Kev Tries His Hand At Bossing: Can He Do It?

I recently acquired an employee. It went like this:


Kev:
Hi, I know you has skills, can you please put those skills to use for me, and I will pay you for your skills, thank you.
Kev's Future Employee:
Wow, Kev, I'm interested.
Kev:
Let me know a price.
Kev's Future Employee:
Gee let me call around to all of my pals and found out, I mean find.

(a few hours later)

Kev's Future Employee:
Hey Kev I accept here's my fee
Kev:
Wow that'll do I assept

And the rest is history.


Wait, no, there's more to say. Sorry. The rest isn't history, yet. So, she did fine with her first assignment. It was really tough, too. Second toughest thing I know of that I could have given her to do. I won't ask her to do the toughest assignment. That's just too torturous.

Then I gave her the second assignment. And I'm certain she's doing fine with that. Here's my problem: when I work, there's nothing I appreciate more than being left alone to do my job. It does two things: 1), it reassures me that my boss trusts me, and drives me to do good to reward their trust. (It also develops my work ethic, but that's a special case because I'm so young.) 2), it keeps my boss from trying to do my job from their perspective of not having the skills to do my job, and ending up shooting themselves in the foot. My boss can actually do my job, though, so that would be OK in my current case.

There's my problem. I know she has the skills, and she's produced very good results before, and I know how much higher my work performance is when I'm trusted and left alone, but I still get that urge to try to baby her. I must resist that urge.


As Theodore Roosevelt would say, the best leader is the one who has sense enough to pick good men to do what he wants done, and self-restraint enough to keep from meddling with them while they do it.

(At least, according to my The Weirdo Down The Street Manual that quote is from ol' Ted.)

Please Buy My Cherry Vanilla Coke Zero

1,872 ounces...156 cans...13 dozen cans...6.5 cases...1 and 1/12th gross...

Please buy my cherry vanilla coke zero. I have a whole lot of it. Cherry vanilla coke zero sold:

Goose egg. 0. Or should I say, zero.

Maybe it's the whole "it tastes terrible" thing, I thought. I figured I'd try some and see. I popped open a can and drank 1.5 teaspoons as Sample A, then 1.75-2 ounces (10 1/2-to-12 teaspoons) as Sample B. It tasted horrible- just like all Coke and dark sodas, except that it had a bad (aspartame) aftertaste.

Then I tried the Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr Pepper with aspartame. It also tasted fine but had a bad aftertaste. Then I figured I'd try a diet Coke. That also tasted fine but had a bad aftertaste. The aftertaste was a bit more subtle, but the "duringtaste" was not as good. Diet Coke doesn't taste as good when you're drinking it, but the aftertaste isn't as bad, either. Get it?

We sell diet Coke just fine. Apparently, no one likes Cherry Vanilla Coke Zero. So it sits on the shelf. Sadness.


Anyway, I estimate that I consumed 6.5 ounces of diet soda, and I immediately felt terrible. If I'm a flower, aspartame makes me wilt. If I'm a rose, it turns my thorns soft. I don't drink coffee because it'll set me at odds; this small amount of soda made me feel worse than 10 cups of coffee. I can stand coffee. Diet soda?

I've eaten raw pork at work before ("make sure it tastes good," and remember, I don't do inhibitions)...raw pork is much easier than diet soda.

I get crazy on Mountain Dew, but I can handle Mountain Dew. Diet sodas? Not so much! The aspartame madness put me in such a way that I divulged some of my secrets to Mr. dataDyne.


He could undo a lot of what I work for if he divulged them to the right people. Aspartame...that's the truth serum for Kev. Laser headed for the crotch? Nah, Mr. Evil Interrogator, just give me a diet soda. I'll tell you everything you want to know.

The Horrible Day, Week 7: Max, the Backroom Gnome

I cook food, I heat food. Sometimes I make it from scratch, but the vast majority of the time I heat up food that comes in from our supplier. Which takes comparably little time.


That means that I end up having some "free" time. I use this time to tweak my log/manifest system, harass people ("other duties as assigned", but I don't like anyone enough to harass them), or rearrange the backroom. The backroom is a place where stuff goes. It's in the back. The Hamster Wheel (the hall that looks like an 'O' from the sky and houses all of the cubicle-dwellers) is near to it, kind of.

I was in there, rearranging- and there's all sorts of stuff to rearrange- when I hear this smokey, raspy, drained breathing. Then I hear this raspy, dusty voice. "I useda be jus't like you," it said. "I use to be at the tip of my game!"

You should have seen the look on my face. I sure wish I could have.


Now, I've spent hours and tax in that room. Hours, and with tax! I made the soda manifest- counting every soda and labeling them for quality- and I rearranged the soda God knows how many times. I've stored odds, I've stowed ends, I've archived files...if there wasn't all that concrete, I would have buried treasure in that room. I...I love that room. I never knew there was anything in there except supplies.


And now, there's quite possibly the creepiest voice I've ever heard (In Real Life, at least) emanating from somewhere behind the Gatorade jugs, which are stored alphabetically from left-rear to front-middle (it's a complicated process) on the floor underneath the Emergency Magazines.

I reacted diffe...defensively. I kind of stood there. Then I turned around.

There he was, peeking out from behind the 5-gallon Gatorade jugs with a scowl on his face. The kind of face that would go well with a cigar in or next to it. His hair was that really ugly kind of red-brown and it was curly, but not very dense. I wasn't exactly sure he was human. I considered a preemptive strike.

"I useda be JUST LIKE YOU!" he said, pulling himself out from the jungle of jugs. "Once time, I OWNED this town, and everyone in it! ALL OF THEM, ALL OF YOU...YOU...RATS!"

He looked up at me angrily. He's about 70 pounds, 2.5-3 feet tall. "IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I LOST MY TOWN!" he shouted.

Uhh, unexpected.

"What?"

Paranoia creased his face. "Aren't you the new mayor of Arizona?"

Arizona has a mayor? "No, I'm the new cook," I said.

"Oh. Wow. Sorry about that whole thing there. My name's Max." "Hi, Max."

He stuck out his hand. I shook it. I made a mental note to wash my hands. "My name's Kevin," I said.

"So what brings you here, Kevin?"

"Well, it's kind of my job to rearrange stuff here." Stars formed in his eyes. He held his imaginary hat in his hands. "Can...can I help, Kev?"



Long story short, Max is my new backroom assistant. He said I could call him the Backroom Gnome, hence the post title. He lives in the backroom- and has lived here for years, and I didn't notice him earlier, creepy- and he's good at rearranging things. Better yet, he's really good at working with me so that I can feel comfortable with how things are arranged. You know, like, he only halfway cares about the rearranging, so...I can do whatever I want with what he's done, and he doesn't get offended. He works with the new parameters.

For my part, I have to provide him with food. We were already doing that, but now it's on my Other Duties As Assigned list. As Executive head assistant chef, Feed Max. Frozen soup (or canned soup that's frozen), coarse-, medium-, and fine-ground dried corn, and citrus peels when possible. I'm really still not that wholly convinced that he's human. He sometimes doesn't act like it. But he's a fine rearranger.


And by the way, we keep the emergency magazines just in case the magazine producers ever stop producing magazines. We're totally prepared.

The Horrible Day, Week 6: Meet The Soda Lady and My Catch Phrase

The Soda Lady.

She drinks a whole lot of soda. So much soda, in fact, that she can go into the kitchen and get it on her own. Usually I or Mrs. Merry are the mediators between sodas and humans, but Soda Lady just drinks way too much. She’s kind of annoying- you know the kind of person where you say, “Do you have a health card?” and they say, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, OF COURSE I DO!!!OVERREACT!!STEPPASTYOUANDGETITANYWAY!!”?

Well, she’s the type. And she’s old, so I can’t really punch her in the face or anything. That would be a disaster. I just have to live with her barging into the kitchen every 25 minutes. Sometimes it’s 15, sometimes it’s 35, never more, never less, unless something’s wrong. At the end of each day, she takes 3 sodas for the trip home. During lunch she has two. I’m fairly certain that 85% of her nourishment is provided by soda.

Her favorites are Mountain Dew, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper. In lieu of these, Coke, Sierra Mist, Root Beer- if it has sugar and is carbonated, or at one point in time was carbonated, it will do. You know it, she drinks it. I mean…I meant, “you name it,” she drinks it. Sorry.


I don’t really care for Soda Lady. She’s there from about 6:30 AM to 2:00 PM, during which time she drinks nearly 20 cans of soda. In, out, in, out, to the bathroom (out), in. Then she takes the 3 home. That’s almost 1 case of soda in the time it takes me to prepare food for and feed 50 people. Let me put it another way: she alone drinks more soda per day than those 50 people combined. They don’t drink much soda; Soda Lady drinks it for them. Just watching her, their thirst for sugary, carbonated goodness is satiated. Or they lose their appetite, whichever works for them.

My boss says that Soda Lady is just a part of the landscape I have to learn to live with. I asked her if she believed in Caterpillars. She said “Yes, but you don’t get the keys.” Drat, I thought.



Did I introduce my catch phrase? What am I asking you for, I’d know if I did, you fool. News! I gots a catch phrase! I can’t believe it. I feel so honored by myself. Here it is: “That would be a disaster.“

“I know, I’m glad that the inspector didn’t throw out our food, too, as that would have been a disaster!” or “Why would I ever do something like that?! That’d be a disaster!”

Yep, I love it. It works so well; it’s one of the catch phrases that people can ignore 20 times, then they realize what I’m actually saying, and then they feel like fools because they ignored it for so long. It’s the deceptive kind of catch phrase. Kind of like that one that King Orthwall Piper XV used. You remember that one, right? “Peter the Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” it went.

He used it half-a-hundred times before his citizenry realized it was a catch phrase. When Orthwall Piper XV died, Tommy III took his place. Tommy III’s catch phrase was “Three times, fast.” The rest was history.

As for my catch phrase, hopefully it won’t take off like that.

That would be a disaster.

The Horrible Day, Week 5, Post 3: Make Everything Right with the World

On Wednesday, after that we had stayed late cleaning the kitchen, I told Mr. dataDyne at bible study about my predicament. He said that I need to gird up now my loins like a man. With that pep talk (that's as peppy as his talk gets) and my Ducky Syndrome, I managed to not crash into a light pole on the way home. More on Ducky Syndrome later.



Now we'll focus on Thursday, the 5th of February, for a while, humble fool. Try to keep up.

The walk-in refrigerator purged of all rebellion, the freezers cleared of scourges, the ovens prim and proper, the floor bleached, the ceiling painted, the paint droppings from the painting painstakingly removed with a scraper (that maintenance man is a jerk), the mop bucket cleansed and the mop and broom hung neatly, the cutting board sanded to remove scratches, and with the doors lovingly propped open, my boss told me two things as we awaited our OSA.


First, none of this is my fault. Second, if we fail this OSA, none of what she does to me is her fault. Reassuring, right? Mrs. Merry joined us, and I left; she's the kitchen manager, and I don't really need to be there, just to be available if the inspectors want to meet me. Lemmings (or employees) kept casually walking into the kitchen to see how they were doing. That didn't go over well.

Soon the inspectors arrived. Three of them, all guys. I went and hid myself in my office and frenziedly checked my email; Vixen forwarded me an obvious scam email for fast cash. She's wiggy, but in a colorful kind of way. I emailed her back: "I've already got so much money that I can't spend it fast enough. Maybe I'll buy you some shampoo." I knew that that would eat at her for hours.

Time slowed. But it also sped, so half of the time it was slow, half of the time it was fast. Honestly, I couldn't tell when it was fast or when it was slow. It seemed just like normal time, but man, it was fluctuating, I just couldn't tell. I attempted to call Manny Hitman. She's hard to reach sometimes, and her voice message (welcome to "message boxland") is really weird.

Foiled, I paced; I browsed recipes for peanut butter pie (and contemplated how that could ever be good), I pondered pecan pie (Mrs. Merry loves them), and I felt somber but excited at the same time. Then out of nowhere, I was broadsided by guilt.

I'm not often absent-minded, but sometimes my mind is not on the matter at hand. It was in that moment of clarity that I realized I hadn't played video games for about a month.

And then I realized that I still haven't completed Metroid Prime 2: Echoes. I wimped out; I didn't want to face the end, and the assured death that would follow me; I hate it when Samus dies. It bothers me, and so I stopped playing. Fear of a hard fight is a common problem with gamers.

At this point, I didn't really care whether we passed or failed. I was a sad sailor. My boat had a hole in it, you could say.


Good thing, though, we did pass. It's like this: Saundra (the inspector) is a little long in the tooth, and according to one inspector who trained with her years back, is going kind of nuts. Problem, she's so adored that they don't want to fire her. The OSA was to start us out with a clean slate, and "hopefully we could all put this behind us."

Sweetheart inspections, HERE WE COME! YEEHAW!


Also, more protesters (picketers/ASPCA flyer and phone campaign) showed up, but that's not so important. During the pre-inspection cleanup (we wanted to be sure we passed), I got to rearrange the kitchen to my liking. Now, that's what I call a functional disaster!

I may have left out some details. If I have, I'll post it in a future post and call it "The Lost Post." Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some articles on hair care to forward, and some video games to play. Not necessarily in that order.

The Horrible Day, Week 5, Post 2: Operations Ceased

This is the post in which everything goes horribly, horribly bad. It's ...terrible. And long.


Wednesday morning, 7:30 AM, I was hanging my head and prepping salad (which I pronounce sah-lahd when I prepare it) when the kitchen was paged. It was our in-person receptionist. The phone receptionist, as you'll remember, freaks out easily. It wasn't her.

Apparently, there were two more representatives of the AZGFD in the lobby to meet with me. Suddenly feeling ornery, I told her I didn't want to meet with those pansies. Then I called them yellow. Then I told her they can come to me, I'm cutting sahlad. "Hold on, I'll tell them," she said. I pressed the "speaker off" button.

Before I knew it, they arrived! One guy was black and looked like he needed to be named Steve, the other was white and looked like a Lars. Lars had a camera, Steve-o had a clipboard. They both had neat uniforms.

"Hello. Are you the kitchen manager?" Steve asked.

"Big guy, bad day, big knife," I said. "Couldn't we possibly reschedule this?" I gestured the knife in a fanciful spiral as I talked.


Larry gave me one of those "you made yourself look like a freak again" looks. I put the knife down. "Nope, Mrs. Merry is. She's out sick today," I said. "I'm Kevin, the executive head assistant chef." They exchanged "Kev made himself look like a fool again" looks.

"That means I'm the speaker, she's the box," I said.



"Well, Kevin," Larry said, "My name's Mike, this is my partner, George." I looked at Steve. Lars continued."We're from the Arizona Game and Fish Department operating under the jurisdiction of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service to confirm reports of species endangerment."

"Wow...that's a-mazing," I said, sincerely as can be. They weren't sure how to handle that; then Jen (the boss) showed up and took care of matters.



Turns out, the AZDFG (Department of Fish and Game) doesn't list bald eagle as endangered, but the USFWS (Fish and Wildlife Service) does. So here's how it went, from the top:

Saundra (Health Inspector) gets AZDFG on us. AZDFG comes after us, we send his guy packing. AZDFG contacts USFWS, USFWS tells AZDFG to carry out their will, Steve and Larson show up, my boss tries to be diplomatic, my boss is bad at being diplomatic, Steve-o and Larry can't prove we had bald eagle, but to punish us for our irreverence the AZDFG contacts the USFWS who contacts MCESD (Maricopa County Environmental Services Department, or the Health Inspector People), MCESD closes our kitchen until it passes a full OSA ("oh-say," Operational Sufficiency Assessment), 10 lemmings are ripped from their duties to assist in purchasing a suitable lunch substitute and also to clean the kitchen in preparation of the assessment.

Sort of confusing, right? It appears that the AZDFG hasn't updated their conservation status on bald eagle. Roughly, AZDFG utilized USFWS's laws (which was really quite strange), couldn't prove anything, went to the ESD, ESD shut us down. I was not a happy camper. I was a sad sailor, if anything.



Here's a good halfway point. While chillin' out, and taking your break, why not read this post about how 8-9 years ago I served lunch for this very kitchen? OK, back to our post.



But now, somewhere in all of that, word of our predicament leaked to some super-advanced hippie activist website. It seems that the message they received said that we were cooking up bald eagle and "serving" it to endangered willow flooces. Willow flooce is a type of bird, or maybe a type of sheep that has birds that nest in its fleece. Or a sheep that nests in a willow tree. The endangered and mysterious Willow Sheep that hosts flooces in its fleece. That's it...I feel like Dr. Seuss.

Our OSA was scheduled for Thursday, the day after Wednesday (the day before Thursday and our scheduled OSA.) Midway through Wednesday in our halls was displayed an old 60's tie-dye revival; from the clothes that they wear to the shape of their hair these odd fools now render a trial.

If there's one thing my boss, Jen, hates with fierce wrath, it's protesters protesting out there on our grass. They trample and stample and then come inside; our clients get harried and stressed by their tide. They howl and they prance, they sing and they dance; our boss wills to bop them, and jumps at the chance.

Firemen rock and turn in their grave as our boss takes the tank from the wall with great haste; it extinguishes fires and hippies alike, and to remind you she hates them verges on trite. The engine that could was outshone that day as the halls filled with screams and a ghostly, cold haze. She laughed and she chased and the hippies, they ran; they flew right on back to their old hippie vans. Then they drove away and rued the day that they ever crossed my boss.

And a few of them probably went to the emergency room. My boss is tough.


Anyway, we got rid of the first wave of protesters easily enough. It definitely did not involve my boss running amuck with a fire extinguisher. I completely made that up. Hah, that's nuts. You're crazy. You're a laugh.



About 1 PM, shortly after lunch, as I was directing a few members of the cleanup crew, Vixen walked up bearing tidings. "What is it," I said, disgusted. "Well," she said, joyfully relishing her moment in the sun, "I guess, blah blah blah blah blah..."

She told me that a certain sensitive issue was exacerbated, and as a result, the LGBT community started actions against us. They're like hippies, but wear suits. They have lawyers, their hair is cut neatly. These are harder to deal with than the tie-dyes. They say things like "we're suing you"; all tie-dyes say is "don't spray me [with that fire extinguisher], bro."


Later in the day, halfway through 2 PM, Vixen had more news. (Her boss was running a lot of errands, so she got to be the newsgirl for a while. More on that later.)

She told Mrs. Jen that someone called in an anonymous tip: according to reports, we had imported the "tasty, nutrient-dense" spinal cords of cattle infected with BSE/Mad Cow Disease from someplace that isn't America; and then we, allegedly, made "delicious, delectable, heavenly and scrumptious stock" from this tasty, nutrient-dense, mad cow-infected cow spinal cord.


I think that the same person that got the lawyers on us is also the person who reported the fantastic cow-spine story. And I only know of two people who would use that many words to describe a "rich stock." My boss agrees. One of the people is me (who didn't see that coming?); the other is an old guy

Old folk, sometimes, say things that, sometimes, they shouldn't say. And sometimes, they say these things that, sometimes, they shouldn't say, to people that they really should not be saying these things to.

I almost feel bad for the primordial coot. There's quite a lot of hell coming his way. My boss? She's tough.


I'll try to wrap this week up with the next post...the post where everything gets kind of worse, then there's a blurry part, then most of it gets better.

The Horrible Day, Week 5, Post 1: Saundra the Health Inspector Ruins My Week

These events take place one week after WEEK 4 and should have been posted February 6th, 2009, or about 1 month ago. Now, let us continue unabated...


Tuesday. It was a day like unto every other workday...except that this workday, I got to actually almost-cook real food from almost-scratch. It was almost glorious. Raw, slightly cooked beef, raw, partially cooked rice, and raw, canned condensed mushroom soup made into Ricey Mushroom Beef Cream Surprise. Vixen even managed to not stress me out much.

But, just when things are going good, and I get to actually cook scratchy meals, and don't have to look over my shoulder so much to see if my coworkers are against me or just against me, Saundra shows up.


Saundra is the inspector. The Health Inspector. Usually, it's Hector. This time it was Saundra.

Saundra's bad news. I didn't see her, as I was out purchasing lettuce when she arrived, but from reports, she's something like a cross between a scraggly old man and a dog afflicted with mange, has a skull that looks like the shell of a coconut, and has cracked lips. They said she had scars and open wounds from lip-end to lip-end and when she scowled during her vitriolic ramblings, they could almost hear the wounds breaking open and swore they saw blood. Her hair was nasty, lopped, and dripping grease.

Further reports are that her eyes are empty, black and soulless (and not in a good way), and she does not listen to reason. And her shoes are loud, squeaky, and "paddly." Don't ask me what that means; loud and squeaky makes sense, loud and paddly makes sense, but all three just don't jive.


Here's how it went:

10:00 AM (almost on the dot). Kev goes to store for lettuce.
10:15 AM. Kev returns, triumphant, with lettuce. Waves to adoring peasants on way to kitchen.
10:16 AM. Kev is intercepted during victory march, and is informed that a lady inspector named Saundra has appeared and looks like the embodiment of Satan. Kev hides in office, hopes it isn't really Satan.
11:04 AM. Boss updates Kev. Says there was a Critical Violation and a Severe Violation and Inspector is printing a report. Inspector claimed that there was raw bald eagle over packaged goods, i.e. cross-contamination, and found zebra stripes and leopard spots in the dishwasher/sanitizer, i.e. inoperable sanitizer (improper sanitization).
11:04 AM. Kev and Boss reassure each other that the "raw bald eagle" was actually frozen cooked soup, and Boss says inspector didn't even look at the dishwasher. Kev ponders how frozen cooked soup could look like eagle.
11:09 AM. Boss goes to retrieve printed statement. Kev bites the ends off of all of his nails, including his toenails. Promptly puts shoes back on, wipes mouth with sock.
11:15 AM. Boss tells Kev that the inspector is gone and to go finish lunch. While lunch is being prepped (lunch served at 11:30), Boss tells Kev that it was the worst inspector she has seen in 29 years of dealing with inspectors.


And so, within roughly one hour, my week had officially turned terrible. Again: the inspector said that we had raw bald eagle over packaged food. We had cooked, frozen soup over food- it was not bald eagle. It was not any kind of meat. Maybe it had cooked sausage, but nothing raw.

Nevertheless, the inspector even threatened to call our not-for-profit food delivery agency and shut down our food supply, effectively costing me my job and a source of "prorevenue" (?) if successful. Further, she was calling the Arizona Game and Fish Department (AZGFD) to report an incidence of illegal hunting.

A few hours later, after the lunch rush, a representative from AZGFD actually showed up- with a briefcase!- and demanded to see the bald eagle remains. The Boss tried to tell him that it wasn't eagle, and it surely wasn't bald. Problematically, the inspector (Saundra) happened to be a veterinarian in the northern part of Arizona for 20 years and "knew plucked bald eagle when she saw it."

Kind of suspect that she knew what a plucked bald eagle looks like.


Aaand, she happened to have connections with the AZGFD because of her career as a "rescue veterinarian." She would go out to the areas they service with dirt bikes and hiking shoes and if they break down (this was before cell phones), they die. That's how she got the AZGFD rep to attack us. His offensive failed and he "went to report his findings." (Dooooork.)


Then we got a call from the Maricopa County Environmental Services Department (MCESD, or ESD). They wanted to know if we had prior knowledge that we were serving illegal, possibly tainted meat. We said we weren't serving any meat tainted with anything, and they said that their inspector had observed tainted meat. Our receptionist freaked out and hung up the phone. Great job, there, Sharon...that's the receptionist's version of stuffing the inspector in the oven.



One half of one hour later, two hazmat agents showed up to do a hazardous materials check in our kitchen because "potentially hostile contaminants" had been observed "in or around" the food service area. That report was NOT on the receipt we received from the inspector. And that's not hazmat's job; the inspector should have handled that.

The hazmat people found "excess contained chemicals stored in the food storage area." What that means is that we had a few cups of soap left and we had our new bucket under the sink because we would run out any day. AND WE STILL DIDN'T HAVE ANY BALD EAGLE! Sorry, I freaked out.



Word, of course, spread throughout the building. And some delivery men were told. And a garbage man heard about it.


The next day, things went real bad.

The Horrible Day, Week 4, Post 2: Return of The Vixen

This post was meant to be posted on February 6th.
-


Remember two weeks ago when I told The Vixen to shut the hell up, get the hell out of my office, and let me get some work done, for once??

That was Tuesday morning, and after that, I couldn't get any work done. OK, I couldn't get much work done. The work I was doing was not simple work, you see. I felt terrible; and not only did I have a deadline I was failing to meet, I also had to determine whether the sour looks and ill demeanor of my workmates was due to word spreading about what I had said to Vixen, or just their usual jealous contempt toward me.


The next day, Wednesday, I was in my office trying to perform my electronic duties- bookkeeping for kitchens- and still feeling bad. It was about 9:00 AM, and I was just about to go check on the kitchen stuff when I heard a knock accompanied by a disembodied arm wrenching around my door.

Then The Vixen appeared. She sat down and said "hi," avoiding eye contact. I stared at her; she entered so quickly and in such an erratic and haphazard way that I couldn't really process what happened. I flipped into Auto Pilot, and I didn't feel much pressure to figure it out.

I looked at her really hard. Her hair was all brown, like usual, and kind of weirdish looking...but in a good way. I had the impulse to see what it felt like. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her shoulders were in the slump position.


The seconds droned. Maintaining her slumpedness, she gave me one of those "I really wish I wasn't" looks. You know, where they try to smile a little, but they're not happy, and they're not sure what to do.

Her eyes are brown.


I said hi, and we talked. She said some things, I said some things. And I managed to get a little work done.

Meeting Manny Halfway

There I was, trying my best to chill. I can't chill very well when people are around me. I...more like...daze out. It goes wrong. Then they think I'm on drugs. Never good.


Anyway, I asked a question. I was then assaulted by 5 women; do this, do that, do this, do that. I couldn't believe it. I then realized I was the only guy in the room. That's something I'm trying to work on; perception of "I'm the only guy here and there are a bunch of women around me, I gotta go find the guys and be manly, excuse me ladies, wait, have I been verbalizing all of this, oh goodness, I have."

I've learned that, when distaff assault me, it's best to focus on one and only one and try to make a league with them. I chose Manny Hitman. She was closest and is the easiest to make peace with; the phrase "He's no good to me dead" comes to mind. It works out well until I'm no longer of use to her.

She suggested that I take this bag of citrus:

And juice it...then drink the juice. As a, you know, "kill this sickness once-and-for-all" miracle cure. I've been relapsing with the same disease for over a month now. It's horribly unnerving.

I got home and went to juice them; lemon and grapefruit smoothies which are actually just juice with a straw and some ice and salt, here I come!
But then my dad started in. "O JOI, GRAPE FRUT LEMME HAV" and my mom said "NO JUICY MORE USEY IN COOKY LEMONS ESPENSIVE!~11".

Needless to say, I was crushed. I tried my best argument. "But my dear sister told me to!"

My parents don't like those arguments. It left me in a slump, lower than snail's antennae in a rollerblade casing. Then I slumped to work and my boss said "Hey, Kev, what's wrong?"

"Well, Boss," I said, tears streaming down my face, "My christian sistren told me to drink a whole lot of citrus, and my parents said no, and now I just feel terrid, I feel like scum, I wish I could just die!"

"Hmm," she said. "I'll be right back."

I sat and cried for a few minutes, and then she returned bearing joy!



Manny Hitman, I do believe I'll meet you halfway. Now, excuse me, I have a stomach lining to wear off.

The Horrible Day, Week 4: Cause and Effect with The Vixen

The Vixen.

Usually all people are the same; they want something, and once you identify what they want, everything falls into line. For example, I want to get my job done. Once you realize this about me, all of my intentions will fall into line, and you'll know just what to do. Yet, most people- especially The Vixen- have failed to grasp this concept, and they've surely failed to apply it to me.

It all began when I was out sick for a week.

The star new employee, the Beloved One, the Great No-Breaker, Kev, was out sick for an entire week. I work Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, because that's the only time we provide food. It went like this: 4 hours sleep on Tuesday, 6 hours on Wednesday (11-hour day), 3 hours on Thursday. This is normal sleep patterning, but on Thursday I forgot to eat breakfast, and then I was so busy I wasn't able to eat lunch. All of that wearing and tearing produced a very sick Kev the following week, and I was still a bit weak this week.

I was fulfilling my duty on Tuesday morning when the boss, Jen, came in and gave me an direct order. She said, "Kev, I know what's been going around, and I know that you can relapse easier than a knob twisted off of a pickle, so I need you to take breaks throughout the day."

"But...I don't...I don't take breaks," I pleaded. "I know you don't. Now make due!" she said. "But how?" "Just go out there, sit down and talk for a few minutes until you feel you've broken! Now, get to it!" I cast down my countenance. "Yes, ma'am."



The work I'm doing is learn-as-you-go,-by-the-way-improve-and-update-and-cater-the-system-to-your-specifications-as-you-learn-it-even-though-you-don't-all-of-the-intricacies work. Not the kind of work you get done when you have to take breaks throughout the day.

A few hours later, I was in my office formulating a menu. I was facing a hard deadline, and I had to excel in it or else I'd be bogged. I don't like the sound of bogging, neither do I know what it is, so I determined to excel, despite having to break.

Like clockwork, here came The Vixen. "Knock-knock!" she said, all perky like an idiot. "Oh, hi," I said, and tried to look really busy. She actually makes me feel physically sick. In a bad way.

"So how are you feeling?" she said. I looked up. "Just great, just a lot of work to do." Pause. "You were out for three days, you must have been really sick! How are you doing?"

"Yeah," I said, "doing fine, strong as a sailor, not as drunk, how are you." She grabbed the dry-erase eraser and began erasing my dry-erase board. I stared in horror. Zofia-1, Tanya-2, Eva-3, Umagon-4, CABAL-5, Kane-6, all erased! If I hadn't of memorized them and kept a separate copy, how on earth would I have remembered them?!

I tried not to let my frustration show. I am a professional; I don't get mad, I don't get sad, I don't get happy. I don't do inhibitions. I do my job. Vixen does not get this. She started drawing a picture of Hawaii, telling me how she wants to go there, how she wants to see Italy someday. Italy? Come on! That's like saying you want to see New York's sewage system someday. Not that there's anything wrong with New York's sewage system.

There are 8 colors of dry-erase markers in my office, and she can actually draw pretty well. It looked awesome, and my heart was about to grow three sizes that day...when she sat down.


If there's one thing that makes me angry, it's when somebody sits down in my office to waste my time. If you are going to waste my time, waste your body's precious energy reserves to do it, damn it.

I interrupted her mid-doesn't like her cousins-sentence. "Charlotte," I said, "could you do me a, uh, a favor?" She looked wide-eyed, but nodded. I nodded. "Could you, ah..." I struggled for the words. "Could you shut the hell up, get the hell out of my office, and let me get some work done, for once?"

I regretted the words before I said them. After a moment of trying to contain herself (I hate that look, I really, really hate it, it kills me), she teared up, stood and walked off. Based on how fast she walked, and that she didn't retort, and that she hid her face, and that she was headed to her office, I'd say that she was probably tearing up pretty badly, likely crying.



I didn't get any work done the rest of the day.

The Horrible Day, Week 2: Bing Loo, Kim Soo, and 250 Candy Bars

Week #2. I'll try to keep this post light.

OK, first off, I had to go to the store. For the weekly shopping. I was almost out the door when I got a piece of paper and an order: "BUY OR DIE."

Not being one to purposely take my life into my own hands, I bought. Two boxes- 48 candybar-size bags- plain M&Ms. Two more boxes of peanut M&Ms. A box of Milkyway bars, 36 count, and a box of 3 Musketeers, 36 count. For the diabetics. I'm told they'll die without them. And I also got a hundred bags beloved. Those bags make my heart sing.

We got in 30- read 'em, 30- gallons of milk. I told Mrs. Merry, the official unofficial subordinate dictator-in-chief of kitchen affairs (I don't know either, except that she tells me what to do) that I never want to see milk again. She laughed. And then she brought out more milk.

Then she got to talking about how you can make a shake out of bananas and milk. I thought, "Wow, that sounds like the greatest thing since...since...since...ACHOO!" Whoop, sorry. I didn't really sneeze, I just lost my train of thought as I was typing and thought I sneezed, mentally. I only got 4 hours of sleep today with no coffee, and I was so busy I didn't eat lunch...so bear with me. Irony: I make and serve lunch, and I'm the one who's too busy to eat.


They've given me the title of Hoss. I told them, "Yeah, the only difference is, I don't fight like Hoss does. I go straight for the kill; and I'll shoot a man in the back if my fingers get a-itchin'." A-itchin' is the hardest word to pronounce when you're putting on a cowboy accent out of nowhere; it's a cross between uh-itshin and uh-itshun. Try it.


I haven't mentioned Kim Soo and Bing Loo, so here goes...I think they're married. I think. I hope. They're about the most standard Asian couple you could ever imagine except for...a few things.

From my vantage point- bear in mind they never speak to me in English- the case seems to be that they watch a lot of anime. A whole lot. And then they reenact these animes at work. Very, very dramatically. I swear, they're a pair of vocal...oh, I lost my nerve. I'll do it in the next post, I promise, Debbie.

Anyway, they do pretty good. They say something real loud (like they're watching someone go away), one will cry, plenty of weeeird shouts or screams, and the like. You know, anime. They do me the service of scaring the daylights out of me every few days by doing strange things...something about them puts me on edge. Maybe it's that I have no idea what their real names are, and though I call them Bing and Kim Loo-Soo, they haven't corrected me.

They do tend to make an entertaining lunch session. For example, Kim will start crying unexpectedly, and everyone is like, "Oh great here it goes," then they'll assume what I think is some scene about a dating couple where the girl wants to leave the guy, or feels that the guy doesn't love her, or something. Then Bing will get all dramatic. Once, she ran out of the place sobbing. It was quite hilarious.

And that's Bing and Kim. Bottom line: They freak me out.



I also set off the alarm. WHEWHEHWWHEHWHEWHEHW it went. I thought, "Wow, imagine what it'd be like to be cornered in a building- in possession of more than 250 candybars- by the police."

The Crazy Candybar Caper. Read all about it.

The Horrible Day, Week 1: Garbage Has A Disposal

There I was, ordering stuff online with someone else's credit card. I was a bit sick, but not too sick to order stuff online with someone else's credit card. Anyways, then I heard over the phone system: "Jen to the kitchen, please."

I sat up straight in my chair. I was already sitting up straight, so hindsight, I must have overcorrected and actually leaned backwards in the chair. I then set out to find the cause of this summons.

You see...we're expecting Hector the Health Inspector to come by any day now, so I'm extra paranoid. I went out the back door and checked the parking lot. No Hectormobile. Mrs. Jen (Jen is her first name), or The Boss, is the one who deals with the inspector. She knows him the best and it keeps things from getting confused.

No idea why they don't use The Vixen for this. Not that I would agree with that, but still. More on The Vixen later.

Seeing no Hectorial car, I entered the building. Cautiously. I peeked around the corner...I saw Mrs. Merry with a mop and bucket. There was a water spill. Whew, I thought. That's all it is. No inspector. I'm terrified of the inspector. The inspector has a habit of beating you with health violations. Physically.


Anyway, Mrs. Merry, our janitor/head chef, has a temper. Some people have bad tempers, some people have horrible tempers. Hers is just...broken. After screaming at me for what seemed like two minutes, she handed me a mop and asked me to help. The good thing about Mrs. Merry is that once she expends all of her hatred, she's really nice as she mixes up more of that vitriol. Sometimes she'll attack others and be nice to you, sometimes she'll attack you so that she can go be nice to others. And she'll be in a really good mood if she can attack two people at once. It's give and take with Mrs. Merry.


Yesterday evening, as I was cleansing the refrigerator of the kitchen, I had to throw out three gallons of hot sauce. I didn't want to throw it in the dumpster (if I did that to our dumpster, we'd have half the boogeymen in the county after us, but I guess it's different in the city), so I put it down the garbage diposal. It was something to do with the hot sauce being too readily available and going down the pipes too fast, then sitting overnight, and it clogged the system up something fierce.

There was only ten or so gallons of water, but it took an hour and a half to clean up. As I'd later discover, Mrs. Merry's mop could absorb three times as much as mine, and when she left it to me to finish mopping, I continued with the bad one. For another forty minutes. After that I had to go finish ordering stuff with that credit card. Nothing makes you feel better faster than ordering something with someone else's credit card. Think about it: It's buying something with money that isn't yours, that isn't the other person's, either!

I was so happy. Then I got the news. I was informed that a plumber was on the way.

Then I got the bad news. I'd be paying.


So long, stillborn first pay check. I loved you 'ere I knew you.

Betty Breakdown

Ever had to deal with people? I have. And do. Not often. But one of those people is named Betty.

Betty Breakdown. As they call her.

They made a jingle:

When you hear whining down the halls,
It's Betty Breakdown's wa'try falls!
When you hear sobbing and wish it'd stop,
It's Betty Breakdown - go get a mop!
When you get the feelin' you're being watched
Turn to see those cheeks all teary an' blotched
When you walk faster but a little too laaate...
It's Betty Breakdown! (someone at this point begins a mocking sob)

People apparently don't get any nicer with age. You should see the jingles they made for Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman. Actually, they didn't make any for him, sorry. By the time they say his name it's time for the next part of that verse. Example:

Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman is,
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman to,
Patrick the Annoyingly Faced Irishman faced,

See? There's only room for one more word after his name. Betty Breakdown is much easier. Anyways, yes, Betty. I've been told by the resident Kev Guard (or 'person that tells Kev things he just can't grasp') that I'm a good target.

Kev. A shoulder to cry on.


I hear her approach. Tap, tap...slower taps. Silenced shuffling.


Sniffling. A knock. My door's open. The knock wasn't necessary.

"Mr. Kev?" she says. I'm twice her junior. No idea why she calls me "Mr." I look up from my keyboard. They're really nice keyboards, but I'm used to laptop keyboards and for a while I'll need to hunt and peck. I'm averaging two words a minute. Long words.

"Mrs. Breakdo- Agh! I mean, Mrs. Betty!" I say.

It's too late. She's sobbing, eyes halfway closed, unfocused and spewing tears. Mumbling. Mumbling something. Maybe an ancient curse, I think. Hopefully. No, darn it...just sob-speak.

She pulls up a chair. I hastily stow any vulnerable items; papers, my laptop, the desktop's tower and monitor, the keyboard and mouse...my voice recorder which I keep in a pocket...

Nothing is holy to Mrs. Breakdown. Not even pockets with sensitive electronics in them.


The best defense you have for Betty is to put your hands on her shoulders and try to hold her back. She fights like a drunken, angry bear, however, and is known to angle her head backward so that tears gather in her eye sockets. This allows her to fling her head forward and drench you with the "stored" water.

Betty...


Yeah...I think I'll keep my door closed from now on. Or invest in a stun gun.

Kzzapow.

Raise the Sign Up High!

Foreword, dictated to and thus transcribed by Kev: Have you ever thought how neat it would be to have your very own billboard sticking in your front yard? Well, I finally got my very own billboard today. Me and my son, me and my boy went out and dug the holes and stood that puppy straight up, sixteen foot high! Sixteen foot high billboard, 4' by 8'. No, actually, what is it? No, it's 3' by 7'. No wait, it's 38 1/2" by 75".

8"-high lettering and two white poles supporting it. Pretty soon, we'll be getting phonecalls: "OH look at me look at me, I need work done, pretty-pretty please!"

End foreword.


Begin KevWord™.


Ever heard the hymn Sound the Battle Cry? It's an old one. If you know it, then the following might be kind of fun:

Raise the Sign up high - See the passersby
Stop and stare a time - At the Sign
Ev'ryone take a look - This is for the his'try books
Tow'ring sixteen foot it ne'er shall fall!

If you don't know that particular hymn, you can say anything to the tune of Amazing Grace. So try singing it to the tune of Amazing Grace. Neat, huh? You can pretty much do the same thing with presidential speeches.

"I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, Dec. 7, a state of war has existed between the U.S. and the Japanese empire."

See? Fits perfect to the tune of Amazing Grace! Pretty 'amazing,' right? Get it?! Of course not, it's hymn humor, you wouldn't understand.


Anyway, the billboard is up. Here is a picture.


Yep. Billboard-a-rific. People are amazed by it. Notice how tall it is compared to the truck. And my dad, who is around six foot.

It was pretty tough raising it...a lot of it is welded, and one of the welds broke, so we had to take it all the way back to the house to re-weld it. But I welded it hard. That metal regretted ever existing I welded it so hard. Or, uh, good. I am not sure which adjective should describe force in welding.

Luckily there was a slight breeze, so I didn't have to breath too many welding fumes today. Welders say never to get into welding because you lose your sense of taste, smell, hearing and sight. I think that the fumes destroy your smell and taste, the constant noise ruins your hearing, and the welding ruins your eyes. Fun profession, right?


I am very sore. I had to hold the sign up straight while Dad positioned the truck to act as the main "anchor." Shoulders are amazing things, really, they are.


But of course, Samus Aran has already taught us that, hasn't she? Ah, Samus Aran. Her shoulder pads reign the Sun into a cage and take captive the stars.

My Mom's Job: "Here, Do This Thing That's Boring"

So, several weeks ago, I was recruited to go to my mom's job to work. OH, GANDRAYDA, WHY, WHY! My heart is broken now. Have you ever had something happen that you wished didn't happen, but there's no taking it back because it already happened? Then you read something that reminds you of that something and all the feelings come back in a horrible whirlwind tornado of sorrow? Oh, would to God that the memories of her would evaporate from my soul. And that I hadn't mentioned her in this blog post. Oh, that pink metamorph!



Anyways. I was recruited to go to my mom's job. They always work me like a slave. "Do this, do that, touch not, taste not, handle not," they bark. Well, this day it was special; it was kind of like preparing for a birthday party for 120 people. I think it's illegal to have 120 people at a birthday party.

Regardless, there I was. Me and my mom showed up at 9 AM. I was on my feet until 1 PM, then I got to sit down for half an hour (I played my guitar), and then I was back on my feet until 3:30 PM, when it was time for me and my mom to have a 15-minute "Everyone but us is stupid" break.

From 1:30 PM to 3 PM, I was given the privilege of getting the coffee additives ready. It went like this: wipe the tub out with a damp cloth. Get 8 fake sugar packets. Put those into the tub, next to those, put 10 creamer packets, and then 8 real sugar packets. Then put 10 straws. Repeat 24 times.

Then I got to wipe down the salt and the pepper shakers with the damp cloth. Each one was splattered with...something sticky. So they took a while to wipe down. Here is my finished work:

I hate coffee additives now. And I hate salt and I dislike pepper. The straws? They're OK.

Then (after the everyone-but-us-is-stupid break) I got to make salad. Let me rephrase that. I got to make salad for 125 people.

Oog. Luckily, I got a competent helper in the form of an 11-year-old. He added the bell pepper ring and the tomato to the top. He saved me about 5 minutes of time. He did good.


Just when I thought my troubles were over, and that I would get to go play my guitar some more, a younger waltzed in carrying some people. By people, I mean these:

Oog. The sight of them makes me SICK. So you know, 'younger' is a word I use for teenagers. "Youngers." I.e., I don't mean "someone younger than me," I mean "someone who is within this age group." Interchangeable with 'hipsters.'

So anyways, one of these hipsters waltz in with these people. I approached to render air. I mean, aid.

First, he did it all wrong. So with my direction, we were able to get a few up. Then his girlfriend materialized. That's when things got tricky. I tried to run it down to her- "touch not, taste not, handle not," but she wouldn't listen. "OOH, LET'S FOLD THESE IN HALF SO THAT WE'LL ONLY HAVE HALF AS MANY TO DO LOL!" she blurted. He thought that was a great idea. I thought that they deserved each other.

"Listen, stupid fool," I said. "If we fold them in half, we'll still have the same amount of wall to cover, but then we won't have enough people!"

They stared blankly, very nervously/frightened. "OK, look," I said. "People. There are fifteen of them. There are ten people worth of wall. If we only have seven people, then how will we cover the ten people worth of wall?"

After a few seconds, he raised his hand excitedly. "Well?" I asked. "There are three of us!" he said. Then he counted us to make sure. "Yeah! We can stand there and make up for the rest!" He smiled real big. "Well," I began. "We could do that, but no." "Why not?" he asked, providing a shockingly thousand-mile, open-mouthed stare, as if his brain had suddenly turned to mush.

I just looked at him. "Because, then we'll have to sit there- for hours- and unlike the people, we jut out from the wall two feet. People would throw coffee on us," I added, frustrated. "But wouldn't that help us stay awake?" she added hopefully. "In a sense, yes," I allowed. "Regardless, we are not going to fold them in half, and we're not going to sit here on the ground like idiots getting coffee thrown on us."


This went on for at least two hours. And putting the people up was just as frustrating- either they wouldn't stick, or they'd come out lopsided. When we thought we were done about 40 minutes into this ordeal, the news came that we had more to do. "They are young and reckless," I confided to Red. "They are not ready." I forget what she said, but it spurred me to say "OK, I'll go gather my charges, then." It must have been a pep talk of some kind. Why do I know so many more women than men?


I digress. Remember the 125 salads I made? Well, I had to do the same thing with a cake. Or rather, a lot of cakes. If you look at the picture with the salad, you can see the cake near to it. Except that there were many platters of cake on plates. It was kind of sad that all of this brave food was about to be slaughtered. I could hear them singing "Muffin Man" and "BINGO"...innocently.


Then it was time to serve the food. I was assigned to switch the pans out. So when they ran out of corn, it was my duty to get the pan of corn out of the oven and switch it out with the other pan. I had to scream "AHHHHHH! HOT PAN! OUT OF MY WAY OR I'M THROWING IT IN YOUR FACE! AHHH!" at the top of my lungs while moving the pans so that they would know I have a hot pan. It's hard to scream in such a harried way and not match that physically by jumping around or moving violently.


Then the ceremonies began and concluded. Then it was time to clean up. The work was finished at 10 PM. I was on my feet for roughly 13 hours. Three days later, I noted that the flesh at the ends of my toes were still numb. While I was volunteering, my dad at home made the lid for the guitar case. It rained on the way home. Problem is, as soon as we pulled into our property it stopped. The more I experience this, the more I believe that our land is actually cursed.

One of those "Hah, turns out I've been working with live wires" moments...

We were outside, minding our own, when I saw the box. "Oh my gosh! A box0r!" I cried, and we made the arduous trek to the front of our property to retrieve it. Three Medals of Honor later, we arrived at the box. We had no idea what it was, as it was from Grainger, and you know the whole joke with/about that. It was very light, and I didn't hear humming, and smelled nothing funny.

On Thursday, my Pslightly Psychotic Mother ordered an air conditioning timer. You know, one that changes the temperature during the day to 85, and the temperature at night to 75. She had been wanting to get one since she was a little girl, but no one would ever buy her one. Like I said, on Thursday she took matters into her own hands, ordering one with four time-of-day adjustments and the ability to program individual days.

You can go ahead and guess what was in the box, now. If you said "a bucket of bolts," you are very wrong.

I dove into the in...oh wait, there was an argument about this. I SERPENTED into the instructions, and before long and with a little advice from can-fix-everything Dad, I began taking the old thermostat down.

I'll save you the comparably naked pictures. Circuitry, wires...C3PO...Episode One...you know. Here's the old:


And, as if by magic, here's the new!


With two new buttons to confuse my mom and stump my dad! Woohoo! But as I was wiring up the last of the four dangerously thin wires, the system kicked on. I thought I had turned it off, but actually, the HEAT was still on, and I guess the heat includes the fan. It was one of those...well, you-know-what moments.


I got it programmed using my outrageously ingenious brain, and by 9 PM it should turn down to 74, and actually, I think I'll make the high 86 instead of 85, because we all know how special '86 was. That was the year of shocked fanboys and quite possibly the beginning of "gender identity disorder" as we know it. Go Samus!

Officer Marv Putting In the Good Word

Today, I went to work with my dad. I painted some framing- that was laborious cause it is designed to be painted before being screwed onto the house. I also painted 1/5th of the facia, but then I got "ladder legs" and thought my fingers would fall off. That guitar is doing no good for my phobia of my fingers falling off. It's...exacerbating matters, if anything. I just love the calluses! I'm growing quite attached to them. I quite honestly find it creepy. Quite creepy.

It was only 20 minutes at the most, but I am not designed to fall from heights. My dad? He is. He can fall down ladders. Kile II? He is. He fell down a ladder just a few days ago, as a matter of fact. But not me. It's the fever phobia about my fingers falling off. They start rattling and somehow my vision zooms and I start sweating, looking frantically at my fingers. I feel like a Mr. Potato Head, wondering when my fingers will come out of their sockets and make me plummet to my doom.



The house we're working on is the same Hercules house from before. It's not haunted, per se, but it's very... bad. Usually workers complain about the jorb- it's part of the jorb actually- but this place really is weird. If it was a bad place, then it would be normal. But it's an OK house. And it still is horrible. That's just weird.

Like, the Death and Hell house ("and Death and Hell follow after"), that place was bad because it was. The Hercules house is just bad for some unknown reason. We think it's haunted but Pastor says that houses don't get haunted, he says that "I get haunted from you, Kev. You haunt my dreams. Like, my life-goal dreams. It's always, 'Oh, but Kev,' and 'Oh, Kev said this,' and 'Kev has to ride to California with us again for eight hours...' You're ruining m-"


Then I learned how to fix a toilet. They get fixed in so many ways. You fix the cracked toilet tank, then you fix the cracked toilet bowl, then you hit it with a hammer and people scream...I replaced the fill thinger and made sure that the clippy hose was latched onto the drain piper like a Metroid on a half-dead Space Pirate. No, more! Like a Metroid on a paralyzed fully-alive Space Pirate! Man, that's some hard latching, there.


After that exercise in futility and "there's still another thing to do," we stopped by our employers' house, who happened to be my Aunt's better half. My aunt, Aunt Desnee, let us take as many grapefruit as we wanted. I made a grapefruit angel! And took home 5 gallons worth of yellow orbs!

We also loaded up a washer and dryer while there. Her house is like a hub. Everyone drops off things there, and others pick them up. It's weird and kind of ...illegal... and hard to explain. I do not know what the washer and dryer are for- perhaps for the Hercules House.

After, we headed home. But we stopped and picked up a AUTOMOTIVE CAR RED TRUCK REPAIR MAINTENANCE set of air filters for the Red Beater. Then we went by a Mexican food store with a tortelleria. I think that's how you spell it. Basically, they make their own tortillas there, and they sell "giant" tortillas, and they're good, especially texture-wise. Not all Mexican food stores have tortellerias.


As you know, we have a Ford F-150. Ford F-150s are apparently the most-stolen car in Arizona. I think. This one is ...OK, without giving out too many details, it's a target. I took one final farewell picture of it. Goodbye, ladder. Goodbye, dual-Christ Died FOR Our Sins magnets. I will mis u gies n c u n hevn gg.


Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're...




...still there when we got back!


I was so surprised. We fully expected not only the truck to be stolen, but also to maybe have the spare tire slashed just to "show" us. But there was this police officer guarding it! We were so happy. Apparently, Officer Marv, whom you'll recall I had quite a slapstick verbal spat with a few weeks ago, put in the good word for me. It was something like "He's the coolio spinniest kid in the hood, you should watch his car, he's stupid but his heart is good." I didn't know Marv could uh...break it jam. I mean down. You know what I mean. I didn't know he could spin a down. Break a...you know.


Thanks, Officer Marv! You saved our Mpod! (Mammoth Polluting Ozone Destructor.)

The Two Week Notice

Recently, my dad gave his two-week notice to leave his place of employment. Originally, he was only to work there for two or three months, and he and his boss have discussed his quitting before, so it's not like they were looking forward to having him as a long-term employee, nor were they shocked. If anything, they were pleasantly surprised he stayed as long as he did.

His boss said that he can still make bids on jobs that need to be done around there, and they'll still call him if something special needs doing (such as a toilet not flushing- our pastor and Kile II can tell you, my dad fixes toilets like a champ!), so it's not a total loss for either side. However, my mom is distressed by it. She hates unsteady sources of income; my dad wants to start his own business, and that's basically the definition of "unsteady income!" But that's his lifelong dream, and I'm sure it will work out one way or another.

Starting your own business is a grueling, horrific, potentially disastrous, scary, unbelievably hard trudge-fest where all you do is slave and toil and work and worry. Needless to say, that appeals to my dad very much. "Where do I sign!" he says with much glee. I may never understand that man.

We need to work on our customer service and advertising (what advertising?), as well as accepting that there are certain parts of jobs that will require us to call electricians or plumbers. As it is now, we're operating under the "Handyman's Clause." That means that you can do pretty much anything if the total job is under $1,000. It's dangerous, though. (See linked article.)

My mom figured out that if we skimp so hard that we're eating beans, we can get by with $550 a month on top of her income. That's doable. My dad can typically make upwards of $700 in a two-day weekend, so as long as the work lasts, we should be fine, and especially if he works a 3 or 4 day week (or even 5-day!). I think the idea is to slave and work and almost kill yourself when there's a lot of work, because next week, there may not be any work. It's called "rolling with the miserable sun," I guess. Did I mention that I damned an entire country to Hell the other day? I had to take it back, because whew, that was a bit too much for me.

He's hoping to very soon acquire a license of sorts that allows him to do work of up to $25,000. (There's another class that allows for $50,000, I think, and I'm sure there are others.) Since he is a felon/ex-felon, he has to complete a felon test. They fingerprint you, beat you with a cat-o-nine tails, stab you a few times with needles to test your reflexes (hammers only work on joints), and then hang you upside-down blindfolded and have spiders crawl on you, and you have to guess which one is the biggest. I don't know where they dream these tests up, but they sure are weird.

Once he has that, he will be restricted from doing electrical/plumbering (that's not a word)/other specialty work. I'm not sure what he will be able to do at that point. Then, he goes and takes "electrical" tests, and that is added to his license to make a super license that allows for electrical. He then will do the same with plumberating (that's not a word) and air conditioneering (that's not a word), and anything else he wants to. Then we can make the "real" money.


More good in all of this is that my mom will be able to get home about two hours sooner, and may even go back to a 3-day workweek. That'd make me happier than a hatter! Additionally, my dad will be able to stop missing church, and probably be able to attend the Bible studies and perhaps the Q&A's. I don't think he'll be able to make this Q&A, which should be an "ice cream social."

I asked Lisa dataDyne, and she says that she hasn't heard anything more of it. She did manage to propagandize for Pastor's dad, though. One plants the seed, the other waters. I now recall that Pastor Justice had mentioned the ice cream social while coming home from California- wish I had remembered and mentioned that to her. I don't think it'll be a potluck-type event, but simply someone purchasing several gallons of ice cream- probably Pastor Justice. We'll need sprinkly things too, though! I personally am very partial to rainbow sprinkles. They make me about as happy as Samus Aran does.



Best of all, Dad's finally starting to admit that he needs to learn to use the computer. The poor guy, he's called an idiot if he doesn't want to learn it, and he's laughed at if he says he does. A real "damned if you do, humiliated if you don't." (That isn't really true. Hi Don! Glad to see you're blogging again! Am I keeping up the peer pressure sufficiently?) Anyway, time to go. I wanted to keep this much shorter, but I failed, alright? I admit it. I failed. Shoot me now, Short Blog Post gods, for I have failed in my offering to you.

Bess' Wedding #3: It Begins. Again.

Yes, it is finally time to begin slaving over a computer which lets off practically no heat (even by laptop standards) and pwn some miniDV tapes. Well, actually, I already have the miniDV tapes transferred onto the My Book external Hard Drive, so it's just a matter of editing them. Need I remind you that I spent 4+ hours on 2.5 minutes of Rattlesnake footage?...considering her wedding is 2.6 hours long...I should have 250 hours carved out to edit this wedding. So it should take a minimum of 50 days.


...well, first things first, I have to get some socks on, because it's cold, rainy, and cloudy, and I have both doors open. It is 10:37 PM. Yesterday was the church soup dinner, by the way. I especially liked one that Mrs. dataDyne brought. It was potato soup, and I'm a sucker for potato soup.

Anyway, I still need to get those socks on, as my toes are very cold. Ahhh...my toes are now warmer than, um, the sun. Alright. First steps first (toe humor- get it, steps? Laugh, man!), I need to shut down my computer, then get the area around my chair cleaned up so I can fit the external hard drive, get some breaklunch, then start the computer back up and hook up the mouse and get watching Bess' wedding footage.

I have to watch it to see where the chapters should begin and end, how long each chapter runs, when I can insert funny things/subtitles, refresh myself on how to insert subtitles and split-screens, and stuff like that. I want to include some video game footage (I like split screens if I'm not playing), but that's considered "copyright infringement," and they would hunt me down and beat me with a table leg. That hurts. Trust me.


OK, I am back, my computer is online, my mouse is hooked up, the 500 GB hard drive is hooked up, and my makeshift lap desk is in use. It is 1:11 PM. Yeah, I know, it's been two hours, I ran into some snags, OK?

Now I'll open MoviePlus 5...and I'll be off...right after I reinstall MoviePlus, that is. I accidentally deleted the "custom subtitles" font. Yeah, that's right, they let you delete the only font you can customize. The others are either big and square or lack sufficient customization options. I deleted it. I made a mistake. Let's not talk about it any more. It's behind me, so please put it behind us.

Right, I reinstalled, that didn't fix it. Then I discovered that I can remove the 3D effect of some of the fonts anyways, so I'll only have to make a few extra clicks of the mouse. OK, now the resources CD isn't matching up. Am I the only one who wishes I wasn't so finicky? I think I'm not the only one who wishes I wasn't so finicky. OK, whichever, I'll go without the resources DVD. I don't need its...resources. It is now exactly 1:59 PM. I hate reinstalling movie editing software only to discover it was in fact a time waste.

Video editing software is truly amazing. It makes Windows Media Player look useless.


It's 2:30. In half an hour, I've watched 8 minutes of footage. I'm marking it with chapter markers, and so far I have to edit out some sound. Pretty much, all I have to do for the first 8 minutes of the movie is add some subtitles and transition effects. And define that it was sawdust I almost capsized in, not a giant mound of poop.

Who would think I would have to put "unassisted birth" in the subtitle field. I commented that the people at that wedding were either stupid, or just slow. I backpedaled shortly thereafter...claiming I was the comic relief as weddings are so serious. Oh, drat...the clouds are leaving. You know my cloud song, right?

It's a dark, cloudy day
And nobody has to throw hay
It's a dark, cloudy
And the clouds have come to stay
It's a dark, cloudy day
And the clouds are dropping some rain
It's a dark, cloudy day
If those clouds should ever stray
It'll be a clear, bright day
And then it will be time to throw hay

I'm in the "clear bright day" line right now. Grr. That just bakes my biscuits. Back to video marking.

Once I'm done with this 1-hour block, I'll burn it to DVD, then have my parents help me decipher things that were said that need subtitling, as well as offer their suggestions. (Yeah, right. We both know I'll just do it on my own then credit them in the credit field for birthing and raising me.)

Aw, man...I just stabbed myself with a pen.

You know, using this mouse brings back so many good memories of Command and Conquer 3. Let me tell you...C&C3 is the ONLY computer game in my top 10, and it's definitely the only computer game to even have a shot at my top 5. I especially liked the part where the woman was executed (it was very non-graphic). That was just awesome. They could have done any number of graphic executions, but they chose a very elegant method. I think that's morbid to say. (I'm currently defining the words "morbid" and "sacrilegious.")

Now I'm in the mood to play C&C3. Totally.

Dried cranberries are my official C&C3 snack of choice. Chocolate chip cookies are my official The Legend of Zelda: the Wind Waker snack of choice. Pizza is my official The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess snack of choice. The "snack of choice" is basically something I have to have at least once during the play-through or else it's not a play-through.

Little Jihad, who my mom wants to begin calling "Twinkie," (God forbid) just ran off barking like a mad fool. Bark bark bark. Popoe had escaped today. After 5 hours of 40 degree weather and rain, he decided he wanted back in. Desperately. It never works out for him when he goes outside. Either he's caught in a noose, or he is drug in by his tail, he gets caught in the rain with cold weather, he decides to come back in of his own accord, or he gets hit by a car. (Update: I was right, he's gone now. Don't know where or how.)

My toes are cold again. It's 3:51 PM.

I decided to burn the footage to DVD even though it is not even roughly edited. It finished burning around 8 PM. The exporting took at least an hour- more like two- and the burning and another process took half an hour. That's just a lot.

It's hard to tell, as it is night time with the NightShot, but it looks good. I hate how the title screen looks. The font tries...but it's too small. I'll need to make it bigger. I believe that this software allows you to hook your TV up through your camera, so you can preview it. I'll need to do that when I fine-tune it.

Anyway, it's 8:30 PM, and I'm done for the day. I accomplished...uhh...nothing. Great. I did move over 4.7 GB of pictures to the external hard drive. So if that is destroyed...well, the same thing will happen that would have happened if my laptop was destroyed.



One DVD of unedited footage exported for quality assessment.
Time setting up software, tuning, getting situated: 1 hour, 15 minutes
Time viewing footage for editing: 30 minutes worth: 1 hour, 50 minutes
Time tending to DVD writing process: 30 minutes
Total time spent today: 3 hours, 35 minutes
Total estimated time left: forecast: 246 hours, 25 minutes (two-hundred forty-six hours and twenty-five minutes), i.e., way too much

Bacher or Backer?

Note: I posted this on January 21st, but I had previously uploaded some of the photos, so it retained that date- February 15th. I apologize for the inconvenience.


About 10 days ago, me and my dad went by a Lowe's. I found out that I despise Lowe's; the layout of the store just makes my barn owl catch a mouse. The paint section makes me sick, and so does the GIGANTIC HEATER section. Hello, uh, we're Arizona- we don't need heaters, we obviously need anti-moron sticks to get the morons who decided gigantic heaters should be sold in Lowe's out of our state and into Wisconsin where they can sell air conditioners. It's like trying to sell oil to Saudi Arabia. For high prices.

Speaking of anti...guess what we saw the other day? None other than a tailgating deterrent device which I think would really work great if implemented en-mass. See the photographs, below.

Whoo! Tailgating would come with a chance to shear off 90% of your front end. Wouldn't that be a much better world? WHAM, you crash into the person in front of you, and your engine block falls out. My vision of a perfect world..."You sunk my engine block!"



Anyway, you know who Orville Redenbacher is, right? He makes popcorn? I think he's dead? He's old? He even was old when he was young? He was the only baby ever born with gray hair? He looked really old when he was old? He made being old not just a normative life process, but an art? Something that young people attempted and aspired to?

Well, there's a young Redenbacher enthusiast working at Lowe's, apparently. You know those infuriating checklists above any project? It says stuff like, you need a cannon saw (whatever?), and a resendicating mortar shell-vapor expulsion drill, and some Plyer's warfnitinaling ("the process of fastening") FastSet Ultra Glue, and a Steady Hand reversible Insothalinothronopic Philip and Flathead screwdrivers, and always safety glasses, ear plugs, gloves and hardhat? Bleg. Well, if you don't know what those lists are, here's one, pictured below.

Notice anything strange? I did. What on earth is...bacherboard?

If your eyes are bad, here's a closeup.

Grr. Why would they call it Bacherboard? Then it would be pronounced, "Bih-carr-bored." That's horrendously difficult to pronounce. It's so difficult to pronounce, you'd have to denounce it, and no one would buy it.

So, I set out to do some investigating. I didn't have to go far before I found this advertising sign.

Aha! Not only is BACKERboard very expensive at Lowe's, it's also called BACKER, with a C and a K! Victory is mine! About then- as I had my arms raised and was in the middle of a guttural cry of victory- my dad got back from the bathroom. "Kev," he asked. He always starts with "Kev." Everyone tends to start with "Kev."

"Did you look for the tile?"

"Uh, no," I began as I slowly lowered by arms. "See, they misspelled Hardibacker and used CH. I don't think there's any beet free sugar there, so um, I did some investigating, and found an advertisement which should be more accurate than a hastily assembled list, and that's what I've been doing for the last 5 minutes instead of looking for the tile like you asked me to."

"Kev...we now have a living example of why God wrote his word down, and didn't just speak it. Let's find the tile." "OK, pa." A few minutes passed. "You know, like Redenbacher. He made popcorn...did he invent hardibacker, too, dad?"

"No, Kev...he didn't invent hardibacker. It was invented by Sir Hardi the Back of Errfield, OK, now let's find the tile." "OK."

About that time, an employee, by chance, happened upon us, then started telling us about how his wife left him and he has been showing up to work late lately and with a hangover and his boss wants to fire him. "I just need something to...save me, out of this horrific trap I'm in!" he hastily spat. "If only someone had some good news for my dreary dark world!" he cried.

There was a pause, the man's face frozen in a shocked expression of desperate need, his hands and arms in a weird position, his mouth agape.



"Listen, buddy, you're not paid to hobble around and then jump customers and whine your life's story out to them. Get lost, before I make SURE you're fired!" my dad said. The guy started shaking-possibly sobbing- then walked away.

After we got our stuff, we decided to go to lunch. But the restaurants were full up, so we decided to go read our Bible on a busy street corner.



(Please, God, tell me someone gets the humor in this. May they look at Matthew 6:2 and 6:5, and also realize that there was no man in Lowe's who said anything like that!)