Car
I drove my car into the dealer to have the brakes and the ABS looked at, and took the train back to work. It seemed very Orwellian on the T platform when the announcement kept repeating to report suspicious persons or activities. The only difference between reality and 1984 seems to be that the tone of voice is more friendly in our version.

Class
I was told to attend a project management course with a bunch of geeks who are the grunts at the bottom of the project management chain. Not only was the class long, uninformative, inapplicable, and ate 3 hours of my time, but it was done in Powerpoint.

You know Powerpoint, don’t you? It’s the way business presentations are done now. It’s the tool that allows the audience to no longer pay attention to the presenter or the presentation. The presenter no longer has to engage the audience and can read off bullets one by one. The presenter reads the page, the audience reads the page, the presenter flips the page, the audience flips the page. Before you know it, 3 hours are over, you put a check next to the “attended” box, and leave the presentation hard copy in the circular file.

The one bad thing that I took from the class was that the woman said that I should be requesting information packets from people who run meetings before I go. Therefore, the theory goes, I can be better informed about the meeting.

My take is that if the person running the meeting doesn’t have a packet, I’m not asking for one. If I have to spend an hour in a meeting, and the meeting holder doesn’t want to prep me beforehand, that’s their fault. I am not going to volunteer a second hour from my work to the presenter’s meeting if they don’t want me to. That is donating unrequested time, which is a waste of my time.

One thing I do love about the end of a pointless class is where the presenter looks for feedback. The audience then sits for a few minutes and politely comes back with positive feedback. The positive feedback that this class generated was, “Well, now I understand how people will be managing things when they tell me what to do.”

Right. Great. A three hour overview to explain why you’re being told to do things. That makes sense.

Tell Me how to do things. Now that would be a useful class.

PS2
Any HD can be installed in a PS2 with a network adapter and will spin up. It’s a neat little trick that is good for Zippo.

One Lesson
I watched a two year old pick up a toy that he had never seen and listen to the Spanish word for trumpet: “La trumpeta.” He would listen, look at me, smile, and say, “la tupeta.” He later growled “swoooooooorrrrdddd” and chopped away at my legs for a while. I don’t think I told him how amazed that I was, as I couldn’t remember the Spanish word for “amazing.” Plus, give me a break, the kid had a fuckin’ sword.

Two for Fighting
The GF and I had a little spat about weekend plans on Sunday. They happen very infrequently, but they do occur. We were going to see a dance recital, and she wanted to stay at her sister’s overnight. As her sister has two little ones that are up when children normally are, and I was exhausted from the virus hell of last week, I knew that there would be no chance of recovery if I stayed. I figured that I would follow her and her mom up for the day in my car, see the recital, hang out a bit, and drive back in the evening by myself. That way, I wouldn’t poop on anyone’s overnight plans, and would get in some much needed rest. Everyone wins.

As I don’t know women well, I had no idea that my compromise was not a compromise. Compromising would’ve been me staying at the sisters. I thought that was called a sacrifice, but I’m still not sure. All I know is that I obviously made the wrong decision. As I tried to point out that she was telling me that I sucked and was an a-hole for not staying, she pointed out that those were not her words. This was true. My statement was merely an exaggerated interpretation of the impression given as run through the Jon-Translator. Then, as time slowed, she dropped the bomb:

“I wonder how badly Jenn really treated you.

Ohhhh shiiiiiiiiit. The girlfriend had just sided with the ex-wife from hell. Pigs flew around chasing the monkeys that flew out of my butt back to a hell that had completely and utterly frozen over. The words hung in the air and time stopped. If someone jumped in the air, I know we could’ve done that cool matrix style fighting (I really should’ve thought of that…).

I had pondered this point many times on my own, but when coming from someone else, the possibility stung. I really almost left, although a bit dramatic even for me, but nothing should be taboo in an argument, and I felt the need to stay and finish the fight off.

At that point, I had decided that I wasn’t going at all, and got in my car to leave. Within seconds, I caved when I saw how unhappy the GF had become. Even though I’m not one to back down, I’m not one to hurt people, either. I decided to breathe, and just go back to the original plan where I thought everyone won and pretended the previous hour never happened.

On stage of the dance recital, what does one of the little girls say while waving? Hi, Auntie? Nope.

Hi, Jon.

Worth every penny. Children of the world: Take me as your king.

Three Times Wrong
At a Dunkin’ Donuts on the South Shore before leaving for said recital, I noticed a blonde girl in the car next to me. As her boyfriend came out of the DD, I noticed, as utterly gay as this sounds and shameful as it is to admit, that he had nice eyes (wrong to notice, and double wrong to comment on). Two hours from the DD and four hours later, the same kid and the blonde girl were in line at the dance recital.

Just an odd coincidence.

P.S. Never used the phrase “purdy mouth” in the above section. Still not gay. Thanks. Have a nice day.

Twenty Rounds
To parents: Please don’t put your eight year old boy in dance lessons unless you have been intentionally raising him as a girl since birth. And for god’s sake, don’t make him wear sequined vests or a sailors cap. I saw that kid this weekend, and by the look on his face, once he can legally access a rifle, he will. He barely looked up the entire time, and only smiled when he tapped this funny rhythm that went: -.- .. .-.. .-...

Expired Domain Scam
I just got a bill in the old snail mail from ICLS that made it look like dyers.org owed $35 for the next year. As I registered my domain for 5 years, I was rather confused. As I was looking it over, the logo and acronym reminded me of ICANN, which as you know, coordinates internet domain names.

Although it did not directly say that the bill was for domain registration, I had to really look it over to see “This is not a bill. By paying you will have your domain submitted to 14 search engines.”

As the logo, the acronym, and the price are very similar to legitimate businesses involved in domain registration, even as a technical person, the letter had me second guessing my registration for a minute or two. I can only wonder how many regular, non-technical folks with domain names that this letter may have duped into shelling out $35. As techies, we expect unscrupulous spam, but when it spills into the snail mail, it seems to be targeting a less technical audience, which, in my opinion, seems much worse.

Marriage Scam
Ever wonder if this legal horseshit surrounding ammending the Constitution to prevent gay marriage is actually a dog and pony show to encourage public outcry, drive up the demand for marriages, and create a larger tax base? Yea, me neither. I never want to do anything that is forbidden. (I’m talking generalities. Pleases do not construe this as me wanting to marry a gay dude.)

Birth
Har den aran, Jenny!

School
On two occasions in the last two days did people find the need to tell me how wrong or ridiculous I was in my blog. When I hear things like that, I think of a peeping tom ringing the doorbell and commenting on his subject’s outfits. It really makes me wonder if it’s prudent to post Shaving 104.

Work
11 years ago when I worked at the Gap, they said that I was doing a great job, gave me a great review, and offered me a $0.10 an hour raise. I calmly told the manager that she could keep it, as I found it was insulting, as it amounted to a whopping $4 a week before taxes. She laughed and told me to sign the paper so that she could put the raise through. I just told her once again that she could keep it, as it was insulting. With a shocked look, she said that no one had ever refused a raise before. I didn’t care about that. The chance to assert that I as not slave labor, was worth more than $4 to me.

10 years ago I, pulled a promotion per year and 8-12% raises per year for 5 years straight. That was good. I also wore a tie and wing tips, which sucked.

5 years ago, when I was working 50 hour weeks at the hands of a poor communicator and even worse task master, my review consisted of my boss asking me what I thought my job consisted of, and offering me a 4% raise. I calmly looked at him and said that I was leaving the building, and if I came back, we could discuss a real number, which we did.

Since then, it seems that times keep getting tougher and tougher. Round after round of layoffs hit us quarter after quarter, and raises have fallen to the level of being virtuallynonexistentt. The general consensus among the man on the street is that we are lucky to have jobs at all. I always thank my boss for whatever raise I get, but when your expected to bust your tail and put in gratis overtime work for less than a 2% raise, one begins to question his own motivations, and wonder how much lower his future expected earnings growth can possibly fall.

I can’t help but think that someone is making a big profit with my help, and at my expense. Did I change, or did the company?

At least I can say that I’m not folding shirts or lying to fat women about jeans running small. And I got that going for me. Which is nice.

Death
I think today was gang up on Jon day at work. I didn’t get the memo, so I wasn’t prepared. CC me next time, fuckheads.

(Reference for Dorks)

Ohmanohmanohmanohman!
Rockstar has announced Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas slated for an October US release.

Oddest Damn Thing
Safe for Work Porn? (Don’t Bother SSC. It’s Blocked.)

Copywrong

The Constitution’s Copyright Clause grants Congress the power to “promote the Progress of Science . . . by securing for limited Times to Authors . . . the exclusive Right to their respective Writings.”
-Justice Breyer’s Dissent

A limited time which is extendable is the functional equivalent of an unlimited time.
-Justice Antonin Scalia

Intention: Promote. Progress. Limited. Authors.
Interpretation: Stifle. Control. Perpetually.

Lawrence Lessig has been very hard on himself (article) for his loss in the appeal to overrule the current mockery of the U.S. copyright system. I think he did the best he could in a time where every particle is privatized and the thought of a public domain is a mere pipe dream. We can’t legally stream music to ourselves on the net, we can’t reprint books printed a hundred years ago, and no new information is entering the public domain.

Authors cannot benefit from their creations after they die: their corporal and corporate heirs do. The intention of Copyright law was to encourage publishing by granting authors (not their heirs or business associates) with a maximum of a 28 year term to enjoy the fruits of their labor after which time the works would pass into the public domain. By granting a limited term on a work, the law actually encouraged the dissemination of information and, in the end, increased the amount of information in the public domain.

Thanks to Sonny Bono and copyright extensions, Congress has sold out public property to the highest bidder. Sonny had in interest in extending copyrights on works: He was an author. He had no interest in securing information for the public domain or the increasing of public knowledge. No. He was stakinga flagg in intellectual property rights that his heirs would own forever. He was attempting to create an informational empire to be passed from one generation to the next in perpetuity. Like all congressmen, he was out for number one, and taking a number two on me and you.

So here we are. No music sharing even with yourself over the internet, no free public domain Classics to read, fear, anxiety, and intrepidation. We don’t share information or music with each other due to the uncertainty of the complex legalities involved.

It’s 29 pages, but it’s an interesting read: Breyer’s dissent.

CopyRight?
If a body can legally make a copy of a sound recording for their own personal use, could two people make fairusee copies of a CD if they bought it together? If so, could a library make unlimited copies of the music in its archives? As the CD is owned by the library, and the library is owned by the citizens, can the library distribute copies of sound recordings to the collective owners of the CD? There’s something that I’m missing on this one, but I’d love to see this loophole open up and see the RIAA fight it.

Success!
Filing papers until 11 PM is not my idea of fun. A man needs a break. Too bad it’s time for bed. One thing that I did find in my travels is the paperwork that proved my broker broke the law. Man, it pisses me off to no end. Every time I look in the paper and see Dee Jensen’s fat, lying face, I get irritated. I won’t even look at houses sponsored by success real estate these days. I think I’m going to call the mass board of realtors to see if the paperwork that I dropped off in June ever went anywhere.

I know the answer to that, as I see Dee Jensen’s lying face in the paper every Friday.

Nothing like a broker that signs to be your broker and falsifies and files your sales contract, but blatantly lies to you by making a side deal with your ex wife that is against your best interests. All this while she has a contract with you to act in your best interest. And her actions were not only known by, but approved by her office manager.

I say this: Dee Jensen lies, beware of her.
Success! Real estate approves of shady and illegal actions. Beware of them
Success! Real Estate and Dee Jensen will act in their own interests even when your interests conflict with theirs.

So, if you’re in the market for real estate in Braintree, Quincy, Weymouth, Scituate, Marshfield, or anywhere on the South Shore, steer a wide berth around Dee Jensen.

Dee Jensen is not out to help you.
Success! Real Estate will lie to you.

I hope this is googled higher than her site. I really do. If you want to see one of the reasons why my ex sucks and Dee lies, e-mail me, and I’ll show you the paperwork obtained from the shady transaction in question.

Stupid paperwork.

Success! II
I found another paper that said that 2.5 years ago I could only bench 40 lbs. My biceps are now wider than my collar size was in 1994. One day, after a lot of lifting, tanning, and a run through the Mohawk Master 2000, I will play Mr. T in the made for TV movie, “The Life of Mr. T: T means ‘Tender,’ T means “Tough’.”

Success III
Personal Marker (will sound stupid, but I thought it was remarkable):
Leg pressed 500×12, 540×12, and 590×12. The skinny dork leg pressed nearly 600 lbs. A bunch of times. Please don’t tell me that your grandma does this once a week, all while eating prunes and vacuuming. Let me have my minor, insignificant accomplishment, ok? Soon, I may even venture from the pink dumbells to the purple ones. That’s right. You heard me. Purple. Boo-yah?

So I sat through 2 seasons of The Average Joe. As if I don’t yell at the TV enough, I subject myself to this. The premise is: Can an average guy with substance compete with a good looking guy without. Two series in a row, and the answer is “No.” I hate it when the underdog loses.

Dear America, average Joes will not get the babes.

Today was completely frustrating. I was ten minutes late leaving the house because I was making the coffee, which I promptly left on the counter. A resounding “FUCK!” filled my car half way around the Fore River rotary.

Plans got canceled on me because someone forgot that they have a knitting circle meeting or something. I don’t think I have ever been bested by knitting. I would take “washing my dog” over knitting. Fuck it. Whatever.

Upon arriving to work, I found my server was all fucked up, I had no idea why, and the issue resolved itself before I could find a solution. During the hours and hours of fruitless troubleshooting, there were distractions aplenty, increasing frustration levels to new heights. And given that there were new virus threats released today, pressure to resolve was exponentially increased. Pressure + frustration + distraction = Unhappy Jon.

By the time the end of the day rolled around, I just wanted to get the hell out of work. On the way out, a co-worker started singing some sort of song about me, the words of which I cannot recall with the exception of “I hate your face / get the hell out of heeeeeeeeere.”

Albeit amusing, this caused me to steal his hat and ditch it a few cubes away.

Then it started snowing on the way home making a normally nice winter ride into an idiots paradise.

I’m stopping for no reason.
Fuck.
I’m turning left.
Fuck.
We’re all conspiring to make you miss every light.
FUCK.

Once I start spinning in frustration, I start picking apart the tiny issues in my life. Then everything pisses me off.

Houses are too expensive or too cruddy.
Fuck.
The winter is too long
Fuck.
My beard feels good but looks bad
FUCK.

By the time I got to my girlfriend’s house I was beside myself. I shoveled her stairs, left her a note that I was losing my mind, and went home.

There, I ate too many cookies, and took and hour long nap where I dreamed that I was stabbing a guy with a knife and he was stabbing me with a fork. From there I headed back to the GF’s house, to find her angry with me for my nutty behavior. Obviously.

After eating, sitting, and lighting up a fluorescent bulb with static electricity, everything seems surprisingly normal.

I need a new project/distraction. Anyone? Anyone?

Good Movie
Bruce Almighty: Corny, funny, B+.

Bad Mechanics
If you have an integra, an Autozone “OEM” oxygen sensor will not fit in your car. You will have to return that oxygen sensor, and drive all the way to the dealer and pay $220 for a real OEM one. As you don’t have a lift, you will have to pay a mechanic to install it. Most places that you call will tell you that it will take more than an hour to install and try to charge you $80 or more to install it.

If it takes a person over an hour to unplug, unscrew, plug new, and screw back in, they really don’t deserve to earn an $80 per hour labor charge. Maybe they find the whole concept of lefty-loosey, righty-tighty to be a half hour struggle. I don’t know.

The more I try to do things myself on my car, the more I realize that most mechanics will completely bullshit people. Most repairs are not as complex as a mechanic would have you think.

Now when you find one who can install your O2 sensor in ten minutes with minimal cost, stick with him even if he’s a little drive away and answers questions with a less than reassuring, “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.”

Bad Mama Jamma
Happy Birthday to my beard, which is now 3 months old. It almost lost it’s life this weekend…Until I put on a bandanna. The scary biker look appealed to me enough to breathe new like into my beard. Said bandannas can be found in Wal-Mart next to the Dale Earnhardt baseball hats, wrestling t-shirts, and blade sunglasses.

Wal-mart brings everything that’s wrong with middle American fashion right to my home town for me to enjoy.

VD
Given the number of days until Valentine’s Day, and subtracting the actual number of ideas that I have for said day, we can plainly deduce that I am screwed.

Originally (as with most of our holidays), February fourteenth was a pagan holiday honoring Juno, the goddess of women and marriage. The fifteenth was the first day of the Festival of Lupercalia. On the eve of the festival, Roman women would write love notes and put them in an urn. The Roman men would draw a note from the urn, with whom he would be coupled with for the entire Lupercalia festival.

Why have we screwed up EVERY FUN GODDAMNED ANCIENT TRADITION and turned it into something benign?

For those opposed: Anti-Valentine.

A woman goes out and gets a new hairstyle.
Female response: Even if they hate it, other women will tiptoe around the issue, and may even go so far as to tell the woman that the haircut actually looks good on her. They may talk about it behind her back, but they won’t tell her to her face.

Male response: mmmmm woman.

A man grows a beard.
Male Response: Even if it looks bad on the dude, men will tell him, “Hey, nice beard,” as they appreciate the time it takes to grow one. They will then immediately forget the beard and return focus to the women.

Female Response: Women will not only say things like “That beard looks bad on you. You should shave it off,” but will discuss the finer points of shaving the beard with each other directly in front of the man. This leaves the man with no response but smiling like a dope and waiting for them to finish or saying something like, “I thought it would be rude, but since we’re being honest, I was thinking the same thing about your moustache…”

Getting your way
Geek men are standing around talking about technical crap as geeks do. Non-geek female injects herself into the conversation and looks rather bewildered. Non-geek tries to steer conversation away from geek talk. Geek talk continues. Non-geek starts name calling. Geek fires a an innocuous volley back. Dirty looks and pouting ensue forcing the geek to try to lighten up the non-geek.

Two points:

1. If I go to Sweden, I try to speak Swedish. I try not to make everyone around me speak English just because it suits me.
2. If I fire a volley, I expect something back. As I’ve learned how to dish it out over the years, I’ve learned how to take it. Actually, I’ve learned to expect and appreciate it.

But that’s just my opinion.

New Project
I need a new tech project. It may be building an entertainment PC, learning how to program a VFD, or maybe learning C++ or assembly. Suggestions and collaboration are welcome.

Jon dislikes 2 things: going to the mall, and shopping for anything that does not require some form of current running through it to work.

For me, shopping is a military operation: Recon, insertion, target neutralization, and extraction. There is no browsing, feeling fabrics, or even matching. I go in, match the monkey tag on the shirt to the monkey tag on the pants, and buy. I might even go a little wild and match a giraffe to a giraffe, and buy. Get in, get out, see you next year.

I did my recon on the internet, located pants, and headed to the store to buy them. The in-store pants cost $10 more than the same internet pants, and they seemed to be out of my size. Rather than spend the day chatting with the mall salespeople about fabrics and textures, and then unwittingly getting sold something mesh, I aborted the mission and headed to home base to try to snipe the target from the company’s website.

www.ihatefuckingshoppingforclothes.com, click click click, place the order so the commander can go play some video games…aaaannd the website is really sorry, but they have discontinued the fucking pants. Sorry. Maybe you would be interested in this similar item: Mesh shirts $12.99. Ooh, thanks, website. That sounds great, but as I’ve been to Sweden a couple ot times in the last few years, I’m all stocked up on mesh already. Plus, the people at work are asking me to tone down the amount of fucking nipple I show during the day. Like assless pants, I’ve found that mesh tends to send the “tear my pants off” message to the wrong gender. So, to assuage my coworkers and avoid sex with dudes, I just need some simple khaki pants. Thanks for the offer, though. It’s really appreciated. You really know my tastes.

Needless to say, the mission was completely aborted.

To make myself feel better about my lack of pants, I did the equivalent of walking into that sketchy boom boom bar in the DMZ: I started shopping for rebated deals on the net. I usually start at salescircular.com, and slip into freeafterrebate.info.

There were USB network cards, routers, switches, and a feminine cup (whatever that may be), all FREE after rebate. I sat there smoothing my beard, wondering whether I could use all of this miraculously free crap to hook up the ol’ playstation up to the internet, if I’d ever really get the rebate, and if I really cared…

And then I got really, really tired of the whole shopping experience, and logged into work to check on the latest strain of virus, MyDoom

In the corporate body, I am a white blood cell. My job is to keep the body from being infected with things like the MyDoom virus.

13,000 machines.
<10 infections.
2 days.
0.009% infection rate.

This is what I do. This is when I feel like I’m good at something.

The high winds and rough seas of a New England Nor’easter will not only shake one’s car, but will cause waves to crash nearly the height of a street light. The resulting snow and ice deposits on an 8 pound rim will make a car shake enough to make one think that they have a flat once one digs said car out of said snow bank. Finding a place to pull over when snow volume has converted most two lane roads into one lane roads can be enough to make one shake one’s mighty fist.

New England. Now with 40% more winter.

The ex wife sent me an e-mail thinking that I might’ve heard that she had her baby and that I might be interested in seeing the pictures. Man, I showed everyone at work and boy, were they proud! Then, we all had cigars and celebrated. About midway through the three day party, I suggested that, given the fact that my ex made my divorce so easy, we should all go down to Baby Gap and get some gifts! I told the shopkeep, “Shopkeep, give me the biggest and best goddamned present that money can buy!” and the woman brought me a beautiful golden ass, which we promptly purchased.

Wait. Shit. No. That’s not right. After I read the e-mail, I knew that it was a fake, as the baby did not seem to have horns. I also don’t remember the moon turning to blood or the seas boiling, though I could’ve been playing video games or something. Then, I showed it to my cube mates, who kind of stared at the e-mail in silence until someone said, “She doesn’t get it, at all, does she?”

Given the amount of trouble this woman has put me through, I didn’t get it, either. I prefer not to follow her life at all, and I have never actually given a thought to how she is, or what she’s doing. Given that all of my dealings with her involved some form of major financial loss, after I was no longer required to deal with her, I didn’t. I closed the door, and I sort of left her perpetually pregnant in my mind. So, I had no idea that she had the baby, or why she thinks that I might be interested.

To me, she is a snapshot in a box, a moment in time, a thing forgotten.

So far today, I have listened to the latest round of rumors flying around about me, and they all seem to be coming from one person. Like the rumors that I was gay (oy), I requested that this round stop, too. There is a fine line with me that runs razor-like through two extremes: giving away all the information and shutting down that shop and putting up the walls in a paranoid frenzy. In recent history, I’ve expended a great amount of effort to tear down a lot of the walls and actually interact with my environment.

Unfortunately, one place that I still prefer to keep separate from my private life is my work life, if for purely financial reasons. I like to eat, and when one starts turning my preferred method of gaining access to food into a three ring circus or a High School rumor mill, I don’t appreciate it one bit. I get overly defensive, I get paranoid, and I shut down.

Then, the walls go up, the cannons get aimed, and a couple of warning shots are fired.

Some people need hobbies that don’t include me.

I spent an hour and 20 minutes in traffic on a 45 minute ride today. I actually had to practice relaxation techniques to keep myself from driving on the grass where the fucking Community Service people were picking up garbage. Good thing their van was blocking up a lane. I really think that if the people who ran the community service program had a clue about community service, they would’ve had the slaves pick garbage somewhere not in the middle of major traffic jam.

While sitting for 5 minute stretches listening to Pantera, I actually had to practice breathing to keep from driving onto the grass in my not quite four wheel drive Integra. Breathe in…breathe out…look at the birds…breathe in…yell, “Cut the FUCK!” or some nonsense…breathe out…Breathe in…Look for a reason for the traffic jam…breathe out…breathe in…dream of mounting dual machine guns, a plow, and some Biiiiiig ass tires…breathe out…

Seems the whole jam was caused by the snow squalls and black ice from early in the morning. Only in New England can we have 63 last week and 20 this week. Only in New England am I shocked that the tiniest bit of non-accumualtive snow makes everyone drive like Grandma on downers.

Night Dream
Last night, I had a dream that I saw my ex wife as we were both walking out of a building. She gave me a surprised look. I gave her the finger.

When I got to the parking lot, an Asian child and a Doberman kept jumping into my car. No matter what I did, I couldn’t keep them out. I think that they were together, and that they thought that they were playing a really good game.

Day Dream
As I sat staring out the window at lunch, thinking about what I could possibly do with my life, a thought crossed my mind that seemed so surprisingly clear that it seemed foreign: “There’s no time for that stuff before you die.”

And as I sat there looking out the window, I bought it. This is it.

It was very strange.

The Scientist and the Philosopher
An old friend sent me two articles to peruse today. One was a very scientific article on the importance of the exploration of deep space by bla bla bla something something. If I had more of an inclination toward things of a scientific nature, I might have done more than skim it. I might have even be inclined to think that scientifically, it was good, while philosophically, it was crap.

The other was on memes. As far as I can tell, a meme is a contagious thought that takes on a life of its own and seeks maximum attention in our minds. As I read a good portion beyond the original article, I can tell you that scientifically, it’s crap, while philosophically, I found it fascinating.

2 things I really do not like: Nausea\Vomiting, and the deterioration of “rights.”

The Supreme Court of Massachusetts has declared that the people of Massachusetts have the right to marry anyone that they choose, be they man, or be they a woman.

The Massachusetts Legislature has declared that it will go so far as to enact legislation to alter the Massachusetts constitution to render this decision void.

Senator Kerry, the democrat, declared that marriage is against his personal belief system. Marriage is against my personal belief system, too, but I won’t fight to stop marriages (whether they are gay or straight) because

It’s none of my fucking business.

From my standpoint, it doesn’t matter what his personal belief system is. He can believe in rubbing alcohol genies for all I care. He is not a leader, he is a servant. He is to serve the will of the people and uphold the laws of the Commonwealthy. But that’s just my take on government. Here in Massachusetts, hell, here in the old U S of A, we uphold the Puritan ways of pushing our morals and our wills on anyone who will bend. We will legislate your morality, no matter how minor, no matter how extensive. It was an idea that was rejected in the old world 600 years ago, and thus the very basis of American society today.

Will there ever be a time when the government gets out of people’s personal lives and lets them pursue happiness as they see fit? It seems, to me, a sad state of affairs.

Meddler
As the dork who likes to complicate the lives of others, I have set up a blog for my sister so that she can tell you about new ways to use old toothpaste tubes. Now, I have no idea if she’ll even use it, but it’s located at http://recycleitall.blogspot.com. If she does, it will probably make you feel bad about your current level of recycling and make you say quaint things like, “What the fuck?”

Bloggers
As you know, the links on my sidebar are painfully outdated, and are in need of a desperate cleaning. I have removed two of the blogs that used to hang out there, as the good people that run them never, ever, ever update them. hopefully, I will comb the links in the near future. Be sure to hold your breath…

Fuckers
During one round of layoffs, a company that I know preferred to tell people that they were laid off by locking them out of the building. They later decided that the policy was regrettable, and went with the more common ‘walk out.” The walk out is not as shitty as the lock out, but it’s still a shit move. In the last month or so, one of my oldest friends and my Dad have fallen victim to corporate layoffs. Both have nearly insane work ethics.

A couple things that I have learned from observing my Dad:

1. Giving more to a company than they pay you for is a waste of your time.
2. No matter how many years that you have dedicated, how many weekends you’ve worked, how many hours you’ve logged in the air, or how much of your waking day has been spent earning it a profit, the corporation will cut you if it can save a buck fifty for softer toilet paper in the executive washroom.

Trip
I just got back last night from visiting my cousin in San Francisco. I learned a few things:

• There is a merely a gay section of San Francisco. That section makes the south end of Boston look like Republican party headquarters.
• My cousin and her husband are phenomenal hosts and tour guides, but very poor alarm clocks.
• San Francisco coffee is as strong, black, and bitter as my heart. It makes Starbucks seem like baby formula.
• Once, Haight Ashbury was a renowned place for hippies to hang out and like be, man. Now, famous corner is trimmed with a Gap on one corner and a Ben & Jerry’s on the other. All hanging and/or being was sold with the 60’s counterculture.
• There is a difference between people who work in theaters and those that work at Faires. While both seem nice, theater people are more funny: ha ha, while faire people are more funny: uh oh.
• Like it’s cousin to the south, Los Angeles, San Francisco has amazingly cheap records. I averaged about $6.25 per CD, but please don’t ask me how many I bought in the seven plus hours I spent in record stores.
• There are a lot of homeless people in San Francisco. Some seem to have made errors, while others made a choice.
• There are a lot of panhandlers in SF. Some respond to “Sorry, man,” with “Hey, man, that’s like totally ok, man. You don’t have to be sorry, man. It’s cool. Have a Good one.” Others will argue with “Sorry, man,” as if they will eventually convince you that you have made an obviously wrong choice by not giving them “bus money.”

Trip II
I got through most of the security checkpoints without a hitch, until the ride home. The lady wanted me to put my sneakers through the x-ray machine. As my sneakers have never set off a metal detector because they contain no metal I argued with her. She told me that it was recommended that I comply. After 3 rounds of her not yielding, nor yielding myself, I put them on the belt. There was no need, but my feeling was that I was going to be detained for a search if I didn’t comply. I hate that feeling.

By complying, I did avoid a search, but it didn’t seem right. It seemed that she couldn’t force me to take my shoes off, but she was going to make it difficult for me if I didn’t. Kids are bringing box cutters on the plane, and they’re checking my shoes. That seems to me like we have a misdirection of security resources. It also says that a real terrorist is getting by even if his shoes are off. Bunch of A-holes.

Anyway, relating the story today, a co-worker recommended that if I don’t like it, don’t fly. I love this argument. If you don’t want your car stolen, don’t buy a nice car. If you you don’t like the policies, move to another country. Don’t change the incorrect policies, just comply, comply, comply.

This is why America has gone from a nation of rebels to a full-fledged nation of sheep. We comply by rote.

The Ex wife send me an e-mail. Said she had my diploma and my minor certificate, and a check made out to us and asked if I wanted them back. I told her to keep the check and send the diploma. When she replied asking for my mailing address, I realized I don’t need it that badly and told her to chuck it.

I have no idea why she would take it from me in the first place.

Pre-ramle
Walked the nearly deserted beach for a couple of hours watching small birds run in and out of the surf. Saw birds raiding people’s food. Saw sneakers in the sand with a note saying that the owner would be back later. Saw some surfers trying to make the most of the hurricane leftovers. Saw the girlfriend’s aunts. Ate a super-dry Italian sub that they failed to put oil on. Came home and called Sweden, Oregon, and Quincy. Sat about. Went out to see a sunset that was long gone, Put on Mystical, and ended up in the beach parking lot unsure of what to do. Saw a bunch of interesting people walking by including an old guy wearing black pants, a black sleeveless T shirt, sideburns and a Pompadour hairpiece. Put on some music to get the girlfriend going. Declined the suggestion of doing the local thing and eating at Schooner’s. Headed to Hingham harbor only to be faced with an hour and a half wait. Had the feeling that like every other local non-biker in Hull, we would end up eating at Schooner’s. Decided to try the Liberty Grill next to Stars in Hingham harbor. Made a bad dinner choice…

Chapter I: The liberty Grill
Let me give the reader the executive Summary: I wouldn’t take a dump in the Liberty Grill, for fear that they might collect it from the toilet, fry it, and serve it, thus improving their food by 200%. And the service is among the worst that I have encountered.

We went in and happily found that there was only a five minute wait, and were told to sit at the bar until we were called. Upon sitting down, we realized that we had each had a maximum of $3, we ran next door to hit the ATM. Upon returning, we sat at the bar, which could hold no more than six people, without getting a little too cozy. The restaurant has low ceilings and seating upstairs, giving it the impression that it was once someone’s house. In a way it reminds me of Percy’s Place.

Within ten minutes we were seated upstairs by a six over six window pane overlooking Tosca’s restaurant. The waitress approached our table with the blank, angry expression usually reserved for junkies, inmates, and idiots. Seeing our full drinks on the table, she asked us if she could get us drinks. When we pointed out that we had just gotten drinks from the bar, she asked if we had paid for them (?). When we said that we had, she turned and walked away. Unbeknownst to us, this was going to be a recurring theme.

The girlfriend and I sat staring at each other with a sense of bemused shock. Within ten minutes, she was back with a quick “Whattyouwant?” I ordered a fried oyster plate, and the girlfriend ordered a Greek salad and a cup of chili. Within 2 minutes she came back, looked at us, and said “Who had the salad?”

When the girlfriend said, “That’s me,” smiled, and sat back, the waitress literally turned away, and dropped the bowl on the table. She didn’t even bother to drop it anywhere near the girlfriends placemat. The shocked bemusement that we shared earlier was beginning to turn a little sour.

Common sense tips Part I:

• Look it’s 5 minutes, and it’s your job. If you can’t retain facts for more than 2 minutes, jot a simple note, like “Girl: salad” on your notepad. You can even use secret shorthand like a little “G” with a circle in it next to where you wrote salad on your pad.
• Try not to throw the food at the patrons. They’ll resent it.
• If people order together, they usually would like to receive their meal together. It makes things less awkward by avoiding the “Go ahead and eat” battles.

In 15 or 20 minutes, I got about eight oysters on top of cold fries. Cost? $12.95. The “waitress” said, “forgot your tartar sauce,” and took off for another fifteen minutes. She then came back, shot me a blank yet menacing look, pulled a container out of her apron and threw it on the table as she was walking away. It think that the look was a dare, as the “tartar sauce” was so shiny that even I, a man who once ate wet dog food out of the dog’s food bowl for a dollar, was afraid to eat it. I began wolfing down the dinner hoping only to shorten my stay in restaurant hell.

Common sense tips Part II:

• If your service and food suck, at least give a lot of sucky food. Even though you and I know that shit times two is still shit, it makes the customer think that you are providing some value.
• If there are fries, Americans like Ketchup. It’s something waitresses should know in our country.
• Tartar sauce should not be stored in direct sunlight.
• Don’t pull anything out of your apron and expect me to eat it unless you are a grandma and it’s a wrapped piece of ribbon candy. If you are a waitress, you will be penalized for this move. Fines are doubled for creamy or runny foods.

The check was coming, and the waitress left twice to go add it up. The girlfriend shot me a look and said “I’ve got this one,” and I knew not to argue. She pulled out the $20 and I provided the $.65 that the bill called for. Tip? A whopping $0.00.

“I’ve never not left a tip,” said the girlfriend, “but I don’t feel bad about that at all.

Chapter II: The Beach
For a town closed for the season, Nantasket was absolutely jumping last night. There were people everywhere as if it were the first day of summer. The roof deck of the Red Parrot, which was closed for the season a couple of weeks ago, was packed last night. We went to sit at the table of some youths that had somehow taken it as their territory even though they were sitting at the bar. We apologetically offered to concede, but they graciously gave up their territory with a pat on the back, and a drunken sense of camaraderie.

It was ten minutes after we sat down before anyone even noticed that we were sitting at an uncleared table. After the horrendous service at the Liberty Grill, and given that we were only there for desert, the girlfriend started making the move to leave. I mentioned that it was a beautiful night, we had an unobstructed view of the ocean, and the key lime pie was worth waiting for. Her anxious expression melted into a smile as she sat back to enjoy the ocean air.

Within minutes a harried young waitress with a small pony tail on top of her head rushed to our table and quickly bussed it, all the while apologizing for the wait. “All the college kids are gone, leaving us at half staff,” she said exhaustedly. We encouraged her to take her time because we were in no rush. In another minute, she took our drink order as we started perusing the desert menu. The waitress suggested the fried cheesecake, virtually panicking the girlfriend. I though that it sounded very interesting, and said that I would gladly turn over my key lime pie to her if she didn’t like it.

Let me say this: When you’re up until One in the morning waiting for the sugar shock to subside, you will do so happily, remembering only the good times that you and that cheesecake had together.

Afterward
After a short walk, we sat on the sea wall listening to a really, really bad cover band playing in Emilio’s until I couldn’t take it anymore and needed to get away from their unique medley of 70’s party songs. From there, we went home, and I was literally up until 1 AM from all the sugar, bringing another Saturday night in Hull to a close.

The Beast
She missed the date again. I am officially 2 years into a divorce, and she has missed four court dates.

Four.

What good is the law if you can’t simply and legally compel someone to get the fuck out of your life?

The Beauty
Her: Should I ask?
Me: The court date is a no-go.
Her: I’m sorry. How are you doing?
Me: I’m ok. No biggie. Kind of expected this.
Her: Let me get you dinner to celebrate.
Me: But, I don’t have a court date.
Her: Still.

This is the kind of woman who gets flowers because she really, really deserves it.

The Demon
I have another PC on the way. I’m ashamed. The total will be soon be twelve. The total actually plugged in? Three. Oy. I need to get the Linux boxes/clusters going. If anyone has a recommendation on a distribution that will run comfortably on a PII-450, please let me know. Currently, I am looking at Debian and Slackware, but RedHat is so sweetly stable.

RIAA
I used to have a little section called the “Friday Buy,” where I listed and rated the CD’s that I bought. Unfortunately, over the last few months, I don’t think I’ve made a single CD purchase.

Considering the RIAA’s latest round of heavy handed persecution of file swappers, and the Music Industry’s convicted oligopolistic inflation of CD prices (FTC Lawsuit), and despite the industry’s laughable announcement that CD prices will be cut (Register story) I am going to make a difficult choice.

I’m going to work to no longer buy new CD’s. The RIAA and the record industries will lose a sale, and some Mom-and-Pop shop will gain one. It makes buying CD’s negligibly cheaper, although much more inconvenient.

Some could argue that the artist is hurt by this tactic, but given the minute amounts that most bands make on a CD sale, I would argue that the tactic even on a large scale is negligible for the average artist, but is damaging to the global corporations that distibute them.

It’s legal, simple, and passively agressive.

Now, that Wesley Willis is dead, there’s no real reason to buy CD’s, anyway.

Once again, I may not have a court date to get a divorce that I have been working on for a couple of years now. It seems that the woman who has dragged her feet at every stage of the divorce process has once again threw a monkey wrench into the works.

For 2 years, I have been working on this divorce, and have known that a simple financial required by the courts must be submitted to the courts on pink paper. Don’t ask me why, but it does. It seems that both the ex and her divorce lawyer have no idea that this is the case.

They submitted on plain paper, and now I must call on Monday to see if I’m going to be allowed to go in and get a divorce. If this doesn’t go off on Monday, it will be the fourth court date successfully delayed by the ex via negligence or omission.

The ex has known about pink paper from the beginning, as we were originally going for a joint divorce. She’s supposedly preggo, so you’d figure that she wants to get a divorce. The divorce lawyer knows about pink paper as, well, he is a FUCKING DIVORCE LAWYER, and that’s his job.

Eh, what can you do?

We, The People
I didn’t observe any moments of silence today, because like a good portion of America, I forgot. It’s two years later, and I have forgotten a lot of the tragedy of the Trade Center bombings, as we have been inundated with images of the tragedy, stickers of the tragedy, T-shirts, American flags, and staged photo opportunities. The whole thing has become part of a P.R. campaign to finance a war of conquest.

And, I must say, like most of America who witnessed the tragedy, sitting transfixed and horrified watching people choosing to leap to their deaths rather than be burned alive, I have a little guy in there that wants to forget.

And I did. All day.

On the way home tonight, I heard a commentary by a woman who brought all this to the surface for me. She dredged up all of the 9-11 feelings, and made me realize that it’s not about the issues, or the war, or the people in power making decisions for me.

Today is not about concepts, policies, nor revenge. It’s about human tragedy, and those left to bear it’s burden. It’s about us. It’s about We, the People. It’s about the people who made it out of the towers and still never really feel safe. It’s about people who are just now recovering mere pieces of their loved ones. It’s about people who will never have a body to identify to allow the grieving process to start. It’s about kids missing parents, and parents losing sons and daughters.

And given that human tragedy, I can’t look at Iraq and say that I don’t feel for what they are being put through. They are losing sons. They are losing daughters. And they are facing tragedy now. But like the victims of 9-11, the media has bombarded us enough. We can’t take anymore, and we turn away.

Dehumanizing us is one thing that governments are good at. Countries that hate the U.S. will kill it’s people as if we are part of the government that controls us. And the U.S. does the same to them. And in the long run, the people in power prosper, while the global We the People are left footing the bill. And all the while, we turn away, or are even duped into lending support to the very people creating the endless cycle of tragedy.

It’s not about your skin. It’s not about your country of origin. It’s not about what religion you choose. It’s about being human. It’s about empathy. It’s about forgetting about winning, and remembering about living. It’s about shedding the societal/religio-political manacles that prevent you from adopting the mindset of We, the People, and living as such.

In peace.

Digital Rights
I loved the recent story from Fox News about a 12 year old girl being sued by the RIAA for downloading songs from the Kazaa network illegally. When faced with a lawsuit asking for “up to $150,000.00 per downloaded song,” the mother of the child opted to settle with the RIAA for $2,000.00.

I have several problems with this:

1. Given the fact that the RIAA sued the 12 year old, how did they find out that she was the one downloading songs? If they got a list of Kazaa users from an ISP or somesuch, they should’ve gotten the parents name, as the parent would be the billing contact on such a contract. Without illegally entering the child’s PC, and snooping, how could they have known it was her?
2. Where does the RIAA derive it’s authority from? It is a group that merely proclaims itself to be a society of recording artists, yet it has assumed a ton of power from the DCMA.
3. To instill fear in someone in a housing project by slapping them with a lawsuit for a ridiculous amount of money backed by a wealthy organization with an army of lawyers smacks of racketeering.
4. When I buy a CD, and I copy it to my hard drive, I am covered by fair use, and may be allowed to trade it with friends (I’m not sure.). If I bought the CD, I should be able to do what I want with it. If I have instead licensed the CD, I should be presented with a licensing agreement clearly packaged on the outside of the CD, that I may agree to prior to purchasing, that outlines my rights with respect to the licensed product. Without a license, the consumer feels that they have paid for the product, and is duped into thinking that they can do whatever they want with it. To hit them with hefty penalties backed by intentionally confusing legislation which are, in effect essentially licensing agreement infringements, is devious and unjust.

Not safe
I didn’t want to link this, but it was just too strange not to. It’s the George Bush Mosaic (Careful at work).

My Letter
Dear George,

Heard your speech last night. Not only did you get us into this Iraq crap, but you went against the will of the world and thumbed your nose at the UN to do it.

Now you want the world to step in and help clean up. You also want 87 Billion dollars from the taxpayers to help rebuild Iraq. In case you haven’t noticed Georgie, people are losing their jobs and going broke. You may not have noticed, as it is happening outside of the White House, and doesn’t involve oil, conquest our cocaine.

So, I guess what I’m saying is me and the world can’t really help you out on this one. This is your war, and your cleanup. Maybe you can ask Daddy to bail you out again.

Good luck.

-Jon

My Night
A friend of mine kept rousting me after I had gone to bed with only garbled messages coming through the phone. I thought that he was in trouble or something and kept calling him back to make sure that everything was ok.

The A-Hole was at the Bruce Springsteen concert. He was just calling me to convince me that it was great.

To him and all the people at work that loooooooove Bruce: You can talk him up all you want. I hate him. You can listen all you want, too. I won’t. You can tell me that I “just don’t understand the Boss.” You can eat buckets of dog shit with peanuts in it, and as much as you tell me it tastes like sweet vanillla ice cream, I’m not going eat any. Do you know why? Because it’s shit. So, Born in the US this, buttholes.

My Day
My Day went like this: I walked in to find signs posted that made me look like an asshole. Then, I found out that even if I wanted to talk to someone about it, I couldn’t as one of the signs originated in my chain of command a couple of levels up. Then, for the rest of the day, people busted my balls going over work that I had already done. I did get to hear a co-worker freak out before I could even think about it, though. That was so worth it.

When you let go a third of the workforce, it’s nice to have a job, but the job will end up sucking when you are ridden and ridden to pick up the slack. But, man what muscles you will gain from lifting all those heavy weights to calm down.

Anyone interested in coming to Montana? I’m leaving as soon as I’m buff and armed…

My Laughter
I needed this today: StealthDisco.com. Look. It’s ok. It might make you happy.

Old Man Dyer
When I was a kid, the oldies channel played 50’s and 60’s music. Classic Rock spanned the 70’s. The 80’s and 90’s were on the rock channels. Now, I have no idea what’s what. Dion and the Belmonts: Oldies. The ‘Stones? Classic Rock. Everclear? “Alternative” or rock. Abba? Um, no. Disco had no place on radio.

Now. Abba? Oldies. Elton John? Oldies. 80’s “rock” of the 80’s? Classic rock. I’m now officially lost as to what defines Classic rock, oldies, and rock as far as station formats go. Please send a definition, or I will have no idea what station to tune into.

Now, when I was a kid we also walked up hill to school and wore onions on our belts, as it was the style of the time…Wait. Where are you going?

Crappy Music
When Don Henley put out ?Boys of Summer? back in the 80’s, I hated the song enough to jump for the remote when it came onto MTV. The Atari’s re-make sucks 3/4 as much, and but it still sucks. Dear bands, please remake good songs. Or just write an original or two. Oh yea, and if I hear one more fucking Bruce Springsteen song on the radio, I’m going to puke.

Bruce sucks.
He always has sucked.
And he will forever sucketh, unto eternity.

I did hear that I don’t understand Bruce though. I was told that like Dylan (who also sucks), I cannot possibly appreciate him without seeing him live. Hmm. I listen objectively at home, and he sucks. Put me in a crowd of New Jersey wannabe assholes, and he’ll suddenly not suck? Right. Ok, ok, I admit that I could be wrong. Bruce could put on a better show than James Brown. And it is possible that he forgoes playing any of his crappy ass songs to play a total Slayer set live in concert. Ooh, ooh, and maybe if “The Boss” got a throat infection and had to have Slayer stand in to play those Slayer songs, I would go. Yea. If all of those things happened I could see myself at a Bruce concert and appreciating it. Hey, anything’s possible.

Beach
Hurricane Fabian is throwing some good surf at Hull. The surfers know this, and they litter the coast. It makes me feel like Hull is actually cool. If you can see it, you should. Then, maybe you’ll think Hull is not merely a hodge-podge of Junkies, bikers, fisherman, and wealthy people. Then, you might visit. Then, maybe you can lend me some money for smack or to fix up my bike.

Jesus
I had a dream that my Animal House type scientist friend rejuvenated Jesus. He brought him to my hotel room in a blanket so that the military guys wouldn’t try to use his super powers. I found the whole thing awe inspiring: Not only had my friend rejuvenated a 2000 year old guy, but the guy had the ability to work miracles. I had to say something:

So, Jee, if you could do us a little favor. We have tons of water, and you could zip zap, we could have a kickin’ party…

Then, I snapped my fingers and pointed at him.

Yea. Nice one, Dyer.

Checkout Notes
The only problem with getting in the manual checkout line at the grocery store is that sometimes people with a less than average skill set like to pretend that they’re smart enough to do the job of a checkout person. They stand in front of you and say things like “I can’t find the peaches on this thing” to the checkout machine, completely unaware that the machine has no idea how, nor the capability to respond. Maybe they need a sign:

Dear customer,
To find peaches on this here machine, touch your finger on the little picture that looks like peaches on my screen. If you don’t see that picture, try pressing “P” to bring up pictures of fruits and vegetables that begin with “P.” “Peaches” begins with “P.” Plus, I can’t hear you.
Love,
The Checkout machine.

They also should post a second sign:

Dear customer,
Just because this register is not manned by store personnel, you should still remain a comfortable distance from the patron in front of you. Although we value your input, the patron may not be as excited about your commentary on his food choices as we are.
Love,
The Checkout Machine

Shit Fair
I went to the “Chair Fair” in Weymouth to see if I could get a couple of bar stools for the old apartment this weekend. After spending an hour or so there, I bought a couple of their less expensive stools right before they closed. Once I got them home, I realized that because they compressed four inches when sat upon, they were too short to eat comfortably at the bar. Not only that, but they were already beginning to corrode around the top. As the stools were around $75 apiece, they were going back first thing the next morning.

The next morning, I took the stools back to the chair fair. The guy who sold them to me was on the phone.

“Yea. Sure. Sure. Mmmm hmmm. Yea. Listen I’m going to have to call you back.
[Gives me the "Oh great, you again" look.]
“Hi. I’m really sorry about this, but I’m going to have to return those chairs you sold me last night.”
[pause]
“Oh yea? Well I’m going to have to charge you a 20% restocking fee.”

Ok. I bought some stools the night before, and brought them back within 12 hours in the original packaging. I didn’t custom order anything, I didn’t have them delivered, and they weren’t shipped from another location. The “restocking” consisted of someone simply throwing the stools back into the same exact dank basement that they had been sitting in for the last six months, and this guy was being an asshole. My mind raced for exactly 2 seconds where I wondered whether I should argue the finer points of hidden restocking fees, credit card company battles, and BBB complaints with this smug prick. Instead, I just said,

“I don’t think so. They’re corroded.”
[another glaring "You little prick" pause from the guy followed by a big, dramatic sigh]
“Fine. Bring them in then.”

I was then dismissed to bring the Lord of the Chairs’ loyal subjects back into his kingdom. I walked out to the car, mouthed “total fucking asshole” to the girlfriend (who was on the phone) and opened the car to bring the chairs back in. Once I got them in, he said in an incredulous tone,

“Now, why don’t you show me where they’re corroded.”

Response 1: Why don’t you tell me about this “personality” that you think you possess.
Response 2: Jimmy ?Superfly Snuka off the top rope!
Response 3: You gonna die, honky!
Response 4: (High Road) Right there. All over the top ring.
Response 5: Um. Go fuck yourself?

As an adult, I opted for #4. Then, the guy started apologizing. I still can’t figure out why. Maybe he was sorry for selling overpriced pieces of shit, or maybe it was because when I get angry, I grit and glare. I rarely know that I’m doing it, but from what I hear it makes a smolderingly psychotic “Burn it. Burn it all, Jonny!” impression. In either case, I got my money back.

After relating the story to the little lady, I went to some Beyond Linens and Bathing store and bought 4 stools, at $20 each. They look better, cost one quarter the price, and we can burn them when we no longer have use for them. So, here’s my recommendation: If you need chairs, and your past the stage where getting treated like a jerk, or buying shoddy merchandise is your thing:

Skip the Chair Fair.

Sidestep
If you ever find that someone is hounding you for information on your sex life and you can’t shake them, say, ?Well, I haven’t done that, but once I sucked my own d…? and then cut yourself off like you’ve said too much. Confusion will quiet the group, while they try to figure out if you’re Stretch Armstrong, or the master of a fourteen foot garden hose (oddly enough, they won’t suspect a lie because you you previously stopped yourself mid-sentence.).

I used this tactic this weekend, and the only comment that I got after a thoughtful thirty second silence from the group was a meek, “Dude. You can reach?”