My hair is growing out. I feel pretty good about this. I used to keep my hair short and kinda messy. It was my way of not conforming. Then short and messy became the look, and I started seeing guys in the boardroom wearing their hair that way. So I had to make a change. I'm vain like that. It also helped that my girlfriend really wanted me to grow it out. I'm a pussy like that.
My hair is painfully straight. Like, if it grew all the way out I'd look like the guys from Nelson. Not that that wouldn't rule, but I've kinda wished my hair would at least do something other than hang. But hang it does.
It's ok though, because at least I don't have to do much to tame it. I pretty much just dry it and put this crap in it that Baby buys for me that keeps it from getting frizzy. It takes thirty seconds. Time is money.
When I was a teenager my hair was really long. Like, middle of my back long. I really don't know why. I think it was one of those 'trying to be different' things. Of course, in trying to be different I looked like every other heavy metal (why don't more people call them grits, like we did?) kid in school. But dude! I was SO not into heavy metal. I was into Jane's Addiction, and they weren't metal! I was alternative. I looked the other way when the guitar players made out on stage. I tried to score with the goth chicks. I failed miserably.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh yeah, so my hair is growing out again for the first time since I was a kid. Only I've got this goddamn problem that's making me rethink the whole thing.
When I leave the house in the morning I'm all shaggy and it looks the way I want it to. But by the time I get to work the back right side has completely curled, leaving me with a gravity-defying little ducktail that makes me look completely retarded. What the fuck is that all about? I gotta think it's because it hits the collar of my shirt and gets all banged up. But why only the right side? Do I have some bizarre cowlick down there that's fucking it up? Is the guy sitting on the metro behind me fucking with it while I'm sitting half asleep on the train? Is this the beginning of the rest of my hair curling? Should I curl the front left side to balance it? Or maybe braid that part and let it hang down? Rat tails are still cool, right? Maybe I should cut it off and grow a fauxhawk? Those aren't too trendy, are they?
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Who Are These Fucking People?
Honestly, is there anyone in America that doesn't understand that everyone makes fun of people with mullets? Is there a barbershop you can go into somewhere and say, "Business in the front, party in the back" and not have the guy laugh at you?
There have been movies, websites, and entire stand-up comedy careers based on ridiculing the mullet as a hairstyle. When you see the look, you immediately think of the cliche. It's instinctual at this point. I mean, nobody wears the Hitler mustache anymore, right? There are some looks that we just know are not for us. And I can't, for the life of me, figure out why the mullet hasn't achieved this status.
I was at RFK this weekend for the Nats and Orioles series. RFK is in Washington, DC, the capital of the United States of America. You'd think that people living within driving distance of a major American city would at least be hip enough to understand the no-mullet rule. This isn't Alabama, this is the Mid-Atlantic.
But there they were, in all their glory. Mullet, jean shorts, high top sneakers, Marlboros and Miller Lites and fanny packs. I don't mean to suggest that everyone in attendance had a mullet. But they weren't exactly rare, either.
And the more I think about it, the more puzzling it gets. These weren't hipster kids with faux mullets trying to be ironic. These were manicured, styled mullets that take years to grow. The kind of thing you have to work on, the kind of thing that takes planning and thought. Growing a mullet is like planting a garden. You have a picture of the finished product in your mind, and you painstakingly work at it until it's ready.
This is the part that gets me. They've obviously been thinking about growing mullets. They're aspiring to do it. What the fuck? Where does that come from? Who are they looking at and saying, "I want to be like that guy!"? All the kids these days want to look like rappers, and that's understandable. Rappers are all over TV, and people emulate what they perceive to be cool. We all do it, in a way. We have a look we're going for. Who the hell is going for the mullet? Who is the role model? When is the last time you saw a mullet on somebody even remotely famous? Hockey players and professional wrestlers don't even have mullets anymore.
Who are these fucking people?
There have been movies, websites, and entire stand-up comedy careers based on ridiculing the mullet as a hairstyle. When you see the look, you immediately think of the cliche. It's instinctual at this point. I mean, nobody wears the Hitler mustache anymore, right? There are some looks that we just know are not for us. And I can't, for the life of me, figure out why the mullet hasn't achieved this status.
I was at RFK this weekend for the Nats and Orioles series. RFK is in Washington, DC, the capital of the United States of America. You'd think that people living within driving distance of a major American city would at least be hip enough to understand the no-mullet rule. This isn't Alabama, this is the Mid-Atlantic.
But there they were, in all their glory. Mullet, jean shorts, high top sneakers, Marlboros and Miller Lites and fanny packs. I don't mean to suggest that everyone in attendance had a mullet. But they weren't exactly rare, either.
And the more I think about it, the more puzzling it gets. These weren't hipster kids with faux mullets trying to be ironic. These were manicured, styled mullets that take years to grow. The kind of thing you have to work on, the kind of thing that takes planning and thought. Growing a mullet is like planting a garden. You have a picture of the finished product in your mind, and you painstakingly work at it until it's ready.
This is the part that gets me. They've obviously been thinking about growing mullets. They're aspiring to do it. What the fuck? Where does that come from? Who are they looking at and saying, "I want to be like that guy!"? All the kids these days want to look like rappers, and that's understandable. Rappers are all over TV, and people emulate what they perceive to be cool. We all do it, in a way. We have a look we're going for. Who the hell is going for the mullet? Who is the role model? When is the last time you saw a mullet on somebody even remotely famous? Hockey players and professional wrestlers don't even have mullets anymore.
Who are these fucking people?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Pales In Comparison
Everyone judges people. We all do it. We're internally critical of people, noting flaws and differences and unfortunate aspects of others' appearances, personalities, lifestyles- you name it. But we've been taught (some better than others) that it's not a good idea to make those criticisms known. The idea of "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything" is sound advice, even if we don't follow it as often as we should.
Yet there are certain things we feel we've got free reign to comment on, despite the fact that they're every bit as hurtful and judgmental as some of the things we're not allowed to say. And frankly, I'm starting to get a little pissed at your supposed right to tell me how I'm somehow inferior because I'm not just like you.
Until a few years ago I was embarrassingly skinny. Weak beyond words. I had a number of issues, chief among them that I just wasn't that into eating and I didn't eat particularly regularly or well. So I was always underweight. And if you've ever been in that boat, you know that being skinny in a society full of fat people is an uncomfortable place to be.
Heaven forbid I should ever discuss a fat person's weight or diet in public. So what on earth gives you the right to declare how I must never eat, how I'm so lucky to be so thin, and- my personal favorite- actually put your fucking hands on me to display how skinny I am? Let's turn this one around. Let's say your fat ass walks in the room and takes two servings of birthday cake. Am I allowed to tell everyone in earshot what a fucking fatty you are? Maybe comment on how lucky you are to just not give a fuck that you could fit three of me in those pants of yours? And while we're at it, the next time you put your chubby little thumb and finger around my wrist and hold it up for everyone to see, how about I take a deep breath and see if I can't wrap my arms around you? Maybe stand behind you and try to figure out how you take a leak when you can't find let alone see your peepee?
Do you think I liked being different? The butt of the joke? Would you? Do you even care about the reasons why I got this way? I'm supposed to be sensitive to your condition. I'm supposed to understand that you're unhappy, and it's having an adverse impact on your body. Hey Slim, when I graduated from high school I was six feet tall and one hundred and fifteen pounds. I know from eating issues. So how about we start talking about this goddamn double standard?
Lately I've put on weight and I'm much healthier. But I've got a new issue that's apparently everyone's business. One that makes even less sense, if that's possible.
I'm pale. I am, and I will be for the foreseeable future. I wasn't when I was younger, but things have changed. I'm anemic. And I'm anemic because I take medicine to treat my leukemia. Leukemia is cancer of your bone marrow. Let me tell you, it's a bag of dicks. Anemia makes you weak and tired and pale and generally all banged up. It's not fun, but it sure beats being dead, which is where I'd be without the medicine.
So I'm concerned that it's ok for you to tell me that I need some sun. I realize it gives you a tremendous sense of self-satisfaction to place your desirable, golden brown arm against my unattractive pale one and declare yourself the winner of the great suntan contest, but I think it's a little fucked up. I know white people are supposed to get suntans. It's what all the cool kids do. But I can't get one. I just burn. And it hurts and so I'm over it.
When I was younger I took all the skinny cheapshots without fighting back. Those days are over. I'm trumping your suntan attack with the cancer card, and I'm clearing out the goddamn room while I'm doing it.
"My God bryc3, do you ever go outside? You're white as a sheet!"
"Yeah I go outside sometimes, but I can't get a tan because I've got cancer and I'm dying. So tell me more about your vacation. Hey wait, where are you going?"
Yet there are certain things we feel we've got free reign to comment on, despite the fact that they're every bit as hurtful and judgmental as some of the things we're not allowed to say. And frankly, I'm starting to get a little pissed at your supposed right to tell me how I'm somehow inferior because I'm not just like you.
Until a few years ago I was embarrassingly skinny. Weak beyond words. I had a number of issues, chief among them that I just wasn't that into eating and I didn't eat particularly regularly or well. So I was always underweight. And if you've ever been in that boat, you know that being skinny in a society full of fat people is an uncomfortable place to be.
Heaven forbid I should ever discuss a fat person's weight or diet in public. So what on earth gives you the right to declare how I must never eat, how I'm so lucky to be so thin, and- my personal favorite- actually put your fucking hands on me to display how skinny I am? Let's turn this one around. Let's say your fat ass walks in the room and takes two servings of birthday cake. Am I allowed to tell everyone in earshot what a fucking fatty you are? Maybe comment on how lucky you are to just not give a fuck that you could fit three of me in those pants of yours? And while we're at it, the next time you put your chubby little thumb and finger around my wrist and hold it up for everyone to see, how about I take a deep breath and see if I can't wrap my arms around you? Maybe stand behind you and try to figure out how you take a leak when you can't find let alone see your peepee?
Do you think I liked being different? The butt of the joke? Would you? Do you even care about the reasons why I got this way? I'm supposed to be sensitive to your condition. I'm supposed to understand that you're unhappy, and it's having an adverse impact on your body. Hey Slim, when I graduated from high school I was six feet tall and one hundred and fifteen pounds. I know from eating issues. So how about we start talking about this goddamn double standard?
Lately I've put on weight and I'm much healthier. But I've got a new issue that's apparently everyone's business. One that makes even less sense, if that's possible.
I'm pale. I am, and I will be for the foreseeable future. I wasn't when I was younger, but things have changed. I'm anemic. And I'm anemic because I take medicine to treat my leukemia. Leukemia is cancer of your bone marrow. Let me tell you, it's a bag of dicks. Anemia makes you weak and tired and pale and generally all banged up. It's not fun, but it sure beats being dead, which is where I'd be without the medicine.
So I'm concerned that it's ok for you to tell me that I need some sun. I realize it gives you a tremendous sense of self-satisfaction to place your desirable, golden brown arm against my unattractive pale one and declare yourself the winner of the great suntan contest, but I think it's a little fucked up. I know white people are supposed to get suntans. It's what all the cool kids do. But I can't get one. I just burn. And it hurts and so I'm over it.
When I was younger I took all the skinny cheapshots without fighting back. Those days are over. I'm trumping your suntan attack with the cancer card, and I'm clearing out the goddamn room while I'm doing it.
"My God bryc3, do you ever go outside? You're white as a sheet!"
"Yeah I go outside sometimes, but I can't get a tan because I've got cancer and I'm dying. So tell me more about your vacation. Hey wait, where are you going?"
Monday, May 01, 2006
Chocolate City Laments
You know, it's not my fault that things are the way they are. I didn't cause this situation, and I'm not exacerbating it. I just live here, same as you. Sure, I'm new here. But nobody told me I wasn't welcome. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why you want me to leave.
I was born right across that river. I'm not from this hood but I know it. Thirty one years doesn't go back all the way but it goes back far enough. I know the history, I know who lived here when things were good and I know who lived here when things were bad. And honestly let's stop kidding ourselves, because we both know that there was a hell of a lot more bad, and the bad wasn't exactly a long time ago.
My family has been here even longer than me. Plenty of them, older ones mostly, can't even imagine why I would choose to live where I do. They remember the riots, the fires, the crack, the hookers and the murder rate. They remember the white flight, the black flight, and the vacuum that ensued. I explain that things are changing, that things are safer, that most of those problems (ok, maybe symptoms) are fading away. They seem to want to believe me, because that doesn't sound so bad.
So why does it sound so bad to you?
I don't own this apartment or this building. I'm not on any community board to clean up the neighborhood. I don't care if you sell single beers or single cigarettes at the corner store and I'm not lobbying you to replace all those forties with bottles of wine. I think the selection of cheese at the Giant on 8th is just fine, thanks, and frankly I couldn't care less about a lack of good coffee shops or restaurants.
Now that you know a little bit more about me, can we maybe take it easy on the dirty looks? I'm just walking home, not to the 'let's turn this place into Georgetown' rally.
I'm not trying to steal Shaw from you. I just live here.
I was born right across that river. I'm not from this hood but I know it. Thirty one years doesn't go back all the way but it goes back far enough. I know the history, I know who lived here when things were good and I know who lived here when things were bad. And honestly let's stop kidding ourselves, because we both know that there was a hell of a lot more bad, and the bad wasn't exactly a long time ago.
My family has been here even longer than me. Plenty of them, older ones mostly, can't even imagine why I would choose to live where I do. They remember the riots, the fires, the crack, the hookers and the murder rate. They remember the white flight, the black flight, and the vacuum that ensued. I explain that things are changing, that things are safer, that most of those problems (ok, maybe symptoms) are fading away. They seem to want to believe me, because that doesn't sound so bad.
So why does it sound so bad to you?
I don't own this apartment or this building. I'm not on any community board to clean up the neighborhood. I don't care if you sell single beers or single cigarettes at the corner store and I'm not lobbying you to replace all those forties with bottles of wine. I think the selection of cheese at the Giant on 8th is just fine, thanks, and frankly I couldn't care less about a lack of good coffee shops or restaurants.
Now that you know a little bit more about me, can we maybe take it easy on the dirty looks? I'm just walking home, not to the 'let's turn this place into Georgetown' rally.
I'm not trying to steal Shaw from you. I just live here.
Friday, April 28, 2006
I'll Give You Something Comcastic Alright
I moved into a new place, in the city, just about two months ago. Because I contribute so little to the relationship (hey, who are we kidding?), it's my job to handle the activation of the cable, the phone, and the internet. These are hassles under the best of circumstances, of course, but when I'm involved they tend to turn into fiascoes. And of course, we're neck fucking deep in fiasco right about now.
I <3 teh teevee. So does Baby. We've got three TV's in our two bedroom place. As such, we need some serious cable. When we were shown the place the landlord informed me the building was wired for DirecTV. I was happy, but I figured we'd be better off just getting cable for the internet and television. That was my first mistake, and it was a big one.
I set up appointment after appointment with Comcast. I had a week off during the move, so I had plenty of time to meet the guys that came to set it up. Or so you'd think. The first guy that came out informed me we hadn't been set up yet, so he couldn't do anything. The second guy never showed. At the end of my week off the third guy came out and finally got things up and running, but just barely. The picture on the cable was atrocious, because the signal was so weak. HDTV didn't work at all. And our internet access was incredibly unreliable. But hey, at least I could watch Mason play in the tournament.
I set up our fourth appointment to have the signal worked on. Another no show, and a missed afternoon of work. A week later the fifth guy showed up and explained to me the initial setup was wrong, and they'd have to re-wire from the street to the building to fix the signal. Thankfully that appointment was in the evening, so no missed work. I scheduled the next appointment for a week later (soonest I could get), this time having no choice but take another afternoon off. In the meantime another group was supposed to come out and fix something in the street, meaning I didn't need to be home. OK.
The following week, guy number six (although technically number seven) shows up four hours late. This is an extra bonus, as he got there at 6pm so I didn't need to take an afternoon off after all. He informs me that although our building was scheduled to be re-wired, and the technician filed a report that stated he had completed the work, nothing was actually done. I'd had enough. I thanked the guy and told him that would be all. I called the office and waited on hold for one hundred and three minutes (it's ok, I drank the time away) and canceled my service. No thank you, Mr. Comcast. This was March 21st.
I received a bill in the mail from Comcast yesterday. Apparently my account is past due. Imagine that- they fucked up the cancelation order and they're continuing to charge the account. The letter states, in no uncertain terms, that I will no longer be able to enjoy Comcast cable unless I pay my bill immediately. The total? Four hundred and thirty nine dollars.
I'm writing the check right now. Do you think they will notice that it's signed with the blood of their recently murdered children? I hope so.
I <3 teh teevee. So does Baby. We've got three TV's in our two bedroom place. As such, we need some serious cable. When we were shown the place the landlord informed me the building was wired for DirecTV. I was happy, but I figured we'd be better off just getting cable for the internet and television. That was my first mistake, and it was a big one.
I set up appointment after appointment with Comcast. I had a week off during the move, so I had plenty of time to meet the guys that came to set it up. Or so you'd think. The first guy that came out informed me we hadn't been set up yet, so he couldn't do anything. The second guy never showed. At the end of my week off the third guy came out and finally got things up and running, but just barely. The picture on the cable was atrocious, because the signal was so weak. HDTV didn't work at all. And our internet access was incredibly unreliable. But hey, at least I could watch Mason play in the tournament.
I set up our fourth appointment to have the signal worked on. Another no show, and a missed afternoon of work. A week later the fifth guy showed up and explained to me the initial setup was wrong, and they'd have to re-wire from the street to the building to fix the signal. Thankfully that appointment was in the evening, so no missed work. I scheduled the next appointment for a week later (soonest I could get), this time having no choice but take another afternoon off. In the meantime another group was supposed to come out and fix something in the street, meaning I didn't need to be home. OK.
The following week, guy number six (although technically number seven) shows up four hours late. This is an extra bonus, as he got there at 6pm so I didn't need to take an afternoon off after all. He informs me that although our building was scheduled to be re-wired, and the technician filed a report that stated he had completed the work, nothing was actually done. I'd had enough. I thanked the guy and told him that would be all. I called the office and waited on hold for one hundred and three minutes (it's ok, I drank the time away) and canceled my service. No thank you, Mr. Comcast. This was March 21st.
I received a bill in the mail from Comcast yesterday. Apparently my account is past due. Imagine that- they fucked up the cancelation order and they're continuing to charge the account. The letter states, in no uncertain terms, that I will no longer be able to enjoy Comcast cable unless I pay my bill immediately. The total? Four hundred and thirty nine dollars.
I'm writing the check right now. Do you think they will notice that it's signed with the blood of their recently murdered children? I hope so.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
I've Tried Nothing And I'm All Out Of Ideas
I envisioned this great comeback post. This heartwrenching, hilarious, comment-inspiring masterpiece that says, "See? This is what you've been waiting for!"
Yeah, not happening. I got nothing.
I miss writing here. I miss the catharsis. I also miss the sense of pride I used to get when I saw how many people were actually reading. I'm not ashamed of that. Should I be? No, definitely not. This isn't a diary. This is written mostly to make people, including myself (well, mostly just myself) laugh. I wasn't doing it for the kids, or the music. I was doing it for the hits. No point in being fucking coy about it.
But with that came the pressure to be funny, to be angry, to be thoughtful. I got to the point where I felt guilty for producing some crappy posts when I didn't have much to say. And then I was SO over it. Days turned to weeks and I had nothing good to say. Hence, silence.
I think I might try a different approach. This time I'm just going to suck and not feel bad about it. I'm going to choose frequency over quality. No more pressure to perform.
So welcome back to my blog, now shittier than ever!
Yeah, not happening. I got nothing.
I miss writing here. I miss the catharsis. I also miss the sense of pride I used to get when I saw how many people were actually reading. I'm not ashamed of that. Should I be? No, definitely not. This isn't a diary. This is written mostly to make people, including myself (well, mostly just myself) laugh. I wasn't doing it for the kids, or the music. I was doing it for the hits. No point in being fucking coy about it.
But with that came the pressure to be funny, to be angry, to be thoughtful. I got to the point where I felt guilty for producing some crappy posts when I didn't have much to say. And then I was SO over it. Days turned to weeks and I had nothing good to say. Hence, silence.
I think I might try a different approach. This time I'm just going to suck and not feel bad about it. I'm going to choose frequency over quality. No more pressure to perform.
So welcome back to my blog, now shittier than ever!
Friday, February 24, 2006
Impending Doom
Get away from me, I'm warning you. Something terrible is about to happen.
You see, I'm cursed. Bad things just happen to me. Always have. I had an ex who used to say that lucky people seem to have rainbows following them around, and unlucky people have stormclouds. Only bryc3's stormcloud rains knives and broken glass. It's true. If you read this regularly you know that I must have done something to someone at some point that basically screwed me for life. My karma is pwn3d. There's no way around it.
You learn to live with it. When you're constantly prepared for the worst case scenario you develop an almost Zen-like calm when the shit hits the fan. "Oh, bad luck. I was wondering when you'd show up." Case in point: when my ex-fiance and I split up I barely batted an eye. Now granted, I was happy to be rid of the shrieking, hateful harpy. But on the other hand, catastrophe was inevitable. Instead of thinking "Woe is me, only six weeks to the wedding" I instead realized "Meh, at least I got that out of the way." It's as if acceptance of my own bad luck as destiny has led to a pessimism so extreme that I take comfort in it. So I just always make sure I'm wearing clean underwear, I avoid buying green bananas, and I carry around the names of next of kin in my wallet. I'm so sure the lightning bolt is aiming right at me that I don't even bother to look up when it rains. Death is coming sooner rather than later.
Except there is considerable recent evidence that suggests that my luck has changed.
Listen:
My girlfriend is the greatest person in the world. Like ever. Baby is simply the best thing that has ever happened to me. She's so great, in fact, that I have no idea what she's doing. She's way too good for me. But she hasn't caught on to this yet, and if you tell her I will fucking kill you.
When Baby and I decided to look for a new apartment recently we fell in love with and successfully rented the first place we saw.
I let my current landlord know that I would be moving out prior to the actual expiration of my lease, and that I was going to have to be on the hook for two places in the month of April. A week later she called to tell me she had rented my current place, saving me an entire month's rent.
On a lark I decided to apply for a job I saw listed in the paper. I didn't think I stood a chance, and I didn't think the interview went well. They told me they'd call me the following week and inform me of their decision. Imagine my surprise when they called two days later to offer me the job. Oh and by the way it pays 30% more than my current salary. And I will never need to drive my car again. And I have my own office. And on and on.
My current boss walks up to me today and says, "I know your last day is next Friday, but would you mind if we just made it next Wednesday? It will be easier for the people in HR. We will still pay you through Friday."
The George Mason Patriots are ranked 25 in this week's ESPN/Coaches poll.
And did I mention how great Baby is?
What the fuck is going on here? What on earth have I done to deserve this? And what unspeakable peril is about to befall me? This really doesn't look good. Baby swears my luck is changing. In her argument I hit the bottom and kept on going, and now I'm being rewarded. I'm way too jaded to buy into any of that crap (again, you tell Baby I said that and I'll kill you), but she may have a point. Time will tell I guess.
In the meantime, don't say I didn't warn you. And promise to say nice things about me at the funeral.
You see, I'm cursed. Bad things just happen to me. Always have. I had an ex who used to say that lucky people seem to have rainbows following them around, and unlucky people have stormclouds. Only bryc3's stormcloud rains knives and broken glass. It's true. If you read this regularly you know that I must have done something to someone at some point that basically screwed me for life. My karma is pwn3d. There's no way around it.
You learn to live with it. When you're constantly prepared for the worst case scenario you develop an almost Zen-like calm when the shit hits the fan. "Oh, bad luck. I was wondering when you'd show up." Case in point: when my ex-fiance and I split up I barely batted an eye. Now granted, I was happy to be rid of the shrieking, hateful harpy. But on the other hand, catastrophe was inevitable. Instead of thinking "Woe is me, only six weeks to the wedding" I instead realized "Meh, at least I got that out of the way." It's as if acceptance of my own bad luck as destiny has led to a pessimism so extreme that I take comfort in it. So I just always make sure I'm wearing clean underwear, I avoid buying green bananas, and I carry around the names of next of kin in my wallet. I'm so sure the lightning bolt is aiming right at me that I don't even bother to look up when it rains. Death is coming sooner rather than later.
Except there is considerable recent evidence that suggests that my luck has changed.
Listen:
My girlfriend is the greatest person in the world. Like ever. Baby is simply the best thing that has ever happened to me. She's so great, in fact, that I have no idea what she's doing. She's way too good for me. But she hasn't caught on to this yet, and if you tell her I will fucking kill you.
When Baby and I decided to look for a new apartment recently we fell in love with and successfully rented the first place we saw.
I let my current landlord know that I would be moving out prior to the actual expiration of my lease, and that I was going to have to be on the hook for two places in the month of April. A week later she called to tell me she had rented my current place, saving me an entire month's rent.
On a lark I decided to apply for a job I saw listed in the paper. I didn't think I stood a chance, and I didn't think the interview went well. They told me they'd call me the following week and inform me of their decision. Imagine my surprise when they called two days later to offer me the job. Oh and by the way it pays 30% more than my current salary. And I will never need to drive my car again. And I have my own office. And on and on.
My current boss walks up to me today and says, "I know your last day is next Friday, but would you mind if we just made it next Wednesday? It will be easier for the people in HR. We will still pay you through Friday."
The George Mason Patriots are ranked 25 in this week's ESPN/Coaches poll.
And did I mention how great Baby is?
What the fuck is going on here? What on earth have I done to deserve this? And what unspeakable peril is about to befall me? This really doesn't look good. Baby swears my luck is changing. In her argument I hit the bottom and kept on going, and now I'm being rewarded. I'm way too jaded to buy into any of that crap (again, you tell Baby I said that and I'll kill you), but she may have a point. Time will tell I guess.
In the meantime, don't say I didn't warn you. And promise to say nice things about me at the funeral.
Friday, February 17, 2006
My Penis: Three Vignettes
It’s probably not news to you that I’m a calamity magnet. In fact, it’s probably why you read this. I’ve gotten the impression that people most like to read about my misfortunes and mishaps. I’m ok with that. I think you’re going to like this one.
I hurt myself all the time. I also drop things, misplace things, forget things, overreact to things, and generally fuck most things up. This isn’t the end of the world when I stub my toe or lose the remote. But when a certain body part is involved, it tends to magnify the gravity of the situation.
This is going to be a bit graphic, so be warned. For the sake of saving some decency, I’m going to refer to my penis as my Little Guy. This isn’t some ironic joke, like calling a big fat guy Tiny. This is just what Baby happens to call it. And that’s not even the humiliating part of the story.
In fact, I have three other humiliating stories to tell about my Little Guy.
Number One
Back when I was in high school I was sleeping with a girl with a less than pristine reputation. Granted, my reputation probably made her look like a saint, but that’s a different story for a different time. Let’s just say we were both rather sexually active.
I had just gone through a whole series of those really graphic sex ed classes where they show you how banged up your privates get if you get things like warts or herpes or the clap. Because I wanted (and was miraculously able) to do it all the time I figured it was basically a given that my Little Guy was going to rot off sooner rather than later. I was very paranoid.
So I am about to have sex with this girl and it’s completely dark in the room. She has the protection I insist (against her wishes) on using, and I fumble my way through putting it on in the dark. We finish doing what we did, and I get up to go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. I stumble, completely naked, into the also dark bathroom and hunt for the light switch. I eventually find it and flip it, only to be blinded by the lights. When I am finally able to see again I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my knees literally buckle. My Little Guy is a shade of red that nobody’s Little Guy should ever be. Think fire engine. Now think of an infected, contagious, biohazard colored fire engine. I am certain my sexual career is over. When I regain my composure I realize I’m fine. It’s a bright red novelty condom. Crisis averted.
Post script to this story: If this ever happens to you, don’t go back to the bedroom and say to the girl, “Holy shit, for a minute there I thought you gave me the worst STD ever!” Chicks don’t dig that.
Number Two
There is a guy in every gym that everyone hates. He is the guy that doesn’t have an ounce of basketball ability, but insists on playing to get a workout. He takes up space on the court, turns the ball over, fouls the hell out of you, and is really nothing more than an injury waiting to happen.
In college I had the misfortune of having to be guarded by That Guy one fateful day. Knowing my luck, I’m basically just trying to get through the game without having to be put in an ambulance. At one point the ball gets lose and That Guy and I are running towards it from opposite directions. A collision is eminent, so I brace myself for the impact and grit my teeth. That Guy comes in front foot first, in an inexplicable karate kick motion that makes a fucking beeline for my Little Guy. I take the full force of his foot to my groin and I go down in a heap, only immediately I know something is very, very wrong.
You see, normally when you get hit down there it’s in the balls. That is the part that hurts, and it’s a sickening feeling that you really can’t describe unless it’s happened to you. This pain isn’t like that at all. This is stinging. And stinging on your Little Guy is fucking catastrophic.
As I’m laying there I realize I’m going to have to check Little Guy out, because something is definitely amiss. Only that’s hard to do when a crowd of people has gathered around you to say really helpful things like, “God damn, that must have hurt!” They get me up, and I make my way to the locker room and into a stall.
This time my knees buckled and gave out, and I had to sit on the edge of the toilet. When I looked down at my Little Guy all I saw was blood. That Guy’s foot had apparently caught Little Guy at his very base and peeled the skin off from the base to the tip. Like a goddamn sardine tin rolling back. I bled through my underpants and my shorts. And Little Guy was completely out of commission for weeks.
Post script to this story: “No honey, these scabs are from basketball, I’m totally clean” is a very, very, very hard sell.
Number Three
I just recently got contacts for the first time, and I’m having a hell of a time putting them in. I typically have to stand in front of the mirror for a long time and force them in. I’m getting better, but it still takes about ten minutes each morning. I don’t exactly pick up new things easily or gracefully.
So I’m standing at the sink on Monday morning in my underpants, trying to put my god-forsaken contacts in. I’m leaning toward the bathroom mirror, over the sink, trying to line everything up. I’m about to take a stab at insertion when I get that all-too-familiar knee-buckling feeling again. I’m paralyzed with fear, as I have an icy, stinging sensation on the tip of my Little Guy.
I manage to jump back and survey the situation and quickly find the cause of the problem. In my effort to lean over the sink to get closer to the mirror I have somehow found the one square inch of countertop occupied by my open contact case. With my Little Guy. I’ve then dipped the tip of my Little Guy directly into it.
Post script to this story: There is a reason the bottle says “For external use only.” Contact solution in your peehole? Bad idea.
I hurt myself all the time. I also drop things, misplace things, forget things, overreact to things, and generally fuck most things up. This isn’t the end of the world when I stub my toe or lose the remote. But when a certain body part is involved, it tends to magnify the gravity of the situation.
This is going to be a bit graphic, so be warned. For the sake of saving some decency, I’m going to refer to my penis as my Little Guy. This isn’t some ironic joke, like calling a big fat guy Tiny. This is just what Baby happens to call it. And that’s not even the humiliating part of the story.
In fact, I have three other humiliating stories to tell about my Little Guy.
Number One
Back when I was in high school I was sleeping with a girl with a less than pristine reputation. Granted, my reputation probably made her look like a saint, but that’s a different story for a different time. Let’s just say we were both rather sexually active.
I had just gone through a whole series of those really graphic sex ed classes where they show you how banged up your privates get if you get things like warts or herpes or the clap. Because I wanted (and was miraculously able) to do it all the time I figured it was basically a given that my Little Guy was going to rot off sooner rather than later. I was very paranoid.
So I am about to have sex with this girl and it’s completely dark in the room. She has the protection I insist (against her wishes) on using, and I fumble my way through putting it on in the dark. We finish doing what we did, and I get up to go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. I stumble, completely naked, into the also dark bathroom and hunt for the light switch. I eventually find it and flip it, only to be blinded by the lights. When I am finally able to see again I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my knees literally buckle. My Little Guy is a shade of red that nobody’s Little Guy should ever be. Think fire engine. Now think of an infected, contagious, biohazard colored fire engine. I am certain my sexual career is over. When I regain my composure I realize I’m fine. It’s a bright red novelty condom. Crisis averted.
Post script to this story: If this ever happens to you, don’t go back to the bedroom and say to the girl, “Holy shit, for a minute there I thought you gave me the worst STD ever!” Chicks don’t dig that.
Number Two
There is a guy in every gym that everyone hates. He is the guy that doesn’t have an ounce of basketball ability, but insists on playing to get a workout. He takes up space on the court, turns the ball over, fouls the hell out of you, and is really nothing more than an injury waiting to happen.
In college I had the misfortune of having to be guarded by That Guy one fateful day. Knowing my luck, I’m basically just trying to get through the game without having to be put in an ambulance. At one point the ball gets lose and That Guy and I are running towards it from opposite directions. A collision is eminent, so I brace myself for the impact and grit my teeth. That Guy comes in front foot first, in an inexplicable karate kick motion that makes a fucking beeline for my Little Guy. I take the full force of his foot to my groin and I go down in a heap, only immediately I know something is very, very wrong.
You see, normally when you get hit down there it’s in the balls. That is the part that hurts, and it’s a sickening feeling that you really can’t describe unless it’s happened to you. This pain isn’t like that at all. This is stinging. And stinging on your Little Guy is fucking catastrophic.
As I’m laying there I realize I’m going to have to check Little Guy out, because something is definitely amiss. Only that’s hard to do when a crowd of people has gathered around you to say really helpful things like, “God damn, that must have hurt!” They get me up, and I make my way to the locker room and into a stall.
This time my knees buckled and gave out, and I had to sit on the edge of the toilet. When I looked down at my Little Guy all I saw was blood. That Guy’s foot had apparently caught Little Guy at his very base and peeled the skin off from the base to the tip. Like a goddamn sardine tin rolling back. I bled through my underpants and my shorts. And Little Guy was completely out of commission for weeks.
Post script to this story: “No honey, these scabs are from basketball, I’m totally clean” is a very, very, very hard sell.
Number Three
I just recently got contacts for the first time, and I’m having a hell of a time putting them in. I typically have to stand in front of the mirror for a long time and force them in. I’m getting better, but it still takes about ten minutes each morning. I don’t exactly pick up new things easily or gracefully.
So I’m standing at the sink on Monday morning in my underpants, trying to put my god-forsaken contacts in. I’m leaning toward the bathroom mirror, over the sink, trying to line everything up. I’m about to take a stab at insertion when I get that all-too-familiar knee-buckling feeling again. I’m paralyzed with fear, as I have an icy, stinging sensation on the tip of my Little Guy.
I manage to jump back and survey the situation and quickly find the cause of the problem. In my effort to lean over the sink to get closer to the mirror I have somehow found the one square inch of countertop occupied by my open contact case. With my Little Guy. I’ve then dipped the tip of my Little Guy directly into it.
Post script to this story: There is a reason the bottle says “For external use only.” Contact solution in your peehole? Bad idea.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Verdict: Everyone In Florida Is Retarded
I'm at a loss.
I work in government contracting. A solicitation (an invitation to bid on a contract) for a contract in Florida was recently canceled. I need to find out why. I sent the following very simple email on Tuesday:
"Hello Ms. X,
Can you tell me why this solicitation was canceled? Do you anticipate a new solicitation will be released soon? Was this canceled permanently, or simply postponed?
Thanks,"
I received this in my inbox this morning:
"Please note; that the ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH have not been cancelled, what was cancel was ITN-DOT-03/04-8007-EH, due system fail and the " New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load.
ELIZABETH E. X
PURCHASING AGENT III
FLORIDA'S TURNPIKE ENTERPRISE
E-MAIL elizabeth.X@XXX.XXX.fl.us
(407) XXX-XXXX EXT.XXXX/SC XXX-XXXX
Fax (407) XXX-XXXX
"In Search of Love & Peace""
I've X'd out most of the details to protect her anonymity. Sort of.
In order:
1) Ah, the semicolon. Should have known this was a harbinger of fuckups to come. Rule of thumb- if you can't form complete sentences, you might want to avoid the semicolon. Its usage is a mystery you will never possess the faculty to solve.
2) A single solicitation (ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH) 'have not' been cancelled. Nice.
3) A single solicitation (DOT-03/04-8007-EH) apparently 'was cancel', and apparently 'was cancel due system fail', whatever the fuck THAT means
4) " New One" - this one is my second favorite. Note unnecessary quotation marks. Note unnecessary space between first quotation mark and 'N.' Note unnecessary capitalization.
5) Observe that the "" New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load." On line. Down load. Have you ever used the internet, Ms. X? Can I ask how you got the job answering email about information technology contracts if you're unfamiliar with such high-tech jargon as being 'online' and 'downloading' files?
6) Purchasing Agent III?!?! What's the prerequisite for becoming a Purchasing Agent I?
7) This one is my favorite. Check out her signature: "In Search of Love & Peace" Baby suggested she should be in search of remedial grammar. Honestly, she should be in search of a fucking job at Wendy's.
This woman has a very American-sounding name. I'm willing to guess she's an American. This is not a case of making fun of someone new to the language. She's also not an intern or a front line, minimum-wage type. Her title implies seniority. Beyond that, she's employed to be the point of contact with the public, meaning she should be able to at least read and write, right? Is that too much to ask?
The only thing I can come up with is that it's "Bring Your Daughter To Work" day in Florida, and Ms. X's daughter is fucking retarded.
I work in government contracting. A solicitation (an invitation to bid on a contract) for a contract in Florida was recently canceled. I need to find out why. I sent the following very simple email on Tuesday:
"Hello Ms. X,
Can you tell me why this solicitation was canceled? Do you anticipate a new solicitation will be released soon? Was this canceled permanently, or simply postponed?
Thanks,"
I received this in my inbox this morning:
"Please note; that the ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH have not been cancelled, what was cancel was ITN-DOT-03/04-8007-EH, due system fail and the " New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load.
ELIZABETH E. X
PURCHASING AGENT III
FLORIDA'S TURNPIKE ENTERPRISE
E-MAIL elizabeth.X@XXX.XXX.fl.us
(407) XXX-XXXX EXT.XXXX/SC XXX-XXXX
Fax (407) XXX-XXXX
"In Search of Love & Peace""
I've X'd out most of the details to protect her anonymity. Sort of.
In order:
1) Ah, the semicolon. Should have known this was a harbinger of fuckups to come. Rule of thumb- if you can't form complete sentences, you might want to avoid the semicolon. Its usage is a mystery you will never possess the faculty to solve.
2) A single solicitation (ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH) 'have not' been cancelled. Nice.
3) A single solicitation (DOT-03/04-8007-EH) apparently 'was cancel', and apparently 'was cancel due system fail', whatever the fuck THAT means
4) " New One" - this one is my second favorite. Note unnecessary quotation marks. Note unnecessary space between first quotation mark and 'N.' Note unnecessary capitalization.
5) Observe that the "" New One" is ITN-DOT-05/06-8007-EH is on line and can be down load." On line. Down load. Have you ever used the internet, Ms. X? Can I ask how you got the job answering email about information technology contracts if you're unfamiliar with such high-tech jargon as being 'online' and 'downloading' files?
6) Purchasing Agent III?!?! What's the prerequisite for becoming a Purchasing Agent I?
7) This one is my favorite. Check out her signature: "In Search of Love & Peace" Baby suggested she should be in search of remedial grammar. Honestly, she should be in search of a fucking job at Wendy's.
This woman has a very American-sounding name. I'm willing to guess she's an American. This is not a case of making fun of someone new to the language. She's also not an intern or a front line, minimum-wage type. Her title implies seniority. Beyond that, she's employed to be the point of contact with the public, meaning she should be able to at least read and write, right? Is that too much to ask?
The only thing I can come up with is that it's "Bring Your Daughter To Work" day in Florida, and Ms. X's daughter is fucking retarded.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
The Accidental Racist
I am keenly aware of race. I always have been, and I don't know why. My family is pretty diverse, although I'm as white as you can get. Yet from the time I was very little I have always noticed race and how it affects things. When I was a kid we lived around the corner from my cousins- my father's (Daddy #2) sister's kids. They're both black (black father, Turkish mother). To this day people look at me sideways when I explain they're my cousins. As if the idea of a white kid with black cousins is preposterous. This may have put the chip on my shoulder in the first place. But for whatever the reason, I always notice racial tension and I always seem to side with whatever minority happens to be involved. Over the years my friends, particularly my black friends, have found this very funny. It does seem silly to have a white guy on the lookout for racism. If I were black I probably would have joined the Black Panthers when I was seven.
On Monday night Baby and I were in Subway (no cheap dates for bryc3, thank you very much). The kid working behind the counter was obviously in a bad mood. It looked as if nothing had been prepped, so he kept slamming things around and having to go back in the back to get stuff. I've mentioned before that I'm always nice to people working service jobs because I've been there, and it's horrible. Baby feels the same way, so we just sorta stood there and tried to make it as easy as possible on the guy. By the time he gets to us he's completely over it. He's being unprofessional and rude, but like I said we're sympathetic so we just went along.
It goes without saying that I've noticed the kid is black and he's serving two white people. If I were in his shoes, this would have pissed me off. Look, I know I'm an idiot. But it's the angry little pissant in me that gets mad about racism even though I'm white. So I completely cringe when he asks Baby, "Do you want cheese on that?" and she responds with, "Yes, White American, please." He never even pauses, but I immediately think, "Fucking whitey." And this is the woman I love.
After I pay for the sandwiches (what can I say? I'm a classy guy) and the guy goes in the back, I explain to Baby what she said and how it looked. She confirms what everyone suspects- I'm an idiot. Obviously she meant nothing by it, and obviously the guy didn't even notice. But then she starts laughing, and she tells me a story along the same lines.
Back when Baby was in college she was decorating her dorm room, and she wanted one of those reading pillows. Or at least that's what I've always called them. But apparently they're also called husband pillows. Do you know what I'm talking about? They look like this. She wanted a black one, because she's into this whole mod look. So she's with a group of her friends at the Roses department store in Fredericksburg, going through the pillow aisle looking for one. She can't find any, so she yells to her friends, at the other end of the aisle, "God damn it, I need a black husband!"
I laughed, but then I told my story.
My kid brother's nickname is "The Boy" (you might be able to see where this is going- but trust me, it's worse). I gave it to him years ago, I can't even remember why anymore. But it stuck, so he is generally referred to as that, or simply "Boy" if you're into the whole brevity thing.
The Boy and I used to work together at one of the family businesses- an electronics repair shop. One day The Boy is working behind the counter and I'm there helping him out. A black guy walks in to pick up his VCR, handing his claim check to The Boy. I volunteer to go get it from the back, in the storage room behind the counter. But when I get back there I realize there are three or four very similar models and I'm not sure which one is his. I'm too lazy to walk all the way back out, so I simply go over to the doorway between the two rooms to ask The Boy which one it is. I can't see The Boy from where I'm standing, so I'm just looking at the customer. Without hesitating, and looking right into this black man's eyes, I say in a loud, clear voice, "What's the name, Boy?"
I immediately realize what I've said, but it's too late. The guy gives me the single greatest "You have got to be fucking kidding me" look you have ever seen. I am paralyzed with embarrassment and shame. But mercifully The Boy answers immediately. The guy then gives me the "I knew you weren't that fucking stupid" look and I fetch his VCR.
Fucking whitey.
On Monday night Baby and I were in Subway (no cheap dates for bryc3, thank you very much). The kid working behind the counter was obviously in a bad mood. It looked as if nothing had been prepped, so he kept slamming things around and having to go back in the back to get stuff. I've mentioned before that I'm always nice to people working service jobs because I've been there, and it's horrible. Baby feels the same way, so we just sorta stood there and tried to make it as easy as possible on the guy. By the time he gets to us he's completely over it. He's being unprofessional and rude, but like I said we're sympathetic so we just went along.
It goes without saying that I've noticed the kid is black and he's serving two white people. If I were in his shoes, this would have pissed me off. Look, I know I'm an idiot. But it's the angry little pissant in me that gets mad about racism even though I'm white. So I completely cringe when he asks Baby, "Do you want cheese on that?" and she responds with, "Yes, White American, please." He never even pauses, but I immediately think, "Fucking whitey." And this is the woman I love.
After I pay for the sandwiches (what can I say? I'm a classy guy) and the guy goes in the back, I explain to Baby what she said and how it looked. She confirms what everyone suspects- I'm an idiot. Obviously she meant nothing by it, and obviously the guy didn't even notice. But then she starts laughing, and she tells me a story along the same lines.
Back when Baby was in college she was decorating her dorm room, and she wanted one of those reading pillows. Or at least that's what I've always called them. But apparently they're also called husband pillows. Do you know what I'm talking about? They look like this. She wanted a black one, because she's into this whole mod look. So she's with a group of her friends at the Roses department store in Fredericksburg, going through the pillow aisle looking for one. She can't find any, so she yells to her friends, at the other end of the aisle, "God damn it, I need a black husband!"
I laughed, but then I told my story.
My kid brother's nickname is "The Boy" (you might be able to see where this is going- but trust me, it's worse). I gave it to him years ago, I can't even remember why anymore. But it stuck, so he is generally referred to as that, or simply "Boy" if you're into the whole brevity thing.
The Boy and I used to work together at one of the family businesses- an electronics repair shop. One day The Boy is working behind the counter and I'm there helping him out. A black guy walks in to pick up his VCR, handing his claim check to The Boy. I volunteer to go get it from the back, in the storage room behind the counter. But when I get back there I realize there are three or four very similar models and I'm not sure which one is his. I'm too lazy to walk all the way back out, so I simply go over to the doorway between the two rooms to ask The Boy which one it is. I can't see The Boy from where I'm standing, so I'm just looking at the customer. Without hesitating, and looking right into this black man's eyes, I say in a loud, clear voice, "What's the name, Boy?"
I immediately realize what I've said, but it's too late. The guy gives me the single greatest "You have got to be fucking kidding me" look you have ever seen. I am paralyzed with embarrassment and shame. But mercifully The Boy answers immediately. The guy then gives me the "I knew you weren't that fucking stupid" look and I fetch his VCR.
Fucking whitey.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
I'll Do It, I Swear I Will!
I went to get gas yesterday after work. I was tired and had skipped my lunch, so I was in no mood to be bothered. I was waiting in line at the gas station when I noticed that some dick had left his Mercedes in front of both pumps at a particular island, ensuring he would be the only one pumping gas on that side. As this was a small station, that meant he was occupying 2 of the 8 pumps. Wait, it gets worse.
I probably had to wait about five minutes to get to a pump. I then had to get out and pump my gas. In all that time there was no sign of the driver of the Mercedes. There was no one in the vehicle, and worse yet there was no hose sticking out of the tank. About this time I noticed a guy in a suit and overcoat walking out of the Starbucks across the parking lot and headed toward the Mercedes. Sure enough, he puts his cup of coffee on the roof of the car and starts fumbling for his keys. At this point he notices me glaring at him. "What?!" he says. "Did you just park your fucking car at both pumps so you could go to Starbucks?" I ask. "Yeah," he says, "You got a fucking problem with that?" This presented me with several options:
1. Go the tough guy route, and walk over and fight him.
2. Stand where I was and publicly humiliate him, as by now people had noticed the shouting and the profanity.
3. Drive away and do nothing.
I chose number two. I'm like that.
I says to him I says, "Well, parking there was pretty bad, but acting like an asshole about it is making it a lot worse." This gets a chuckle from the other pumpers. Obviously a quick wit, he replies with, "Well, what are you gonna do about it, pal?" Me: "I'm going to point out what an asshole you are. I thought I was making that pretty clear." Louder laughs this time. But I can tell he is a bit flustered, because he says, "Where are your fucking balls? Come do something about it. I'm not going anywhere." Regrettably, I hit him back with, "I see that, and it's only exacerbating your whole asshole problem." This met with general silence and confusion among the pumpers. You'd think in my thirty years of being a smartass I would have learned that confrontations with the bully are no place to show off your vocabulary. It works in the movies, but extras seem to be a lot smarter than your average bystander.
But I felt as if I had achieved my goal. I got a few laughs and humiliated the guy. So I just got in the car and drove away. There was really no point in getting into a fist fight, and I probably would have lost anyway.
Situations like that are precisely the reason I don't own a gun. Because if I would have had one, I would have pulled it out. I don't necessarily know if I would have shot him, but I would have let him know that I was considering it. I would use it for the shock value, to explain in no uncertain terms that no, I'm sorry, but today is definitely not the day to fuck with me.
As I was driving home I was having a conversation with my friend Steve, explaining my need for something gun-like that would serve the same purpose. Something so immediately shocking and recognizable that whoever I was arguing with would just give up in fear. I've mentioned before that I used to think a fake badge would work in those situations, but surely there must be something better and scarier. That gave me an idea- a whip. Think about it. You get into an argument and they pull their coat up to reveal a whip on their hip, Indiana Jones-style. Who knows how to use a whip? Probably somebody who means fucking business, that's who. I was pretty proud of this, but without hesitation Steve offered up the answer:
Bees.
I should carry around a jar of bees in the event that someone messes with me. It's brilliant in it's simplicity. Should an argument escalate into a potential conflict I could slowly remove the jar from my pocket and hold it up. "You don't want me to use THESE, do you?"
Admit it, you'd be scared.
I probably had to wait about five minutes to get to a pump. I then had to get out and pump my gas. In all that time there was no sign of the driver of the Mercedes. There was no one in the vehicle, and worse yet there was no hose sticking out of the tank. About this time I noticed a guy in a suit and overcoat walking out of the Starbucks across the parking lot and headed toward the Mercedes. Sure enough, he puts his cup of coffee on the roof of the car and starts fumbling for his keys. At this point he notices me glaring at him. "What?!" he says. "Did you just park your fucking car at both pumps so you could go to Starbucks?" I ask. "Yeah," he says, "You got a fucking problem with that?" This presented me with several options:
1. Go the tough guy route, and walk over and fight him.
2. Stand where I was and publicly humiliate him, as by now people had noticed the shouting and the profanity.
3. Drive away and do nothing.
I chose number two. I'm like that.
I says to him I says, "Well, parking there was pretty bad, but acting like an asshole about it is making it a lot worse." This gets a chuckle from the other pumpers. Obviously a quick wit, he replies with, "Well, what are you gonna do about it, pal?" Me: "I'm going to point out what an asshole you are. I thought I was making that pretty clear." Louder laughs this time. But I can tell he is a bit flustered, because he says, "Where are your fucking balls? Come do something about it. I'm not going anywhere." Regrettably, I hit him back with, "I see that, and it's only exacerbating your whole asshole problem." This met with general silence and confusion among the pumpers. You'd think in my thirty years of being a smartass I would have learned that confrontations with the bully are no place to show off your vocabulary. It works in the movies, but extras seem to be a lot smarter than your average bystander.
But I felt as if I had achieved my goal. I got a few laughs and humiliated the guy. So I just got in the car and drove away. There was really no point in getting into a fist fight, and I probably would have lost anyway.
Situations like that are precisely the reason I don't own a gun. Because if I would have had one, I would have pulled it out. I don't necessarily know if I would have shot him, but I would have let him know that I was considering it. I would use it for the shock value, to explain in no uncertain terms that no, I'm sorry, but today is definitely not the day to fuck with me.
As I was driving home I was having a conversation with my friend Steve, explaining my need for something gun-like that would serve the same purpose. Something so immediately shocking and recognizable that whoever I was arguing with would just give up in fear. I've mentioned before that I used to think a fake badge would work in those situations, but surely there must be something better and scarier. That gave me an idea- a whip. Think about it. You get into an argument and they pull their coat up to reveal a whip on their hip, Indiana Jones-style. Who knows how to use a whip? Probably somebody who means fucking business, that's who. I was pretty proud of this, but without hesitation Steve offered up the answer:
Bees.
I should carry around a jar of bees in the event that someone messes with me. It's brilliant in it's simplicity. Should an argument escalate into a potential conflict I could slowly remove the jar from my pocket and hold it up. "You don't want me to use THESE, do you?"
Admit it, you'd be scared.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Cat Fancy
My family pretty much always had a pet. When I was just a kid we had a cat named Buttons, and she hung around til I was about twelve or so. Then we got a cocker spaniel named Brandi, but that didn’t work out and my folks shipped her out. We then got another cat when I was probably about sixteen. We loved this one so much that we never gave it a name. We just called it Cat. That’s a true story. Cat died the summer before last, when my Mom was in the process of moving to Richmond. My mom packed Cat on ice, put her in a cooler, and drove her down to her new place to bury her in the yard. Kind of a gruesome story. But even better, that Thanksgiving when I went to visit my mom she packed up the Thanksgiving dinner in a cooler for me to take home. A week later, after I had finished eating everything, she confessed she used the same cooler that Cat had been in. Nice.
So in a roundabout kind of way I’m a cat person. Not that I like cats, or think anyone should have cats, but I understand them and I’m familiar with them. Because I was home all the time and up at all hours of the night I developed a bit of a relationship with Cat. She was an outdoor cat, so it was my job to let her in at night and make sure she was fed. But once she came in the house she did her thing and I did mine. The arrangement worked for us. And when I moved out of my mom’s house I thought my cat days were over.
But then I started dating Baby.
Baby hearts her two cats like most people heart children. She feeds them from the table, by hand. She lets them sleep in the bed. When they throw up (daily) or inexplicably poop next to the litter box she cleans it up without getting angry. You know how an infant spits up or has an ‘accident’ and people think it’s cute? Baby does that with the cats. She’s just that devoted. I, however, am repulsed.
Here’s a good example:
On Tuesday night I picked Baby up after work and we went and got some dinner. We went back to her place and I was trying to take a nap in her bed. She was laying beside me, reading the paper. Lola, the more docile of the cats, had taken her usual position beside Baby, on the side of the bed furthest from me. The fat, mean one, Jezebel, was nowhere to be seen. Yet.
Right as I’m dozing off I hear a sound I’ve honestly never heard before. It was a kind of scraping, slurping sound. I’m half asleep, so I ignore it for a while in hopes that it will go away. But when I notice the bed is shaking ever so slightly I can’t take the annoyance anymore.
bryc3: “Baby what is that?”
Baby: “It’s just Jezebel.”
bryc3: “What is she doing?”
Baby: “Licking her butt.”
bryc3: “You can’t be serious.”
Baby: (laughing) “Yeah, she has butt problems.”
The noise was horrifying, nightmarish. Does the mental image work for you? Good. Baby was completely unmoved. Apparently this is a normal occurrence.
We’re moving in together in two months. What the hell am I gonna do? I love Baby, more than anything. She’s the best thing since ever and I’d do anything for her. But I’m simply not a cat person. And I can tell this bothers her because she watches how I interact with the cats. It hurts her feelings that I don’t feed them French fries when we’re watching TV, or let them sleep on my side of the bed. She frowns when I spend the whole night picking cat hairs off my pillow. I have tried to explain that I love her, and in turn love her cats because they mean so much to her. And she admits the cats like me, because they’re typically unfriendly but took to me the minute they met me. I’ve had other people tell us that that’s because the cats can sense I don’t like them. But that’s simply not the case. I do like them, just in my own way. I’m not affectionate (and disgusting) with my pets. I keep them at arms length. But I would never do anything to hurt them, and take care of them as if they were my children.
Yet none of it is enough for Baby. She wants me to be a cat person. Is that even possible? Can I change? Or can I find a new way to explain to her how I feel? Or perhaps I need to just put my foot down and drown them in the Potomac?
So in a roundabout kind of way I’m a cat person. Not that I like cats, or think anyone should have cats, but I understand them and I’m familiar with them. Because I was home all the time and up at all hours of the night I developed a bit of a relationship with Cat. She was an outdoor cat, so it was my job to let her in at night and make sure she was fed. But once she came in the house she did her thing and I did mine. The arrangement worked for us. And when I moved out of my mom’s house I thought my cat days were over.
But then I started dating Baby.
Baby hearts her two cats like most people heart children. She feeds them from the table, by hand. She lets them sleep in the bed. When they throw up (daily) or inexplicably poop next to the litter box she cleans it up without getting angry. You know how an infant spits up or has an ‘accident’ and people think it’s cute? Baby does that with the cats. She’s just that devoted. I, however, am repulsed.
Here’s a good example:
On Tuesday night I picked Baby up after work and we went and got some dinner. We went back to her place and I was trying to take a nap in her bed. She was laying beside me, reading the paper. Lola, the more docile of the cats, had taken her usual position beside Baby, on the side of the bed furthest from me. The fat, mean one, Jezebel, was nowhere to be seen. Yet.
Right as I’m dozing off I hear a sound I’ve honestly never heard before. It was a kind of scraping, slurping sound. I’m half asleep, so I ignore it for a while in hopes that it will go away. But when I notice the bed is shaking ever so slightly I can’t take the annoyance anymore.
bryc3: “Baby what is that?”
Baby: “It’s just Jezebel.”
bryc3: “What is she doing?”
Baby: “Licking her butt.”
bryc3: “You can’t be serious.”
Baby: (laughing) “Yeah, she has butt problems.”
The noise was horrifying, nightmarish. Does the mental image work for you? Good. Baby was completely unmoved. Apparently this is a normal occurrence.
We’re moving in together in two months. What the hell am I gonna do? I love Baby, more than anything. She’s the best thing since ever and I’d do anything for her. But I’m simply not a cat person. And I can tell this bothers her because she watches how I interact with the cats. It hurts her feelings that I don’t feed them French fries when we’re watching TV, or let them sleep on my side of the bed. She frowns when I spend the whole night picking cat hairs off my pillow. I have tried to explain that I love her, and in turn love her cats because they mean so much to her. And she admits the cats like me, because they’re typically unfriendly but took to me the minute they met me. I’ve had other people tell us that that’s because the cats can sense I don’t like them. But that’s simply not the case. I do like them, just in my own way. I’m not affectionate (and disgusting) with my pets. I keep them at arms length. But I would never do anything to hurt them, and take care of them as if they were my children.
Yet none of it is enough for Baby. She wants me to be a cat person. Is that even possible? Can I change? Or can I find a new way to explain to her how I feel? Or perhaps I need to just put my foot down and drown them in the Potomac?
Monday, January 09, 2006
You're Always Going To Work In Admin, So Just Get To The Fucking Point Already
It has been brought to our attention that, through the use of interoffice memos, emails, and announcements on the bulletin board, that, some of you it seems, are finding yourselves in a state in which you feel as if it is appropriate, necessary, or perhaps even beneficial to use, wherever possible, as many words (and commas, and ellipses, and the ever-confounding and dreaded semi-colon) as possible to convey, express, or describe a situation, feeling, or idea that could, and probably be should, be spit the fuck out in ten words or fewer so we can get on with our day.
"Typing is fun! I sit here and push the little buttons with the little letters on them and they show up on my screen! I get to, you know, like, express myself, and stuff."
I'm loading my gun.
Look I'm not going to kid anyone. If you get me talking it's quite possible that I will never shut up. I can literally talk until I have nothing more to say. I don't mean the subject has been exhausted. I mean everything that has ever happened to me and everyone I have ever known has been exhausted. This is just one of my charms (read: character flaws). But in the course of a human conversation you can pick up the subtle context clues (blood streaming from the ears is my favorite) that it's probably best to get back to work.
Written communication at work is meant to be digested quickly. I need you to tell me "The building is on fire. Please use the South exit." See how easy that is? Concise, efficient, necessary. No creative license. And look! I'm not on fire!
Let's talk promotion.
"Typing is fun! I sit here and push the little buttons with the little letters on them and they show up on my screen! I get to, you know, like, express myself, and stuff."
I'm loading my gun.
Look I'm not going to kid anyone. If you get me talking it's quite possible that I will never shut up. I can literally talk until I have nothing more to say. I don't mean the subject has been exhausted. I mean everything that has ever happened to me and everyone I have ever known has been exhausted. This is just one of my charms (read: character flaws). But in the course of a human conversation you can pick up the subtle context clues (blood streaming from the ears is my favorite) that it's probably best to get back to work.
Written communication at work is meant to be digested quickly. I need you to tell me "The building is on fire. Please use the South exit." See how easy that is? Concise, efficient, necessary. No creative license. And look! I'm not on fire!
Let's talk promotion.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Fag It Out, Bitch
I’m gay.
And not in a cool homosexual way. No cute boyfriend, no shaved head, no hardbody, no Jetta. No, I’m gay in a Steven Cojocaru kind of way. My gayness is only exacerbated by the fact that I know who Steven Cojocaru is.
There was a time in my life when I was at least somewhat manly. I used to build things, I used to play sports, I used to own a pair of Timberlands for outdoor work, not hip hop video cameos. Yeah, those days are gone.
In the last year I’ve gotten contacts, dyed my hair, bought clothes that are size Medium, experimented with various hair care products, started using a facial moisturizer, and even eaten a handful of vegetables.
I could take the easy way out and blame my girlfriend. But who am I kidding? I’ve put up the minimum amount of resistance possible in her efforts to make me more fabulous. Turns out getting in touch with my feminine side was a lot easier than I originally thought. I’m positive that I’m only a few weeks away from finding a nice cowboy and settling down.
So this is me coming out of the closet. I’ve been in here all morning throwing away band t-shirts and color-coding my wardrobe. Fuck! Entertainment Tonight is on in fifteen minutes! Where does the time go?
And not in a cool homosexual way. No cute boyfriend, no shaved head, no hardbody, no Jetta. No, I’m gay in a Steven Cojocaru kind of way. My gayness is only exacerbated by the fact that I know who Steven Cojocaru is.
There was a time in my life when I was at least somewhat manly. I used to build things, I used to play sports, I used to own a pair of Timberlands for outdoor work, not hip hop video cameos. Yeah, those days are gone.
In the last year I’ve gotten contacts, dyed my hair, bought clothes that are size Medium, experimented with various hair care products, started using a facial moisturizer, and even eaten a handful of vegetables.
I could take the easy way out and blame my girlfriend. But who am I kidding? I’ve put up the minimum amount of resistance possible in her efforts to make me more fabulous. Turns out getting in touch with my feminine side was a lot easier than I originally thought. I’m positive that I’m only a few weeks away from finding a nice cowboy and settling down.
So this is me coming out of the closet. I’ve been in here all morning throwing away band t-shirts and color-coding my wardrobe. Fuck! Entertainment Tonight is on in fifteen minutes! Where does the time go?
Friday, December 30, 2005
New Year's Resolution: I'm Not Going To Pay A Lot For This Muffler
I used to have this really hot temper, and I used to fly off the handle a lot. But then I got sick and mellowed out. This was generally a good thing, as I stopped getting into (and subsequently often losing) fights and started getting along better with my friends and family. It's been a few years now though, and it's starting to kinda suck a little bit. Because while I'm much more calm than I used to be, I've also started letting people walk all over me.
That shit is going to stop.
Don't get me wrong. I don't intend to become an asshole. But I do intend to speak up and stop rolling over.
Would examples work? Ok.
A few months ago I was picking up my prescription and the pharmacist fucked it up. This always happens. But this time he offers up this excuse: "I had it right when I left the other day, but these goddamn foreigners working here on the weekends screwed it up, you know?" Dear Whitey, 2005 bryc3 just shrugged that off. 2006 bryc3 is going to say, "I don't appreciate your insinuation that I share your ignorant, racist beliefs. Cunt."
Want some more?
Dear Mrs. Talking On Your Cell Phone, you can't merge. I see what you're doing, sneaking up in your Ford Expedition to the very last second in the merge lane. It's cute, but you're not getting over. Hit me, I dare you. We can explain it to the cops together. Hell, we can even call them on your goddamn cell phone. Tell them it's 2006 bryc3 on the line, they're going to be seeing a lot of me this year.
Dear Ms. Can't Be Bothered, would it have fucking killed you to hold the door open for me? You walked through two seconds before I did and you didn't so much as glance backward or push it open a little more as you passed through. 2006 bryc3 is calling you out on that.
Dear White 2004 Honda Accord with Texas Tags That's Been Parked Illegally In The Handicapped Spot In My Arlington Apartment Complex, you might be interested to know that 2006 bryc3 is the one that keyed your car the other night.
Dear Nationals Ticket Holders In Section 470 At RFK, you might want to cover your childrens' ears. 2006 bryc3 is going to be telling out of town fans like it is. To the ushers at RFK stadium- the other guy started it.
Dear Coworker, when you ask me where I go out and I say I go to a lot of shows, that's the end of that conversation. Don't ask who do I go see, and then explain you used to go to a lot of Dave Matthews concerts. Because if you do, 2006 bryc3 is going to tell you what he thinks of people who used to go to a lot of Dave Matthews shows. And then you're probably going to cry.
Dear 2005 bryc3, stop being such a sissy. Sack up, bitch.
Dear Paramedic, I'm allergic to iodine and my health insurance card is in my wallet. And do me a favor? When my girlfriend shows up to pick me up, just say, "You should see the other guy." Thanks.
That shit is going to stop.
Don't get me wrong. I don't intend to become an asshole. But I do intend to speak up and stop rolling over.
Would examples work? Ok.
A few months ago I was picking up my prescription and the pharmacist fucked it up. This always happens. But this time he offers up this excuse: "I had it right when I left the other day, but these goddamn foreigners working here on the weekends screwed it up, you know?" Dear Whitey, 2005 bryc3 just shrugged that off. 2006 bryc3 is going to say, "I don't appreciate your insinuation that I share your ignorant, racist beliefs. Cunt."
Want some more?
Dear Mrs. Talking On Your Cell Phone, you can't merge. I see what you're doing, sneaking up in your Ford Expedition to the very last second in the merge lane. It's cute, but you're not getting over. Hit me, I dare you. We can explain it to the cops together. Hell, we can even call them on your goddamn cell phone. Tell them it's 2006 bryc3 on the line, they're going to be seeing a lot of me this year.
Dear Ms. Can't Be Bothered, would it have fucking killed you to hold the door open for me? You walked through two seconds before I did and you didn't so much as glance backward or push it open a little more as you passed through. 2006 bryc3 is calling you out on that.
Dear White 2004 Honda Accord with Texas Tags That's Been Parked Illegally In The Handicapped Spot In My Arlington Apartment Complex, you might be interested to know that 2006 bryc3 is the one that keyed your car the other night.
Dear Nationals Ticket Holders In Section 470 At RFK, you might want to cover your childrens' ears. 2006 bryc3 is going to be telling out of town fans like it is. To the ushers at RFK stadium- the other guy started it.
Dear Coworker, when you ask me where I go out and I say I go to a lot of shows, that's the end of that conversation. Don't ask who do I go see, and then explain you used to go to a lot of Dave Matthews concerts. Because if you do, 2006 bryc3 is going to tell you what he thinks of people who used to go to a lot of Dave Matthews shows. And then you're probably going to cry.
Dear 2005 bryc3, stop being such a sissy. Sack up, bitch.
Dear Paramedic, I'm allergic to iodine and my health insurance card is in my wallet. And do me a favor? When my girlfriend shows up to pick me up, just say, "You should see the other guy." Thanks.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Daddy #3? Yeah No
My parents got divorced last week. This isn’t sad. It’s been years in the making and comes as a surprise to no one. They got married when I was two years old. My mom had me with Daddy #1 and split shortly thereafter. She started dating Daddy #2, an old flame, when she was still pregnant with me. Daddy #2 had several redeeming qualities Daddy #1 did not possess, including: 1) a job and 2) a checking account. When you’re seventeen years old and pregnant and on welfare, this is apparently all you can hope for. They may have been in love at some point, although nobody can really remember when. They dated for two years then decided to get married when (again, surprising no one) my mom got pregnant again.
The thing is they stayed together for years and years. They never had one of those obnoxious, head over heels loves you’re supposed to have, but they raised the kids (the last one, my brother, came when I was five) and didn’t kill each other. They even got along, although there certainly weren’t any fireworks. Very early on Daddy #2 became just Dad, and the kids liked it that way thank you very much.
Sometime around the time I graduated from high school my mom got tired of Daddy #2 and started dating one of Daddy #2’s employees. The fact that this embarrassed everyone involved apparently didn’t matter to my mother. Neither did the fact that this guy was a complete tool (he was a computer technician in literally every sense of the word) and only a few years older than me. She swore up and down she was in love, and she made Daddy #2 pack his shit and get out. There are more details, but it’s a bit hazy. I was very, very stoned at the time. Who wasn’t? I was eighteen. So, doing the math, Daddy #2 left when I was eighteen and the divorce became finalized last week. Apparently it took them twelve years of living in separate houses and dating different people before they were sure about things.
Daddy #2 has been with one woman this whole time- he lives with her and her college-age daughter. My mom has bounced from man to man, looking for Daddy #3. I thought that was bad. But now that she swears she’s found him I’ve realized I really don’t want any more Daddies.
I just got back from spending Christmas with them at her place. This was the last chance for me to make up my mind about him. He’s rubbed me the wrong way from the start, but I love my mother so I figured I’d give him another go. Yeah, he sucks.
There’s no way to sugar coat this- my mom is fucking crazy. Not in a cool, inspiring-sympathy Mommy Dearest kinda way. More in a drama queen, publicly humiliating kinda way. She’s the nicest and most considerate person in the world, but there’s no denying she’s an absolute trainwreck.
She’s gone over the top for this guy. On the surface he seems okay- a bit older, divorced, wealthy, clean criminal record. But once you get to know him he’s simply an intolerable asshole. You know that guy who makes really stupid jokes you’ve heard a million times, then punches you in the ribs over and over keeps saying “You get it?” until you grit your teeth and admit that yeah, you get it? He’s that fucking guy. He’s also the guy that feels he needs to relate to me, like he’s worried his impending marriage to my mother my derail if I don’t approve.
Hey buddy, I’m thirty years old. I know what people who are ‘in love’ do to each other in the bedroom. You’re the guy that’s having sex with my mother that isn’t my father. I don’t care about your opinion about anything. Keep spending money on her and be there for her so I don’t get the drunken, hysterical phone calls at 3am when my latest potential Daddy fucks off. Just leave me alone and do whatever it is you two wanna do. You and I don’t want me to have to kill you, but we both know I will.
You get it?
The thing is they stayed together for years and years. They never had one of those obnoxious, head over heels loves you’re supposed to have, but they raised the kids (the last one, my brother, came when I was five) and didn’t kill each other. They even got along, although there certainly weren’t any fireworks. Very early on Daddy #2 became just Dad, and the kids liked it that way thank you very much.
Sometime around the time I graduated from high school my mom got tired of Daddy #2 and started dating one of Daddy #2’s employees. The fact that this embarrassed everyone involved apparently didn’t matter to my mother. Neither did the fact that this guy was a complete tool (he was a computer technician in literally every sense of the word) and only a few years older than me. She swore up and down she was in love, and she made Daddy #2 pack his shit and get out. There are more details, but it’s a bit hazy. I was very, very stoned at the time. Who wasn’t? I was eighteen. So, doing the math, Daddy #2 left when I was eighteen and the divorce became finalized last week. Apparently it took them twelve years of living in separate houses and dating different people before they were sure about things.
Daddy #2 has been with one woman this whole time- he lives with her and her college-age daughter. My mom has bounced from man to man, looking for Daddy #3. I thought that was bad. But now that she swears she’s found him I’ve realized I really don’t want any more Daddies.
I just got back from spending Christmas with them at her place. This was the last chance for me to make up my mind about him. He’s rubbed me the wrong way from the start, but I love my mother so I figured I’d give him another go. Yeah, he sucks.
There’s no way to sugar coat this- my mom is fucking crazy. Not in a cool, inspiring-sympathy Mommy Dearest kinda way. More in a drama queen, publicly humiliating kinda way. She’s the nicest and most considerate person in the world, but there’s no denying she’s an absolute trainwreck.
She’s gone over the top for this guy. On the surface he seems okay- a bit older, divorced, wealthy, clean criminal record. But once you get to know him he’s simply an intolerable asshole. You know that guy who makes really stupid jokes you’ve heard a million times, then punches you in the ribs over and over keeps saying “You get it?” until you grit your teeth and admit that yeah, you get it? He’s that fucking guy. He’s also the guy that feels he needs to relate to me, like he’s worried his impending marriage to my mother my derail if I don’t approve.
Hey buddy, I’m thirty years old. I know what people who are ‘in love’ do to each other in the bedroom. You’re the guy that’s having sex with my mother that isn’t my father. I don’t care about your opinion about anything. Keep spending money on her and be there for her so I don’t get the drunken, hysterical phone calls at 3am when my latest potential Daddy fucks off. Just leave me alone and do whatever it is you two wanna do. You and I don’t want me to have to kill you, but we both know I will.
You get it?
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Idiot Tax
Last Monday I started off on the wrong foot. I'd had a long weekend and never really got a chance to relax. My girlfriend's mom was in town, and it was my first chance to meet her. Everything went fine but it was definitely stressful. By Sunday night Baby and I were at each other's throats from dealing with the pressure so I never got an opportunity to just unwind.
I left my apartment in Arlington at about 7:15, bound for my office in Reston. I have a reverse commute, so I take the Dulles Toll Road and don't worry about the HOV restrictions. Only I got to about Route 7 and realized I had forgotten my laptop at home. Bitter. I turned around and headed back toward town, calling Baby on my cellphone in the meantime to bitch.
Right as I'm passing the exit for 123 I remember the Toll Road is HOV inbound in the mornings. But at that point it's too late to stop. I say to Baby, "Man, it's really going to suck if I get a ticket to boot." Sure enough, not ten seconds after the words leave my mouth I see the state trooper, lights on, in my rearview. Great.
He comes up to my car and says, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" I smile and say, "HOV, right?" I then explain that I normally reverse commute, that I'm aware of the law but was flustered because I forgot my laptop, and that I've never been pulled over for HOV before. He seems sympathetic, but he's a fucking cop and I have never talked my way out of a ticket for anything. You'd think being honest would be a good idea, but it's honestly never worked for me. Next time I'm playing the cancer card, because the current strategy ain't working.
After he's written the ticket he walks back and explains he's sorry but he has to give me a ticket and blah blah blah. You know the drill. He tells me I have the right to contest it in court (what kind of asshole does that?) or just pay the fifty dollar fine. He also advises me that the fine for subsequent offenses increases drastically. I then ask him what I'm supposed to do next, as I have to drive on the HOV lane for several more miles before I can get to an exit and get off. I explain that I don't want to get another ticket. He laughs at the possibility. Great. Even the cops laugh at the idea that 99% of the fucktards that willfully violate the HOV restrictions get away with it. I drive away and curse my luck, certain that I'm going to get pulled over again. Luckily I do not.
Later that night I show the ticket to Baby in disgust. Baby, being the genius she is, looks over it carefully and points something out. The time on the ticket says 9:00, but the cop has checked PM instead of AM. The inbound Toll Road is HOV only in the morning, not the evening. He checked the wrong box by mistake! I'm stoked, I can beat the ticket. "Why Your Honor, surely there has been some mistake. I obviously could not have been in violation of the HOV restriction at 9:00 PM. I am a law-abiding citizen." But then I start to wonder if that's going to work. Will the judge realize the mistake and fine me anyway? Can he even do that? What are my rights? Surely I can't be charged with something I probably did, can I? The only evidence that documents the offense says I didn't do anything wrong. Baby, in yet another stroke of genius, suggests that maybe the cop really did feel sorry for me, and he deliberately 'accidentally' checked the wrong box to give me a way out if I bothered to read the ticket!
So now I don't know what to do. Do I spend the day at traffic court trying to beat a fifty dollar ticket (and remove the risk of paying an even bigger ticket if I screw up again), or will that backfire because the judge can still fine me? Can I honestly keep a straight face in court? Or can I flaunt the mistake and refuse to pay? Or should I just suck it up and pay the fifty dollar idiot tax?
I left my apartment in Arlington at about 7:15, bound for my office in Reston. I have a reverse commute, so I take the Dulles Toll Road and don't worry about the HOV restrictions. Only I got to about Route 7 and realized I had forgotten my laptop at home. Bitter. I turned around and headed back toward town, calling Baby on my cellphone in the meantime to bitch.
Right as I'm passing the exit for 123 I remember the Toll Road is HOV inbound in the mornings. But at that point it's too late to stop. I say to Baby, "Man, it's really going to suck if I get a ticket to boot." Sure enough, not ten seconds after the words leave my mouth I see the state trooper, lights on, in my rearview. Great.
He comes up to my car and says, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" I smile and say, "HOV, right?" I then explain that I normally reverse commute, that I'm aware of the law but was flustered because I forgot my laptop, and that I've never been pulled over for HOV before. He seems sympathetic, but he's a fucking cop and I have never talked my way out of a ticket for anything. You'd think being honest would be a good idea, but it's honestly never worked for me. Next time I'm playing the cancer card, because the current strategy ain't working.
After he's written the ticket he walks back and explains he's sorry but he has to give me a ticket and blah blah blah. You know the drill. He tells me I have the right to contest it in court (what kind of asshole does that?) or just pay the fifty dollar fine. He also advises me that the fine for subsequent offenses increases drastically. I then ask him what I'm supposed to do next, as I have to drive on the HOV lane for several more miles before I can get to an exit and get off. I explain that I don't want to get another ticket. He laughs at the possibility. Great. Even the cops laugh at the idea that 99% of the fucktards that willfully violate the HOV restrictions get away with it. I drive away and curse my luck, certain that I'm going to get pulled over again. Luckily I do not.
Later that night I show the ticket to Baby in disgust. Baby, being the genius she is, looks over it carefully and points something out. The time on the ticket says 9:00, but the cop has checked PM instead of AM. The inbound Toll Road is HOV only in the morning, not the evening. He checked the wrong box by mistake! I'm stoked, I can beat the ticket. "Why Your Honor, surely there has been some mistake. I obviously could not have been in violation of the HOV restriction at 9:00 PM. I am a law-abiding citizen." But then I start to wonder if that's going to work. Will the judge realize the mistake and fine me anyway? Can he even do that? What are my rights? Surely I can't be charged with something I probably did, can I? The only evidence that documents the offense says I didn't do anything wrong. Baby, in yet another stroke of genius, suggests that maybe the cop really did feel sorry for me, and he deliberately 'accidentally' checked the wrong box to give me a way out if I bothered to read the ticket!
So now I don't know what to do. Do I spend the day at traffic court trying to beat a fifty dollar ticket (and remove the risk of paying an even bigger ticket if I screw up again), or will that backfire because the judge can still fine me? Can I honestly keep a straight face in court? Or can I flaunt the mistake and refuse to pay? Or should I just suck it up and pay the fifty dollar idiot tax?
Friday, October 28, 2005
Boricua 4 Life!
So I've got a hangover. Not a terrible one, but just enough to annoy the hell out of me. Just enough that I can't be bothered by incompetence, especially my own. Unfortunately, I got out of the retarded side of bed this morning.
I subscribe to Yahoo's LAUNCHcast music thing. It's a form of internet radio. I have the upgraded, subscription service. It's worth it. You can fine tune it (sort of, see below) to play the types of music you want, and it actually has an amazing amount of variety. It has its share of bugs and glitches, but its a godsend at work.
My cubicle buddy and training partner is out of the office today, so I was lucky enough to be able to head straight to my desk, turn on LAUNCH, and pretend to get to work. Things were going fine for about forty five minutes. LAUNCH was playing good songs and no one was bothering me. I guess it was about 8:30 when things started going downhill.
One of the best things about LAUNCH is you can skip as many times as you want. The software continually 'recommends' songs you might like based on your preferences, and if you get a dud you can just skip it. I love this, as few stations let you do it. But excessive skipping tends to make the application act buggy, and sometimes crash altogether. Not the end of the world, as you can just fire it up again.
One of the worst things about LAUNCH is that it often 'recommends' complete fucking crap. When it actually recommends something good, it will show a message that reads "This song is popular with fans of (insert band or record)." These are things I can deal with. What I cannot stand is the messages that say "This song is popular on LAUNCHcast." You can only imagine the shit that passes for popular. So even though I've banned country, rap, pop, and god knows what else I still get the occasional tracks that make me weep for the future of music. If I've got bands like Fugazi and Minor Threat rated highly, can't LAUNCH pretty much assume I'm going to hate everything on the country, pop and urban charts? I mean, can that be that hard to figure out?
Sitting in my cubicle this morning, I'm happily wasting the first hour of work rocking out to my emo cryfest when some horrible Latino hip hop song comes on. I'm nearly deaf, so I've got the volume turned up very high and the change in music is startling (and disappointing, and frustrating). I understand that this new kind of hip hop is getting very popular, but it's probably safe to say thirty year old white emo guys are not the target audience. I fumble to bring up the correct window so I can ban the song and artist (of course the genre is already banned- thanks LAUNCH).
I skip the song and the goddamn thing glitches. I get a Windows error and the application closes, but the fucking song is still playing! I bring up the processes window and can't see the fucking thing running, yet it's still blaring in my headphones. I take them off, and I've got the volume up so loud I can still hear the song. I'm very professional at work, and I'm embarrassed that my nearby cubicle mates can hear what I'm listening to. I'm sure they can hear my punk stuff sometimes, but I can live with that. What I can't live with is the image of the old white guy pumping the hip hop. I loved this stuff when I was a kid, but that was damn near fifteen years ago. Like I said before, it doesn't quite speak to me like it does to my younger amigos.
So I mentioned I'm hungover, and it doesn't occur to me to turn down the system volume. Instead I get the bright idea to reach behind my laptop and unplug my headphones. I would like to stress that this was a very bad decision. By default the laptop switches to its external speaker, so now I'm broadcasting Spanish profanities at full volume to everyone in my department. Suddenly 8:30am in Reston becomes the Boogie Down Bronx. I panic, and reach behind my laptop to try to plug the headphones back in. I'm already shaky from last night's Budweisers, and the embarrassment doesn't help. Heads begin to appear over my cubicle walls. I finally plug the fucking things back in. I don't even bother to explain what happened, I'm too busy counting the seconds 'til five o'clock.
I subscribe to Yahoo's LAUNCHcast music thing. It's a form of internet radio. I have the upgraded, subscription service. It's worth it. You can fine tune it (sort of, see below) to play the types of music you want, and it actually has an amazing amount of variety. It has its share of bugs and glitches, but its a godsend at work.
My cubicle buddy and training partner is out of the office today, so I was lucky enough to be able to head straight to my desk, turn on LAUNCH, and pretend to get to work. Things were going fine for about forty five minutes. LAUNCH was playing good songs and no one was bothering me. I guess it was about 8:30 when things started going downhill.
One of the best things about LAUNCH is you can skip as many times as you want. The software continually 'recommends' songs you might like based on your preferences, and if you get a dud you can just skip it. I love this, as few stations let you do it. But excessive skipping tends to make the application act buggy, and sometimes crash altogether. Not the end of the world, as you can just fire it up again.
One of the worst things about LAUNCH is that it often 'recommends' complete fucking crap. When it actually recommends something good, it will show a message that reads "This song is popular with fans of (insert band or record)." These are things I can deal with. What I cannot stand is the messages that say "This song is popular on LAUNCHcast." You can only imagine the shit that passes for popular. So even though I've banned country, rap, pop, and god knows what else I still get the occasional tracks that make me weep for the future of music. If I've got bands like Fugazi and Minor Threat rated highly, can't LAUNCH pretty much assume I'm going to hate everything on the country, pop and urban charts? I mean, can that be that hard to figure out?
Sitting in my cubicle this morning, I'm happily wasting the first hour of work rocking out to my emo cryfest when some horrible Latino hip hop song comes on. I'm nearly deaf, so I've got the volume turned up very high and the change in music is startling (and disappointing, and frustrating). I understand that this new kind of hip hop is getting very popular, but it's probably safe to say thirty year old white emo guys are not the target audience. I fumble to bring up the correct window so I can ban the song and artist (of course the genre is already banned- thanks LAUNCH).
I skip the song and the goddamn thing glitches. I get a Windows error and the application closes, but the fucking song is still playing! I bring up the processes window and can't see the fucking thing running, yet it's still blaring in my headphones. I take them off, and I've got the volume up so loud I can still hear the song. I'm very professional at work, and I'm embarrassed that my nearby cubicle mates can hear what I'm listening to. I'm sure they can hear my punk stuff sometimes, but I can live with that. What I can't live with is the image of the old white guy pumping the hip hop. I loved this stuff when I was a kid, but that was damn near fifteen years ago. Like I said before, it doesn't quite speak to me like it does to my younger amigos.
So I mentioned I'm hungover, and it doesn't occur to me to turn down the system volume. Instead I get the bright idea to reach behind my laptop and unplug my headphones. I would like to stress that this was a very bad decision. By default the laptop switches to its external speaker, so now I'm broadcasting Spanish profanities at full volume to everyone in my department. Suddenly 8:30am in Reston becomes the Boogie Down Bronx. I panic, and reach behind my laptop to try to plug the headphones back in. I'm already shaky from last night's Budweisers, and the embarrassment doesn't help. Heads begin to appear over my cubicle walls. I finally plug the fucking things back in. I don't even bother to explain what happened, I'm too busy counting the seconds 'til five o'clock.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Staff Directory
Kathryn's post a few days back about Miltons got me thinking about other work types that are common to every office. A few of my favorite characters:
He Was Here A Minute Ago...
For the life of me, I cannot figure out what you do all day. You stop by your cubicle about twenty minutes late, bitch about traffic, drop your things, and then disappear. You pop back in throughout the day to check your email and your voicemail, then you disappear again. Where do you go? And when do you actually do your job?
Senior Analyst, Germ Distribution
OK, I get it. You are very dedicated to your job. You obviously feel that you're so important that you simply cannot take a sick day. I am not impressed. I am pissed. I do not want to hear your grating, hacking cough all day, and I am not interested in contracting your bird flu. Go home already. This is why God invented paid sick leave.
Receptionist/NOVA Student
I need you to make important announcements such as "There is a blue Honda Civic in the parking lot with its lights on" and "The bagels have arrived and are in the kitchen." I do not need elaborate, prosaic emails concerning corporate policy esoteria. And I can certainly do without the daily updates documenting your refrigerator-cleaning projects. I understand that you are simply putting your Word of the Day email subscription to good use, and I appreciate that you've bookmarked www.thesaurus.com, but I feel compelled to remind you that the "All Staff" list in the email directory is not to be abused. You are not nearly as important to this company as you think you are. There is a reason I cannot remember the name of the person who was doing your job three weeks ago.
Situational Profanity
"God fucking damnit, traffic fucking sucked this morning. I got stuck behind the biggest asshole in the world. They should pass laws to keep these fucking idiots off the road. I swear to God, the next...wait, hang on a second, I need to take this. 'Hello, how can I help you? I can certainly take care of that for you! There you go! All set! Is there anything else I can help you with today? Wonderful! Thank you very much, and have a great day! Bye bye!' OK, where was I? Oh yeah, so this fucking asshole..."
I Have A Question
Honestly, how many times do I have to show you how to use this program? Do you not understand that operating your computer, and the myriad programs installed on it, is an integral part of your job? Could I get a job as a jockey if I didn't know how to ride a horse? Then how the fuck did you get a job at an IT company if you don't know how to use a computer?
I Have Another Question
At the end of the meeting, when the boss says, "Does anyone have any questions?" that means "OK, get back to work." It is not a call for you to discuss the intricacies of how this particular administrative change is going to affect your job. The rest of the team doesn't care. I realize that you developed this technique in college, where you dominated entire classes by engaging the professor in utterly pointless arguments that left everyone dumber for having listened. What I want to know is, didn't you notice everyone (including the professor) sighing and rolling their eyes whenever you raised your hand? Do you notice it now? Do you even care? I'm not completely sure about this, but I believe fixing this flaw in your personality might go a long way toward that 'Can't find a girlfriend' problem you've had your whole life.
Windows Key + M
I'm going to catch you. I'm going to figure out whatever it is you're looking at every time I come by your cubicle and you frantically minimize. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one of these days. Please make sure it's worth my suspense.
This Is My Daughter, Madison
There is a reason "Bring Your Daughter To Work Day" only happens once a year. It's because I don't want your fucking children in my cubicle. Work is for grownups. I'm not impressed by your progeny, I'm too busy thanking God my girlfriend doesn't want kids. And spare me the pictures, unless you want to see them on a milk carton.
He Was Here A Minute Ago...
For the life of me, I cannot figure out what you do all day. You stop by your cubicle about twenty minutes late, bitch about traffic, drop your things, and then disappear. You pop back in throughout the day to check your email and your voicemail, then you disappear again. Where do you go? And when do you actually do your job?
Senior Analyst, Germ Distribution
OK, I get it. You are very dedicated to your job. You obviously feel that you're so important that you simply cannot take a sick day. I am not impressed. I am pissed. I do not want to hear your grating, hacking cough all day, and I am not interested in contracting your bird flu. Go home already. This is why God invented paid sick leave.
Receptionist/NOVA Student
I need you to make important announcements such as "There is a blue Honda Civic in the parking lot with its lights on" and "The bagels have arrived and are in the kitchen." I do not need elaborate, prosaic emails concerning corporate policy esoteria. And I can certainly do without the daily updates documenting your refrigerator-cleaning projects. I understand that you are simply putting your Word of the Day email subscription to good use, and I appreciate that you've bookmarked www.thesaurus.com, but I feel compelled to remind you that the "All Staff" list in the email directory is not to be abused. You are not nearly as important to this company as you think you are. There is a reason I cannot remember the name of the person who was doing your job three weeks ago.
Situational Profanity
"God fucking damnit, traffic fucking sucked this morning. I got stuck behind the biggest asshole in the world. They should pass laws to keep these fucking idiots off the road. I swear to God, the next...wait, hang on a second, I need to take this. 'Hello, how can I help you? I can certainly take care of that for you! There you go! All set! Is there anything else I can help you with today? Wonderful! Thank you very much, and have a great day! Bye bye!' OK, where was I? Oh yeah, so this fucking asshole..."
I Have A Question
Honestly, how many times do I have to show you how to use this program? Do you not understand that operating your computer, and the myriad programs installed on it, is an integral part of your job? Could I get a job as a jockey if I didn't know how to ride a horse? Then how the fuck did you get a job at an IT company if you don't know how to use a computer?
I Have Another Question
At the end of the meeting, when the boss says, "Does anyone have any questions?" that means "OK, get back to work." It is not a call for you to discuss the intricacies of how this particular administrative change is going to affect your job. The rest of the team doesn't care. I realize that you developed this technique in college, where you dominated entire classes by engaging the professor in utterly pointless arguments that left everyone dumber for having listened. What I want to know is, didn't you notice everyone (including the professor) sighing and rolling their eyes whenever you raised your hand? Do you notice it now? Do you even care? I'm not completely sure about this, but I believe fixing this flaw in your personality might go a long way toward that 'Can't find a girlfriend' problem you've had your whole life.
Windows Key + M
I'm going to catch you. I'm going to figure out whatever it is you're looking at every time I come by your cubicle and you frantically minimize. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one of these days. Please make sure it's worth my suspense.
This Is My Daughter, Madison
There is a reason "Bring Your Daughter To Work Day" only happens once a year. It's because I don't want your fucking children in my cubicle. Work is for grownups. I'm not impressed by your progeny, I'm too busy thanking God my girlfriend doesn't want kids. And spare me the pictures, unless you want to see them on a milk carton.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
An Awkward Peesition
I have to pee all the time. In fact, I'm peeing right now.
There are a lot of reasons why I pee all the time, lots of theories including "bryc3 drinks way too fucking much" (obvious) and "bryc3 likes being around other semi-naked dudes" (unsubstantiated, yet persistent). The problem has been exacerbated by Baby's insistence that I drink more water. So every day I bring a bottle of water and down that along with my usual one or three Cokes. So yeah, I gotta make yellow a lot.
The amount of time I spend in the men's room has made me an old pro. I go in, I pee, I leave. I don't make small talk, I don't dick around looking in the mirror, and I'm not the insecure guy who's afraid to use the urinal and waits for the stall. I've noticed a lot of otherwise normal men fall into this last category. I don't understand it. We are all peeing, and nobody is checking you out. I know that some men avoid the urinal because they get stage fright. This doesn't happen to me. I have noticed that as I have gotten older it has taken progressively longer to get things going once I do step up to the urinal, but again my long experience in the men's room has taught me that this is normal with older guys. Just give it time, it's coming out sooner or later.
The other day I'm headed toward the men's room and I notice the distinct voices of our owner and the senior vice president in the hall behind me. I push open the bathroom door and as I look back to hold it for anyone who might be behind me, I notice that they're both headed my way. I'm not stupid, I hold the door for them. So the three of us enter the bathroom together and head for the three urinals.
By default I head for the middle urinal. This is a mistake, as the two men are carrying on a conversation which has continued even as they're unbuttoning their pants. Now they're talking back and forth, and I'm standing there holding my little guy and cursing my infant's bladder for having to pee all the damn time. I'm starting to get nervous, as I realize just how emasculated I am. I am literally caught with my pants down, as these men who control my future at the company are inconvenienced because I'm too stupid to have given them adjacent urinals. I curse myself again for being an idiot.
What can I do in this situation? How can I save face? I'm fairly proud of my urinal etiquette, but these men are obviously not impressed because they're violating the talking rule. They don't care that I have the practiced, eyes-forward method of a seasoned veteran. Should I comment on their conversation? Am I allowed to do that? I did fairly well in business school, but I don't remember any Peter Drucker books on corporate pee strategy. To make matters worse, something seems not quite right. Everything seems to have followed protocol, but something is definitely missing.
No one is actually peeing.
These men are old, probably in their sixties or seventies. It takes them a while. I can respect that. I, however, am just plain nervous. I've got stage fright for the first time in my life. I simply cannot go. And the more I think about it, the worse it gets. The seconds are passing like hours. I'm certain they've noticed this younger guy who is too big of a pussy to pee with the grownups. I can see it all in my head, as they go back to their desks and order their secretaries to write "Inadequate urination, not management potential" in my personnel file. I'm finished, and all because I can't start.
Finally, mercifully, the old bastards get their business started. The noise is enough to mask my lack of noise, and I flush and hurriedly wash my hands and shamefully return to my cubicle, still having to pee. No worries, I'm due back in the men's room in another forty five minutes. But you can make damn sure I'm using the fucking stall.
There are a lot of reasons why I pee all the time, lots of theories including "bryc3 drinks way too fucking much" (obvious) and "bryc3 likes being around other semi-naked dudes" (unsubstantiated, yet persistent). The problem has been exacerbated by Baby's insistence that I drink more water. So every day I bring a bottle of water and down that along with my usual one or three Cokes. So yeah, I gotta make yellow a lot.
The amount of time I spend in the men's room has made me an old pro. I go in, I pee, I leave. I don't make small talk, I don't dick around looking in the mirror, and I'm not the insecure guy who's afraid to use the urinal and waits for the stall. I've noticed a lot of otherwise normal men fall into this last category. I don't understand it. We are all peeing, and nobody is checking you out. I know that some men avoid the urinal because they get stage fright. This doesn't happen to me. I have noticed that as I have gotten older it has taken progressively longer to get things going once I do step up to the urinal, but again my long experience in the men's room has taught me that this is normal with older guys. Just give it time, it's coming out sooner or later.
The other day I'm headed toward the men's room and I notice the distinct voices of our owner and the senior vice president in the hall behind me. I push open the bathroom door and as I look back to hold it for anyone who might be behind me, I notice that they're both headed my way. I'm not stupid, I hold the door for them. So the three of us enter the bathroom together and head for the three urinals.
By default I head for the middle urinal. This is a mistake, as the two men are carrying on a conversation which has continued even as they're unbuttoning their pants. Now they're talking back and forth, and I'm standing there holding my little guy and cursing my infant's bladder for having to pee all the damn time. I'm starting to get nervous, as I realize just how emasculated I am. I am literally caught with my pants down, as these men who control my future at the company are inconvenienced because I'm too stupid to have given them adjacent urinals. I curse myself again for being an idiot.
What can I do in this situation? How can I save face? I'm fairly proud of my urinal etiquette, but these men are obviously not impressed because they're violating the talking rule. They don't care that I have the practiced, eyes-forward method of a seasoned veteran. Should I comment on their conversation? Am I allowed to do that? I did fairly well in business school, but I don't remember any Peter Drucker books on corporate pee strategy. To make matters worse, something seems not quite right. Everything seems to have followed protocol, but something is definitely missing.
No one is actually peeing.
These men are old, probably in their sixties or seventies. It takes them a while. I can respect that. I, however, am just plain nervous. I've got stage fright for the first time in my life. I simply cannot go. And the more I think about it, the worse it gets. The seconds are passing like hours. I'm certain they've noticed this younger guy who is too big of a pussy to pee with the grownups. I can see it all in my head, as they go back to their desks and order their secretaries to write "Inadequate urination, not management potential" in my personnel file. I'm finished, and all because I can't start.
Finally, mercifully, the old bastards get their business started. The noise is enough to mask my lack of noise, and I flush and hurriedly wash my hands and shamefully return to my cubicle, still having to pee. No worries, I'm due back in the men's room in another forty five minutes. But you can make damn sure I'm using the fucking stall.
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