let things go and let out a big friendly “Howdy!” when she got close.

She grinned a twelve year old’s “go fuck yourself” grin and walked by me staring at me without saying a word. I shook my head and smiled. Given the nature of her character, I chalked her up like the scumbag that consistently ducks you for the 10 bucks he owes you: voluntarily and gladly absent from my life.

I guess that some people prefer to talk about me than to me.

So, I walk down to eat lunch today, and they’re doing another United Way drive at work. It seems like every time I look up, they’re pushing another fantastic United Way cause at us at work. Today, it was draw chalk drawings on the sidewalk to show your United way spirit.

Fuck.

So, I got my pre-packaged tuna sandwich and my milk, as I do every day, and headed down to eat with the other geeks. Within 3 seconds of sitting down, an old bearded guy in a wheelchair rolls over next to my chair and begins his pitch, “Hey fellas, we’re doing a great thing for United Way today. You think the three of you could get together and draw a heart or ‘peace’ or ‘love’ on the sidewalk to show your United way spirit?”

We all sat there staring at each other as if he was asking us to saddle up and ride each other around the courtyard. I could see shoulders start slumping as the “how the fuck are we going to get out of this one” glances started. It was like watching 3 people simultaneously try to hang up on a telemarketer.

I didn’t want to pussy-foot around, but I didn’t want to come off like an asshole so I just told him, “No, thanks.” Then wheelchair man started in with the wheedling and the “it’s for a good cause” speech. I tried the “I’m not really an artist” tack, which failed miserably, as drawing hearts takes minimal artistic talent. One of my co-workers simply gave him the “I’ll think about it” brush.

And wheelchair man busted into, “Oh I know what that means. It means ‘No fuckin’ way! Doesn’t it? DOESN’T IT.”

Smiling, I simply stated, “Yup, I think that’s what he means.” By then, wheelchair man was getting as hostile as I could imagine Santa getting were he in a wheelchair. He wasn’t spitting at you hostile, but more like crossing you off the list aggitated. It was like he had never heard an O preceded by an N before. He began to roll off and then rolled back visibly flustered.

“Why? I just want to know WHY?”
“I just don’t usually give to the United Way.”
“You just don’t give to the United Way, huh?”
“No, I don’t.”

See, another thing is, is I am stubborn as a mule. You want me to dance for your benefit? Fuck you. You want to make me? Double fuck you. Oh it’s going to benefit me, and I just want to sit here and eat my sandwich? Keep asking. It’s a triple fat fuck you.

When he was well into the octuple fuck you range, a couple more of my co-workers sat down looking rather surprised when he started in on them. One even tried to reverse direction and leave before he fully sat down.

“Hey fellas how about doing a drawing for the united way? Don’t be like this [jerk? Something like that, I forget.] here.” He was peppering the speech with f bombs, and he was poking me.

Ever been poked by a guy in a wheelchair? It’s an emotional hodge-podge. All I could think was “Hey. FUCKHEAD. I come to work every day to do a job which involves keeping 16,000 machines virus free. Most days I emerge from the basement and sit here eating a tuna fucking sandwich and drinking some fucking milk. And I talk to a bunch of geeks about geeky topics. Nowhere in my job description does it say that for the one fucking hour that I spend away from a series of monitors and panics, I have to draw fucking hearts on the sidewalk for no other benefit than to make you feel like your helping a worthy cause. The people that you’re looking for are way shorter and are playing kick ball up the road. Now, I’m really sorry that you’re in a wheelchair, but FUCK OFF.”

And how the fuck does drawing on the sidewalk help the United Way, anyway? I may have majored in finance and minored in economics, but I can’t seem to remember if ‘chalk drawings’ is part of M1, M2, or M3. But then, the United Way has never been one for accounting.

Last week my 92 year old grandfather was rushed to the hospital and his family was called in on the premise that he wouldn’t live through the night. It was almost the same thing as what happened to my old friend Clarkie, except before that day, I hadn’t seen my grandfather in over two years. Due to the toll his age has taken on his brain, I don’t really think that he would recognize me, but I’m not sure if it makes me a bad person for not visiting him anyway. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t, but that’s the way it is.

So, all week I’ve been calling in, dropping by, and being generally available to my family for whatever I can do to make things easier. I couldn’t do much, but at least I could be there. Within a few hours of merely being there, I realized that just being there wasn’t enough. It was then that I realized that I should try to be present. And that is hard. Hospitals wear me out. Encouraging an unconscious person that he is strong when others are telling him to let go on the off chance that he might hear me wears me out. The uncertainty of death wears me out. Trying to look like none of this wears me out in case it is wearing someone else out truly wears me out.

Then, I skip the gym, I have nightmares* and weird dreams, and I don’t feel like writing anything. And I wonder if I really did a good job. I know my Dad did a good job. He always does. I know my Mom did a good job, because when someone is dying, I swear I have never seen anything like her. She is utterly remarkable. Whether I did a good job, or whether there was even a job for me to do is up for debate, but I gave it a shot.

And day after day, my grandfather’s 180 bpm heart rate has gradually fallen to a normal level, my family is a little more relaxed, and I feel like writing again.

The two things that I learned from this are: that death is never certain, and no matter what your opinion happens to be on euthanasia, if someone’s father is dying, don’t tell them that if you were a nurse you’d put him out of his misery. It’s really fucking insensitive.

And if you do, I will not only want to order you a very tall glass of shut the fuck up, but I will note that you are not allowed anywhere near my hospital bed if anything should happen to me.

If you happen to be standing around my unconscious, headless body in a vat thinking, “Jon wouldn’t want to live this way…” I have instructed one of my oldest friends to not only emphatically tell you “Oh yes, Jon fucking would want to live this way” but to bleed any possible inheritance bone dry to keep me breathing. I have also instructed him to add several secret backup switches and jam a multitude of feeding tubes down my throat just in case any of you might be lucky enough to get to one of them to shut me down. I have also given him permission to jump on the hospital bed, if necessary, as long as it is done in a dramatic, non-gay way. However, no matter what he might tell you, he is NOT authorized to draw on me in any way. This includes mustaches, big eyebrows, glasses, or any messages with arrows pointing to any orifice.

Can you dig?

*I had one dream where someone was trying to drag me behind a boat in a shark infested ocean, another where seemingly normal occurrences were nightmarish but looked normal, and a third where a caterpillar was writhing on the drain of a moldy shower while a centipede near him looked as if it would attack me.

Picasa
Google bought a photo album tool called Picasa.  As the software that came with my digital camera sucks, I thought that I’d check it out.  I like it for its simplicity, although I did experience problems importing a couple of photos from my camera.  Also, the timeline function, while a neat idea, will not work with my piece of crap video card. 

The end is Nigh
I found this cartoon from the ACLU, and it made me want to re-up.  Then, the mood passed and I fell back into the role of the drone protecting the corporate hive.

worker bees can leave
even drones can fly away
the queen is their slave
-Jack

The Writers
Since no one I know really updates their blogs anymore, I have been on a tear to find new lives to peek into.  I put a couple that I’ve started reading daily onto the side bar, and I may add these two if I find that I keep up with them. 
 
The Sandal Wearing Adventurist and the Angel Headed Hipster

The Reader
Sometimes, I think that I can write.  And sometimes, I can.  When I read other people’s stuff, I think I’m delusional.  I think that I am not a needle in a haystack, but a merely a piece of hay.

The Lessons
When we made an offer on a house, the sellers were real pricks about signing the deal.  They made demand after demand and said that we weren’t to present a laundry list of corrections after the home inspection (as if I would waive that).  After we walked away from the deal due to the laundry list of items from the home inspection and the strange way the buyers had been acting, I was confused that the sellers were surprised that we didn’t negotiate with them.

Lesson 1: If you say that you will not negotiate and act like a hard ass, make sure the guy on the other side of the table won’t call your bluff.

Lesson 2: If you don’t lie well, make sure the guy on the other side of the table is not more thorough than you are.

Lesson 3: If you’re going to act like a prick and make people uncomfortable, don’t ask them to provide you with the results of a $400 inspection report for free after they walk away from the deal.  They might gently tell you to go fuck yourself.

Opinion 1
It seems that if I have to spend a full day explaining the difference between a pre-approval letter and a commitment letter to the manager of a real estate office, someone is not doing their job.

Opinion 2
If I ask you what I need to bring in for paperwork and then repeat what you say back to you, please don’t wait until you’re looking through the papers to say you forgot to tell me to bring some papers that are located 45 minutes away.

Opinion 4
Nice people can easily get me to jump through hoops like getting commitment letters and driving to get missing documents.

Opinion 5
I love it when a plan comes together.

Movie Review #682253
Matrix Revolutions: Good parts, but mostly laughably over-dramatic poo. The original Matrix: A. The third installment: C.

Last night, some friends and I went to dinner at a restaurant at the mall, and even though it was pretty muggy out, we decided to sit outside. The location of the restaurant is next to not only the mall entrance, but the bus stop. This is not the ideal place to have dinner for most people. Let me rephrase: This is probably a location that most normal people would ask to be moved from. For a people watcher though, it is as close to sitting in the audience of Jerry Springer that one can get without actually visiting Chicago.

There are the teens trying to look cool while their moms yell directions on when and where to meet them later, there are the suburban pseudo rap stars who’s only way to get they’re roll on, is to put it under their arms, and there are the Springer crew: The low class, heavy set, 15 Wal-Mart bag carrying, kid smacking sons of bitches that make bus rides pure bliss. Last time I sat there, a girl was yelling, “I’ll kill you, you fuckin’ bitch!” to another girl whose accent was as thick as her makeup.

This is what I look forward to: insane humanity separated from me by a railing. It’s like going to the zoo. The Human Zoo. With humans that are as close to throwing poop at each other as can be had in a modern suburban society.

Last night there weren’t really any major surprises until a tour bus pulled up to the bus stop. It sat there for 10 or 15 minutes with its engines on, and being a male, I completely tuned it out as a part of the landscape in the first 5. I don’t think the fat, gold chain wearing male at the table next to us had the same brain capacity as I do, as he began bitching and moaning about the bus, and the noise, and the imaginary fumes that were ruining his American pub style cuisine.

Within minutes, a thin little black guy with a scally cap and I think a tan members-only jacket got off the bus and walked toward the rail. Fat ass yelled at him, “Move the friggin’ bus! NOW!” Given the way he was talking down to the driver, I assumed fat ass worked as a supervisor for the bus company or something. The bus driver, very apologetically said that he was sorry and that he wasn’t thinking that people were eating here and… “Just get out of here, now!” fat ass yelled. At that point, I just shook my head and thought, What an asshole. And that’s when I witnessed a moment of beauty. The bus driver waited for a pause and calmly said, “There’s no need to talk to me that way. I’m treating you with respect, please do the same for me. I just wasn’t thinking. I’ll move the bus.”

Bus driver knocked fat ass right off of his high horse and everyone within earshot knew it. Even fat ass himself knew it. I love those moments when I’m reminded that none of us has to take anyone else’s shit, and we can achieve balance simply and elegantly without the use of a baseball bat.

The GF leaned in to me after the exchange and said, “I hope they’re not on a first date.”
“Oh, God. I hope they are.”

Urban
A voicemail message from a female came in for one of the e-mail admins today:

You took my fuckin’ money. You fucked up my motherfuckin’ credit…I’m quit witch you!! Bye!

As funny as the message was, you absolutely cannot imagine how funny this message was after being set to the various pieces of Brady Bunch theme music.

sub-Urban
For some damn reason, I am now dying to use the phrase, “Slow your roll, homie.” Yes, I absolutely know how uncool it sounds from a 30 something white male, but that’s what makes it so attractive. It’s enigmatic. It’s forbidden. It’s verbal lambada.

Stupid movies
(sing) Spider man, spider man, made of all legos he’s spider man. Nanana any size. nanana something something. Look out! Here comes the SpiderLegoMan.

With practice, even very angry people can sell Winnebagos. Even Winnebago man.

All day the mourning of “beloved” president Ronald Reagan has been on the T.V. At one point I understood it to be a show for the world. At another point, I found it to be a distraction from Iraq. And at another point I wondered if even one poor person was “mourning” the loss of Reaganomics and Iran-Conra.

Reaganomics: 1980-1989, RIP. Thanks for the day off.

Movie Review
The House of Sand and Fog (Drama): My mother prefaced this movie by using the word sad 50 times. She was right. It was sad. It was a character piece, and I didn’t really mind the length. Plus, you get to see Jennifer Connelly’s butt (which, from what I could tell was pretty nice.). B

Twiden
Ok. Say you traveled 1/2 way around the world just to visit your friends for a week in an imaginary country called… mmm… Say “Twiden.” Let’s just say for the sake of argument that you think that they are worth it. Now, if those same two friends came halfway around the world and stayed 40 minutes from where you live for three weeks, how long would you expect to see them?

A. Mi casa, su casa, so three weeks.
B. Maybe a couple of weeks, as I am only human.
C. Fish and company stink after 3 days.
D. I get paid by the hour.

What if you only saw one of them for 2 hours with no notice, and a time limit set by another set of plans?

Yea. I’d suppose that I’d feel like I got checked off a list, too.

Restaurant Review
Barefoot Bob’s in Hull has been no less than 3 places in the last few years, and I expect that it may be another in a few more. It has ok food, ok service, and a noise level that suggests that it is more of a place that locals go to have drinks and hang out, rather than eat. I think it would be a great place for hanging out, and better for eating after a few beers in the sun. B-

La Musica
I realized that I have enough music here to listen for something like 30+ days without repeating a song. Thank you, MediaMonkey for helping me to organize and play them. Now if I can just find the time to tie in an X-10 remote interface like I did for Winamp a while back (yea, I did), then I can be cool. Well, not cool per se. Something like cool? Forget it.

CDs
Circuit City had a sale where CDs from $10.99-13.99 were all $9.99. I bought 6 for me and one for the GF. To be listed after listening.

Beware of Dee Jensen
Got a letter from the Massachusetts Real Estate licensing board that stated that after a full investigation, when a realtor intentionally deceives their client as to the price of a house, this is not against their license.

According to the board’s own website, consumers have “the right to be informed: to be protected against fraudulent, deceitful, or grossly misleading information, advertising, labeling, or other practices, and to be given the facts needed to make informed choices.” I was denied all of these, but ok, I suppose that it doesn’t apply to me.

I am also surprised that a “full investigation” did not include one phone call or request for information from me.

I think I have a phone call to make to the licensing board to find out what gives.

Dinner
Gave up on cooking and ate KFC.

Trixters
As we were driving, a woman in a souped up Dodge Neon cut off my GF abruptly enough to get her to lean on the horn.

For nearly two miles on the highway, I aided her in boxing the woman in. I think she must’ve switched lanes 4 times before I let her past.

Afterward, I mentioned to my GF that the woman was probably not normally a nutty driver, but her husband was at the hospital dying. As this changed the tone of our fun, it was not well received.

Fuji
Went to dinner at Fuji with Palatzo. Even though I think that Fuji sushi is the best in the Boston area, the dinners end up being more of a social event than a simple sushi dinner. There is always import tuner talk, insults, and a good amount of fun between us, the owners, and the staff. As usual, the dinner took over two hours.

Before we left, we were standing with the staff shooting the bull. When asked what I was doing after dinner, I said I was going home to my GF. Then, some Chinese shot back and forth between two of the staff. When asked what was said, the embarrassed translation was that the woman couldn’t understand how I could have been married to “the mean one.”

I admit that I was amused.

Road rules

As I was switching from right lane to left on the way to work today, a big ass truck was trying to make a left from a side street and heading for the same spot that I was.

I got there first.

That’s when the truck began flashing its lights behind me, cut into the right lane and sped up next to me.

I blew a kiss to the woman calling me an asshole and screaming out the window at me. My initial thought was that without the cars, this 100 lb woman is screaming at a 210 lb man. My second thought is that I think SUV’s tend to make women and short men more aggressive drivers.

I have been in many accidents, and not once has a guy given me any grief after the crash. We exchange papers and call the insurance company. No yelling. No punching. Just exchanging and leaving. I swear that road rage among women in SUVs is much, much higher than that of men (or people who drive normal sized cars), and I wish there were a study out there that I could check to see if I’m correct.

In my opinion, women in SUVs seem to think that the large hunk of metal that they’re piloting down the road is a part of them, and creates the “might is right” mentality on the road. “My car is bigger, therefore you get out of my way, as I am mighty! Feel my power! Fear my vanity mirror! Grrrr.

The issue that I see is that sometimes people forget that inside cars on the road there are people. And some of those people are completely fucking crazy. And no amount of height in an SUV is going to help when one of those crazy idiots follows them home and chokes the life out of them in their driveway.

Folks, please do me a little favor and stop trying to make up for your lack of power at home by being assholes on the road. I’m just trying to get to work, which is hard enough.

Can’t we all just get along? Better yet, can’t we all just get topless?

Work Rules

If you want to borrow my time or expertise under the wire to further one of your projects, please try to follow these simple rules:

1. Don’t pass my work off as your own.
2. Don’t throw me under the bus by making private communication public via forwarding e-mail.
3. Don’t ask me to provide you with unlicensed copies of software so that you can learn to do what you currently say you can do by passing my work off as your own and throwing me under the bus.

No Rules: Telemarketing

I spent 15 minutes on the phone with an MCI telemarketer, in a vocal selection that can be imagined as an old Southern man. I told him that my favorite places to call were Juneau, Alaska and Tahiti because the people of Tahiti have wonderful skin, and although I don’t really have friends there, I just need to know what the hell they’re doing up there in Alaska. When asked about how much my phone bill was, I told him, “I don’t know $500? $280? My wife handles that.” When He tried to sell me a $55 plan, I lost my mind and told him that I didn’t have $55, and asked if there was a $10 plan. When he reminded me that I was already paying $500, I exclaimed, “$500! $500! That’s crazy!” This loop ate 5 minutes of the call. Describing Tahitians ate a few more.

When I was running low on material, the telemarketer said the word combined, allowing me to act as if he said that he was going to come by. I told him to swing by before nine because I have to go to bed, to which he asked me to leave the door open. I responded that I never leave the door open and he would have to learn the secret knock.

“It goes knock-knock knock… knock… knock…”
“OK, sir if I could just tell you about…”
“Hold on, son. Repeat that back to me so I’ll know you got it.”
“knock-knock knock… knock… knock…”
“That’s good. I’ll know it’s you. Just be here before 9. I’m not one of those nuts who stays up all night.”
“Right. Now, if I could just sign you up for…”
“Sign me up?? Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that I’d be in if my wife knew “that I was using the phone?”
“Sir?”
“Big Trouble. See, I’m not really allowed to use the phone.”
(slowly) “You’re not allowed to use the phone.”
“No because I’m always calling Tahiti. Have you seen the skin on those people?”

And on and on and on…

I felt kind of bad afterward, but I hope the kid got a story to tell out of it. Yes, I told him to take me off of his list. Yes, I’m probably going to hell.

Saturday Night’s
Wake up, get the Coolatas, go to the beach for the day, go home and watch the 5th element, eat some sherbert, and go out to dinner with friends.

At 88F, an almost perfect day.

All Right for Fighting
If you go out to dinner with someone and their girlfriend, it’s not a good idea to talk about said person’s past relationships. If you are feeling the need to talk about how fast the courtship was and blah blah blah, save it, unless you are looking to cause a problem. And if you even mention the word “love,” you certainly deserve a swift kick in the ding ding.

Teenage Girls
Hull’s population grows from 10,000 in the winter to 30,000 in the summer. Most of the 20,000 extra summer folk are teenagers. Today, I got to stand in line at Dunky’s with a ton of them.

Oh. My. God. I totally have like zero tolerance for like teenage girls. Totally like zero. Totally. heeeheeeheeeheeeeheeeheee yah like totally. “Can you do me a quick favor and shut the fuck up?” repeated itself in my head for quite some time.

I think I like teenage girls just fine at distance of about 40 yards. From there, tolerance drops in direct proportion with distance.

Foreign Girls
Listening to my friend’s fiance tell the story that she thought the word “prick” meant the same as the word “trick” was funny. Hearing her tell stories of having used the word for some time with clients was funnier. Hearing examples such as, “I’m tired of all your little pricks” was priceless.