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.)
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Trials and Transfers, Part 1: Onto You Going There
The following occurred yesterday.
I'm trying to do a backup of my laptop because my 500 GB MyBook Essential Edition External Hard Drive is out of commission; so in effect, I currently have no backup. I'll go in fast format:
7:30 AM. Got working on repairing the MyBook.
10:30 AM. I finish trying to fix the MyBook. I took it apart (quite an interesting and quite-obvious-it-was-taken-apart process) and attempted many other fixes. The problem may be the housing, so I need to put the drive itself into a desktop, but our desktop doesn't have the correct connector. I shelved the project.
11:30 AM. After taking a break, I go to get the 30 GB hard drive which Mr. dataDyne gave me. What a lifesaving, serendipitous thing this is! I declared inwardly. That man's a saint, I thought.
Come to find out, he didn't give me the power cord for it. Which is fine because 1) they're so common that we actually have two, except that both are in use by the wireless Internet system, and 2) it's actually a dandy 60-GB hard drive, not a 30. SUCKER! AHA HA HAH HA!
11:40 AM. I install the 60-GB drive into my old 80-GB drive's external housing. It works like a charm. In the process, I found our jeweler's screwdriver things. I lost my USB mouse connector. I found my USB mouse connector (thanks, mom!).
11:45 AM. I decide to try to set up a wireless connection between my mom's job's Vista and my XP. It works but I don't know how to configure it. I give up and go to the 60-GB hard drive idea.
Problem, I have 80-100 GB worth of material. (The drive is only 60 GB. Keep up, humble fool.) Therefore, I determine to store a backup consisting of two parts on my mom's laptop. Thus I need The Beachhead and The Lodgement- two separate folders that can quickly be dropped into a new computer if the need arises. Now, I call this a backup. It's quite brutish, and not as refined as the whole "backup everything including operating system" idea. But since I'm working with a 60-GB and not a roomy 500-GB, I got to make dues. Due.
1:56 PM. I finish Beachhead Party, consisting of Desktop, Masters, and the My Documents folder (which only has My Music and My Pictures along with 20 text/.pdf documents). Roughly 45 GB. I'll see if it transfers onto the 60-GB drive and transfer it there in three parts.
3:30 PM. Transfer of Beachhead to 60-GB drive complete.
3:35 PM. Beginning transfer of Beachhead to mom's laptop.
Somewhere around 4:50 PM. Transfer of Beachhead Party to mom's laptop complete.
4:58 PM. I discover that there are 25 GB of games on my laptop; and 50 GB of files; thus there are roughly 60 GB missing.
5:10 PM. I discover that the WinXP operating system does not take up 60 GB of space. I am confounded and cannot locate the missing files.
5:15 PM. I realize that Beachhead party is taking up an additional unneeded 50 GB of space because it's copied and still on my desktop, therefore I'm missing only 10 GB. WinXP supposedly takes about 2. I seek the remaining 8 GB. (The recovery partition is 12 GB on its own partition.) Temp files are currently taking 2 GB. The rest I don't care about, or at least I don't think I do.
5:20 PM. I make sure that my History folder is backed up. I still wonder if there's a standalone history operating program.
5:25 PM. I declare the backup completed.
And that's how I backup a laptop.
Friday, March 13, 2009
How To Make A Traditional Irish Dinner
We all know how this will end. With that in mind, let's get to it.
Step 1: Find corned beef.
Step 2: Boil corned beef.
Step 3: Wash potatoes.
Step 4: Prep cabbage. If potatoes take an hour to boil, cabbage takes 10 minutes. It cooks very fast. I like to cut it like thus:
...leaving about half an inch of connective tissue near the root. Then just before I'm ready to boil it I cut it the rest of the way. That 1) looks cool, 2) makes you look cool, and 3) takes less space. I like to cut my cabbage a couple hours before I'll be cooking it, so storage is an issue. Maybe that's just me.
Or, you can leave it connected with the connective tissue and boil it "whole." That makes you look great, but you need a rather large cutting board to put the cooked cabbage head on to finish cutting it. And you need a big pan. I use the 4-gallon pot, works fine.
Boil beef, potatoes, and cabbage until done.
Serve with 6-pack of beer per person. Alternatively, just boil a potato and serve with the beer. And that's your traditional Irish dinner.
I bet it's hard being Irish. Seriously, though- look at the Patricks ads. You'll see some green stuff, then a WHOLE SECTION dedicated to beer. It's about a 1:2 ratio of food-to-beer in Patricks Day ads. Kind of lends credence to the whole joke, y'know.
Step 1: Find corned beef.
Step 2: Boil corned beef.
Step 3: Wash potatoes.
Step 4: Prep cabbage. If potatoes take an hour to boil, cabbage takes 10 minutes. It cooks very fast. I like to cut it like thus:
...leaving about half an inch of connective tissue near the root. Then just before I'm ready to boil it I cut it the rest of the way. That 1) looks cool, 2) makes you look cool, and 3) takes less space. I like to cut my cabbage a couple hours before I'll be cooking it, so storage is an issue. Maybe that's just me.Or, you can leave it connected with the connective tissue and boil it "whole." That makes you look great, but you need a rather large cutting board to put the cooked cabbage head on to finish cutting it. And you need a big pan. I use the 4-gallon pot, works fine.
Boil beef, potatoes, and cabbage until done.
Serve with 6-pack of beer per person. Alternatively, just boil a potato and serve with the beer. And that's your traditional Irish dinner.
I bet it's hard being Irish. Seriously, though- look at the Patricks ads. You'll see some green stuff, then a WHOLE SECTION dedicated to beer. It's about a 1:2 ratio of food-to-beer in Patricks Day ads. Kind of lends credence to the whole joke, y'know.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Save The Environment, Step 1: Exact Change
Some people have some very strange ideas on how to go about saving our environment. There's even a wacky sect that doesn't care at all. Keeps rambling about creation and Jesus Christ and stuff. Let's not discuss those ones.
We know that every single day, 25,000 trees die of asphyxiation and being cut down and such. Not only that, but 200,000 crickets are eaten by frogs per day- that's not an exaggeration, those are the cold, hard facts! And in just one 24-hour period!
Now, trees shelter the crickets, which prevents the frogs from eating them. The only problem with this is the thousands of frogs which will die periodically of cricket deprivation; but there's a balance to everything and we will find it eventually. For now, I'd rather see 20,000 frogs die each day than 200,000 crickets. Crickets are tasty.
So. How do we save the 25,000 trees? Simple. Exact change. Try this:
Go to convenience store. Buy a drink. Maybe a canned coffee product. Those am (sic) expensive. Now, checkout.
What happened? You paid with a $100 bill (or at least this is how it went in my fictional completely true experience), and they gave you change back. Then you climbed back in your Jaguar to return to your high-paying CEO job and realized...they also gave you a receipt.
Every day, more than 1 billion receipts are printed in Kansas alone. That amounts to about 400 billion receipts per day worldwide. Every 1,000 receipts weighs an average of 15 lbs. That's 1,050,000,000 pounds of paper I think- a lot of useless paper, filling up our landfills and killing all the crocodiles that usually call those landfills home sweet landfill.
Each tree weighs an average of 38,000 pounds. That's roughly 27,500 trees worth of paper we could save if we could eliminate these vile receipt-fiends.
I have a solution. Brethren, we have vic'try:
Provide exact change! With exact change, there's no loose ends to tie up, so you have a fun, safe, frog-loving paperless transaction. Otherwise, they have to print up the receipt to see how much money to give you back. This also takes time.
Think of the shoplifter: in and out of store very fast. No receipts for them; they're actually halping- oh my, I have no idea what just happened, sorry- they're actually helping the environment by shoplifting.
You- yes, you- can be just like a petty thief if you provide exact change. All you'll need for this Step is to carry around 100 pennies at all times, preferably leaving the house with...400 billion receipts = 100 per person per day, maximum of 99 pennies needed per receipt...about 9,900 pennies for your 100 transactions, max of 99 pennies needed per transaction. (Be prepared.) You can do it. For your children. For the frogs...for those tasty crickets.
Second thought, who could possibly blame those frogs?
We know that every single day, 25,000 trees die of asphyxiation and being cut down and such. Not only that, but 200,000 crickets are eaten by frogs per day- that's not an exaggeration, those are the cold, hard facts! And in just one 24-hour period!
Now, trees shelter the crickets, which prevents the frogs from eating them. The only problem with this is the thousands of frogs which will die periodically of cricket deprivation; but there's a balance to everything and we will find it eventually. For now, I'd rather see 20,000 frogs die each day than 200,000 crickets. Crickets are tasty.
So. How do we save the 25,000 trees? Simple. Exact change. Try this:
Go to convenience store. Buy a drink. Maybe a canned coffee product. Those am (sic) expensive. Now, checkout.
What happened? You paid with a $100 bill (or at least this is how it went in my fictional completely true experience), and they gave you change back. Then you climbed back in your Jaguar to return to your high-paying CEO job and realized...they also gave you a receipt.
Every day, more than 1 billion receipts are printed in Kansas alone. That amounts to about 400 billion receipts per day worldwide. Every 1,000 receipts weighs an average of 15 lbs. That's 1,050,000,000 pounds of paper I think- a lot of useless paper, filling up our landfills and killing all the crocodiles that usually call those landfills home sweet landfill.
Each tree weighs an average of 38,000 pounds. That's roughly 27,500 trees worth of paper we could save if we could eliminate these vile receipt-fiends.
I have a solution. Brethren, we have vic'try:
Provide exact change! With exact change, there's no loose ends to tie up, so you have a fun, safe, frog-loving paperless transaction. Otherwise, they have to print up the receipt to see how much money to give you back. This also takes time.
Think of the shoplifter: in and out of store very fast. No receipts for them; they're actually halping- oh my, I have no idea what just happened, sorry- they're actually helping the environment by shoplifting.
You- yes, you- can be just like a petty thief if you provide exact change. All you'll need for this Step is to carry around 100 pennies at all times, preferably leaving the house with...400 billion receipts = 100 per person per day, maximum of 99 pennies needed per receipt...about 9,900 pennies for your 100 transactions, max of 99 pennies needed per transaction. (Be prepared.) You can do it. For your children. For the frogs...for those tasty crickets.
Second thought, who could possibly blame those frogs?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
That Second Dead Nikon Coolpix S10 Again (Again)
There I was, running through the hall to shut off the emergency alarm.
I hear a clack, clatter, clack. "Oh, dear," I think as I key in the code.
Good news: The alarm didn't go off. Remember the alarm from The Second Horrible Day?
Bad news: the clackery clatter was my Nikon S10. My second Nikon S10.
My first Nikson S10 died back in August-September after being dropped on the lens housing. I had that one for a good time. I took more than 10,000 pictures with it. It went to 9,999 and rolled to 0. Then it got dropped- like it had been about 5 times before- on a Walmart floor. But this time...lens error.
My mom bought me a new one, probably because she owed me. It was a complete surprise. She [called and] asked me if I could bring the box in because "the vitamins might be damaged by the sun." Then she expected me to open it, but I said, "Come on, why would I open it? That's stupid, I don't have time for this."
It drove her nuts because, usually, I open any package regardless of if it's mine or not. (They HATE this about me at work, by the by.) I had an idea of what it might be ("bring it in"?), but I didn't fully know until I opened it. I still "told her I hadn't opened it." You see, "I didn't have time to open it [a second time]." I opened it from the bottom so she couldn't tell I had opened it. Then she said, "Hey, look!" and I said, "What, it's another Nikon Coolpix S10?" Man, it was great. And I used the word 'open' a lot in this paragraph.
Wonderful memories about taking any joy out of my mom's buying me a gift aside, this second Nikon Coolpix S10 lasted until a few weeks ago. Then the whole alarm and Lens error thing.
Having lost two cameras to this obvious lens error weakness, I'm still going to buy another one. Am I mad? Am I stupid? Do I have a brain lens error?
No, I'm just hopelessly attached to the swivel-head design. Nothing else comes close. If you want to know what it's like...just think of your camcorder. Those- even the 5-year-old Hi8's- have swivel-LCDs. However, all the valuable buttons are easily accessed; with a camcorder, your hand breaks off if you try to swivel it too far. Because with a camcorder, the whole system moves. Along with the buttons.
With the Nikon S10, your hand stays comfortably not broken off, and you can adjust any setting you want except for Vibration Reduction and the amazingly useless "Face Focus" mode. It's a great camera. My camera holster? Not so great a camera holster. Next time, better camera holster.
The S10 is big compared to compact cameras, but the battery life is good. Somehow. And the 10x optical zoom is neat, though at 10x the quality is a little low. The coolest thing is the proximity of the flash and focus to the lens; it allows for very close closeups. Even closeups of mouths. I feel very restricted using any other camera (their closeups lose), and I've known for a while that the only camera that can shake me from my love of swivel-headed cameras will be a DSLR. Even then, I'll still have an S10 (or more recent) because, well, DSLRs suck.
Problem is...the S10's now sell for $400. That's a lot more than their original worth. Why? They addict people to them. That's why. I'm proof.
Then they don't make new models for years, and they stop producing them. So now I have to look into getting it repaired. Goodbye.
I hear a clack, clatter, clack. "Oh, dear," I think as I key in the code.
Good news: The alarm didn't go off. Remember the alarm from The Second Horrible Day?
Bad news: the clackery clatter was my Nikon S10. My second Nikon S10.
My first Nikson S10 died back in August-September after being dropped on the lens housing. I had that one for a good time. I took more than 10,000 pictures with it. It went to 9,999 and rolled to 0. Then it got dropped- like it had been about 5 times before- on a Walmart floor. But this time...lens error.
My mom bought me a new one, probably because she owed me. It was a complete surprise. She [called and] asked me if I could bring the box in because "the vitamins might be damaged by the sun." Then she expected me to open it, but I said, "Come on, why would I open it? That's stupid, I don't have time for this."
It drove her nuts because, usually, I open any package regardless of if it's mine or not. (They HATE this about me at work, by the by.) I had an idea of what it might be ("bring it in"?), but I didn't fully know until I opened it. I still "told her I hadn't opened it." You see, "I didn't have time to open it [a second time]." I opened it from the bottom so she couldn't tell I had opened it. Then she said, "Hey, look!" and I said, "What, it's another Nikon Coolpix S10?" Man, it was great. And I used the word 'open' a lot in this paragraph.
Wonderful memories about taking any joy out of my mom's buying me a gift aside, this second Nikon Coolpix S10 lasted until a few weeks ago. Then the whole alarm and Lens error thing.Having lost two cameras to this obvious lens error weakness, I'm still going to buy another one. Am I mad? Am I stupid? Do I have a brain lens error?
No, I'm just hopelessly attached to the swivel-head design. Nothing else comes close. If you want to know what it's like...just think of your camcorder. Those- even the 5-year-old Hi8's- have swivel-LCDs. However, all the valuable buttons are easily accessed; with a camcorder, your hand breaks off if you try to swivel it too far. Because with a camcorder, the whole system moves. Along with the buttons.
With the Nikon S10, your hand stays comfortably not broken off, and you can adjust any setting you want except for Vibration Reduction and the amazingly useless "Face Focus" mode. It's a great camera. My camera holster? Not so great a camera holster. Next time, better camera holster.
The S10 is big compared to compact cameras, but the battery life is good. Somehow. And the 10x optical zoom is neat, though at 10x the quality is a little low. The coolest thing is the proximity of the flash and focus to the lens; it allows for very close closeups. Even closeups of mouths. I feel very restricted using any other camera (their closeups lose), and I've known for a while that the only camera that can shake me from my love of swivel-headed cameras will be a DSLR. Even then, I'll still have an S10 (or more recent) because, well, DSLRs suck.
Problem is...the S10's now sell for $400. That's a lot more than their original worth. Why? They addict people to them. That's why. I'm proof.
Then they don't make new models for years, and they stop producing them. So now I have to look into getting it repaired. Goodbye.
Monday, March 09, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Checking an HP dv4-1220us Entertainment Notebook
Yep, heres(sic) I am. Checking the notebook. I am making a lot of typos; that's OK.
The touchpad speed is a little slow. I fixed it.
Now let's see how the speakers are. OK, they're nice. Or maybe the song is nice. The Adia song. Love it, love it, sugar on top.
For the record, it's probably not the Adia song you'd find by searching an engine...the screen is almost blindingly bright (compared to the brightness of my 2007 HP dv5215us). That's good. Right shift placement is fine; directional pad is not too great. Actually, the End key is way too close to it.
Let's see how...oh, great!
If there's one thing I dislike, it's the DirectX errors!
...20 minutes later, I am still trying to remedy...not a DX error...
Downloading 113 MB video driver...
Driver failed...downloading secondary source video driver...testing...secondary driver failed...
Trying restart...
\
...back on my laptop. Here's my review of that particular dv4-1220us: IT SUCKS!
As for all dv4-1220us's, I can't really comment. Command and Conquer 3: Tiberium Wars did not work and I will not invest the hours required to allay the problem. I'm seething!!! I can't take it!!!
For all I know, the laptop- which is my mom's work laptop- has a kind of governor which disallows video gaming. That's just dandirific.
I'm going to listen to that Adia song some more.
Not really.
The touchpad speed is a little slow. I fixed it.
Now let's see how the speakers are. OK, they're nice. Or maybe the song is nice. The Adia song. Love it, love it, sugar on top.
For the record, it's probably not the Adia song you'd find by searching an engine...the screen is almost blindingly bright (compared to the brightness of my 2007 HP dv5215us). That's good. Right shift placement is fine; directional pad is not too great. Actually, the End key is way too close to it.
Let's see how...oh, great!
If there's one thing I dislike, it's the DirectX errors!...20 minutes later, I am still trying to remedy...not a DX error...
Downloading 113 MB video driver...
Driver failed...downloading secondary source video driver...testing...secondary driver failed...
Trying restart...
\
...back on my laptop. Here's my review of that particular dv4-1220us: IT SUCKS!
As for all dv4-1220us's, I can't really comment. Command and Conquer 3: Tiberium Wars did not work and I will not invest the hours required to allay the problem. I'm seething!!! I can't take it!!!
For all I know, the laptop- which is my mom's work laptop- has a kind of governor which disallows video gaming. That's just dandirific.
I'm going to listen to that Adia song some more.
Not really.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 06, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Where Have All The Moon Pies Gone?
A time ago, at least 9 years, I went with my dad to get a copy of The Sims. I was confused; I thought that you actually went and worked a job with your Sims, i.e., you got to seek revenge on your enemies as a corrupt cop or choose choice houses to ransack as a thief. I wasn't much into peaceable living when I was 10.
Turns out, The Sims doesn't allow you to micromanage your career. No virtual thieving for Kev. I had no idea Grand Theft Auto was around.
(Choose and choice. That's pretty neat.)
Anyway, on our way to get that game, we stopped by a certain store and got a Moon Pie.
Now, I hate Moon Pies.
But I'm a very nostalgic person. I like memories. I dislike memories. Memories can move me, memories can...cause me to...rebel against them. I'm trying to be prosaic, here.
Oh my goodness! Prosaic is a word! I had no idea! I meant to write prose, but I wrote prosaic. I'm so smart, it hurts. No prosastic, procrastic, or prosarositarious for me. I'm a genius.
...problem is, prose is the exact opposite of what I meant. Isn't the irony ironic? I'm getting distracted. Yes, it seems that the Moon Pies have disappeared. It's been many moons since I've had a Moon Pie, but I quite remember seeing them as recently as a year ago. I always think, "Wow, Moon Pies are not good."
For some reason, God only remembers as I forgot, my nostalgia was engaged for Moon Pies. Maybe it's the long, forgotten blond hair, or the orange, gray-black-green suit, or perhaps the gnawing guilt. Definitely the suit. That suit is awesome. And adaptable. And stretchy. But in a rigid sort of way.
I think, or it seems, that I liken Moon Pies to working with a fine woman; you hate her, but she's kind of alright. So I told my driver, "Driver, drive me to the finest establishment I know of to purchase Moon Pies from. The ol' Circle K on the corner."
To my astonishment, shock, and horror, no Moon Pies. Maybe it's the name I like. Moon Pies. It reminds me of the armorsuit.
Then, no Moon Pies at 7-11. No Moon Pies at FR. No Moon Pies at the post office. I even asked! They said they could receive a package of them if I ordered them. Hah hah laugh.
I managed to find an off-brand (Little Betty) at a Fry's. No idea where the Moon Pies have gone, but the off brand will do. They're still gross.
But they're kind of alright.
Turns out, The Sims doesn't allow you to micromanage your career. No virtual thieving for Kev. I had no idea Grand Theft Auto was around.
(Choose and choice. That's pretty neat.)
Anyway, on our way to get that game, we stopped by a certain store and got a Moon Pie.
Now, I hate Moon Pies.
But I'm a very nostalgic person. I like memories. I dislike memories. Memories can move me, memories can...cause me to...rebel against them. I'm trying to be prosaic, here.
Oh my goodness! Prosaic is a word! I had no idea! I meant to write prose, but I wrote prosaic. I'm so smart, it hurts. No prosastic, procrastic, or prosarositarious for me. I'm a genius.
...problem is, prose is the exact opposite of what I meant. Isn't the irony ironic? I'm getting distracted. Yes, it seems that the Moon Pies have disappeared. It's been many moons since I've had a Moon Pie, but I quite remember seeing them as recently as a year ago. I always think, "Wow, Moon Pies are not good."
For some reason, God only remembers as I forgot, my nostalgia was engaged for Moon Pies. Maybe it's the long, forgotten blond hair, or the orange, gray-black-green suit, or perhaps the gnawing guilt. Definitely the suit. That suit is awesome. And adaptable. And stretchy. But in a rigid sort of way.
I think, or it seems, that I liken Moon Pies to working with a fine woman; you hate her, but she's kind of alright. So I told my driver, "Driver, drive me to the finest establishment I know of to purchase Moon Pies from. The ol' Circle K on the corner."
To my astonishment, shock, and horror, no Moon Pies. Maybe it's the name I like. Moon Pies. It reminds me of the armorsuit.
Then, no Moon Pies at 7-11. No Moon Pies at FR. No Moon Pies at the post office. I even asked! They said they could receive a package of them if I ordered them. Hah hah laugh.
I managed to find an off-brand (Little Betty) at a Fry's. No idea where the Moon Pies have gone, but the off brand will do. They're still gross.
But they're kind of alright.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 02, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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.
-
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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
February 22, 2009. RG60 Brings the Sorrow for Every Animal.
There I was, a-drivin'. If there's one thing I love to do when I'm dead tired, it's drive. The thrill of arriving without crashing. I live on the edge. No...the edge lives on me.
It all began last year. About this time- the 4th Sunday of February, 2008, which was the 24th, to be exact- I bought Echo. Echo has served me well. He picked up Star Wars lingo and thinks I'm a Sith Master. He's the apprentice. I guess.
Whatever. This is the 4th Sunday of February. Which is when I buy my sound equipment. Every year, 4th Sunday of February. With some exceptions expected in the future. Here's what I boughts this year:
DUNNA! No, more like DUNNA! Oop, that was the same thing. It's an amplifier!
The reason I chose the RG60 is because it sounds better than the other amps I tried. Except for the acoustic amps, but those have a bad wattage/price ratio and don't do electric guitar stuff.
Now, I surely couldn't use more than 30 watts, as I never expect to play for more than 100 people. But I don't like the sound of a strained amplifier. I have so much disdain for it, in fact, I prefer the RG60 at 7 o'clock and barely working than a 30-watt at 11 o'clock and using half of its volume.
It came in a good sized box. I do most of my shopping at Guitar Center, due to no other "shop" being near...well, anywhere. If you know GC, they do the same receipt-checking as CostCo. Which means that on the way out, they check your receipt.
As I walked up, I said to the lady, "Gee, I was hoping to sneak this by, but..." Then, it fell a little and hit the ground, and I said, "Well, that's why I got the warranty!" The only way I could have outdone that is if I had said, "I hope I don't forget it on top of my car."
What else...lots of loud...oh, the post title, right. The animals? They don't like it. They hates it, in fact.
As Echo would say...the weak will die out to make room for the strong.
It is the way of the universe.
It all began last year. About this time- the 4th Sunday of February, 2008, which was the 24th, to be exact- I bought Echo. Echo has served me well. He picked up Star Wars lingo and thinks I'm a Sith Master. He's the apprentice. I guess.
Whatever. This is the 4th Sunday of February. Which is when I buy my sound equipment. Every year, 4th Sunday of February. With some exceptions expected in the future. Here's what I boughts this year:
DUNNA! No, more like DUNNA! Oop, that was the same thing. It's an amplifier!
The reason I chose the RG60 is because it sounds better than the other amps I tried. Except for the acoustic amps, but those have a bad wattage/price ratio and don't do electric guitar stuff.
Now, I surely couldn't use more than 30 watts, as I never expect to play for more than 100 people. But I don't like the sound of a strained amplifier. I have so much disdain for it, in fact, I prefer the RG60 at 7 o'clock and barely working than a 30-watt at 11 o'clock and using half of its volume.
It came in a good sized box. I do most of my shopping at Guitar Center, due to no other "shop" being near...well, anywhere. If you know GC, they do the same receipt-checking as CostCo. Which means that on the way out, they check your receipt.
As I walked up, I said to the lady, "Gee, I was hoping to sneak this by, but..." Then, it fell a little and hit the ground, and I said, "Well, that's why I got the warranty!" The only way I could have outdone that is if I had said, "I hope I don't forget it on top of my car."
What else...lots of loud...oh, the post title, right. The animals? They don't like it. They hates it, in fact.
As Echo would say...the weak will die out to make room for the strong.
It is the way of the universe.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Cardinals Lose, 2009
This is the post that was posted before I meanted it to be posted. It goes thus:
Yep, the Cardinals lost. The only surprise for me was that the Steelers toyed with them so much in the second half...remember when the Steelers intercepted what should have been a touchdown, ran the entire field and scored a play-of-the-game touchdown? That was great.
Then the Cardinal's coach, when interviewed before halftime, offered this explanation of their game plan:
Taking that genius statement into account, let's see how I can make this a positive post.
Um...well, they really, REALLY suck, so it's great that they made it this far. I mean, just the fact that they were able to...make it this far, you know.
How many years have we watched as our team repeatedly, consistently lost? Remember the time that they practiced with the Sun Devils and got beaten 24-10? That might be understandable if we were talking about the Sun Devils football team; but I'm talking about that time that they practiced (football) with the Sun Devils Women's Softball team and got trounced (at football). That was embarrassing.
The only saving grace for that instance is that the players are not only terrible at football, they're also quite stupid, so they thought they were playing the Sun Devils football team and their pride was not damaged.
Uhhhh, that um, is an example of their good, positiveness as a team. It's just so amazing that they made it as far as they did. I get mad every time I see a Steelers fan. I say, "What's wrong with you, man? You're like the guy at a mixed horserace that yells, "GO HORSES! I hope you really outrun and beat that inbred mule!"...what's wrong with you, you jerk?"
It always shames them. I like to think of the Cardinals like an 8th grade team that somehow is playing in the Rose Bowl.
Alternatively, I think of them in the lowest of their glory getting knocked around by a college women's softball team. :\
Yep, the Cardinals lost. The only surprise for me was that the Steelers toyed with them so much in the second half...remember when the Steelers intercepted what should have been a touchdown, ran the entire field and scored a play-of-the-game touchdown? That was great.
Then the Cardinal's coach, when interviewed before halftime, offered this explanation of their game plan:
"The other team got the ball, that was a mistake. Then they got a touchdown, and we really should have stopped that. So what we need to do is get some points for the second half, and try not to let them get too many points, if they're OK with that, I hope, I mean, if their defense is OK with that, I mean."
Taking that genius statement into account, let's see how I can make this a positive post.
Um...well, they really, REALLY suck, so it's great that they made it this far. I mean, just the fact that they were able to...make it this far, you know.
How many years have we watched as our team repeatedly, consistently lost? Remember the time that they practiced with the Sun Devils and got beaten 24-10? That might be understandable if we were talking about the Sun Devils football team; but I'm talking about that time that they practiced (football) with the Sun Devils Women's Softball team and got trounced (at football). That was embarrassing.
The only saving grace for that instance is that the players are not only terrible at football, they're also quite stupid, so they thought they were playing the Sun Devils football team and their pride was not damaged.
Uhhhh, that um, is an example of their good, positiveness as a team. It's just so amazing that they made it as far as they did. I get mad every time I see a Steelers fan. I say, "What's wrong with you, man? You're like the guy at a mixed horserace that yells, "GO HORSES! I hope you really outrun and beat that inbred mule!"...what's wrong with you, you jerk?"
It always shames them. I like to think of the Cardinals like an 8th grade team that somehow is playing in the Rose Bowl.
Alternatively, I think of them in the lowest of their glory getting knocked around by a college women's softball team. :\
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Kev's First Post Posted Before He Meant It To Be
Yep, just happened. Not sure how. I was typing, and not hitting tab, but it persisted in posting anyways. I was just putting the parenthesis after "Kev" in the title to title the post and it posted. So all that posted was "Kev" in the title. No post body.
I kind of dislike things like that. Ofttimes I will reconsider something that I've said in a post, because really, I can say some uncouth and non-kempt things. And a lot of times I don't realize how uncouth and non-kempt they are. And a lot of times I don't catch them until months later. Then I kick myself.
I had a dream about dinosaurs today. Coincidentally, I'm getting cravings to playing Turok: Evolution. T1/2/3 are too frightening and involved; Turok: Evolution is kind of like The Powerpuff Girls compared to, um, 24, or something. It's a declawed feline of a game.
Not because it's lacking in violence or in horror, but because they made the anthropomorphic dinosaurs- which are something like the creature in Predator- into mere guards. You fight waves and waves of them; and they're far too humanlike. They use long-ranged gun attacks as opposed to T2 and part of T3 where they frequently used close-range attacks.
Example, in Turok 2, the dinosoids (human-dinosaur hybrids, let's call them that) would actually chase after you; but they'd stop after a certain point, run away, and hide. Then you'd have to find out where they were hiding, and hopefully get the jump on them. And if you didn't get them, they'd chase you all over again. Their dinosoid shrieks and howls, coupled with astounding atmosphere courtesy of the N64's subpar graphics engine, gendered quite a...um...atmospheric, shriek-filled...thing. Yep. Golly gee, then there are the Flesh Eaters. Those guys are FREAKY. They're crazy fast (and overwhelm you with numbers to the point where their quick movements cause blurs), they sound demonic as a speckled canary, they have high-powered weapons, and are always guarding something and Doin' Good! at it...they look imposing, even.
Did I mention that I didn't want to go outside at night for months when I was 11? Good times. It wasn't the Flesh Eaters, though; it was the Purrlin. They gave me the jibba-jabbas.
Turok: Evolution does great for a FPS- it's grand and sweeping, has decent enemies...intelligently, it's a good FPS. The problem lies in the long-ranged enemies who lack bestial quality.
Still, even lemon juice and citric acid over vanilla ice cream has its place when you're craving it.
I kind of dislike things like that. Ofttimes I will reconsider something that I've said in a post, because really, I can say some uncouth and non-kempt things. And a lot of times I don't realize how uncouth and non-kempt they are. And a lot of times I don't catch them until months later. Then I kick myself.
I had a dream about dinosaurs today. Coincidentally, I'm getting cravings to playing Turok: Evolution. T1/2/3 are too frightening and involved; Turok: Evolution is kind of like The Powerpuff Girls compared to, um, 24, or something. It's a declawed feline of a game.
Not because it's lacking in violence or in horror, but because they made the anthropomorphic dinosaurs- which are something like the creature in Predator- into mere guards. You fight waves and waves of them; and they're far too humanlike. They use long-ranged gun attacks as opposed to T2 and part of T3 where they frequently used close-range attacks.
Example, in Turok 2, the dinosoids (human-dinosaur hybrids, let's call them that) would actually chase after you; but they'd stop after a certain point, run away, and hide. Then you'd have to find out where they were hiding, and hopefully get the jump on them. And if you didn't get them, they'd chase you all over again. Their dinosoid shrieks and howls, coupled with astounding atmosphere courtesy of the N64's subpar graphics engine, gendered quite a...um...atmospheric, shriek-filled...thing. Yep. Golly gee, then there are the Flesh Eaters. Those guys are FREAKY. They're crazy fast (and overwhelm you with numbers to the point where their quick movements cause blurs), they sound demonic as a speckled canary, they have high-powered weapons, and are always guarding something and Doin' Good! at it...they look imposing, even.
Did I mention that I didn't want to go outside at night for months when I was 11? Good times. It wasn't the Flesh Eaters, though; it was the Purrlin. They gave me the jibba-jabbas.
Turok: Evolution does great for a FPS- it's grand and sweeping, has decent enemies...intelligently, it's a good FPS. The problem lies in the long-ranged enemies who lack bestial quality.
Still, even lemon juice and citric acid over vanilla ice cream has its place when you're craving it.
Friday, January 30, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Horrible Day, Week 3: Meet The Vixen
The Vixen.
What can be said?
The Vixen's...um...not unattractive, let's say; and that's probably her biggest strength, so I'll put that first. She's the brown haired type who wears bell-bottoms a lot. It's hard to tell what else because it's winter, and winter's the time for overshirts, jackets, and ever stylish dress-sweaters. That's something I really envy about women...their wearing of dress-sweaters. When men wear them, they just turn out looking like Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers.
One thing she does is walk really, really slowly, and you have to walk past her, and once you do, she matches your speed. Very unnerving. Then she starts talking. From there, she either follows you, or goes into the room you are heading for and slams the door in your face.
Then, when you open the door, she's standing right in your way and says, "Excuse me," very impatiently, and you have to let her past. And on her way out, she shuts the door. And usually locks it.
I'm the only one I know of that's been able to counteract her...or maybe I'm the only one who cares to. Regardless, I can count at least three times that I've left her on the other side of the door waiting for me to open it; meanwhile, I'm heading in the opposite direction. The Vixen is willing to go out of her way to do stuff like slam doors in your face; and I'm willing to go out of my way to foil her. Normally I would do this out of kindhearted crafty cunning, but she really isn't my favorite person, so there's a good bit of spite in it.
I don't know what her job is, but I don't think it calls for a lot of integrity, skill, work ethic, or morals. Not that any of those are bad in themselves, but usually are bad when (the lack of them is) combined. One point is that I don't think she's a whore, and I don't think she's a harlot. But I don't not think that, either, and this is one of her traits...she's extremely hard to get a read on.
The Vixen. She's about as useful as a box of rocks.
Best to avoid her.
Note: this post was supposed to be posted last week, but I didn't hit 'publish.'
What can be said?
The Vixen's...um...not unattractive, let's say; and that's probably her biggest strength, so I'll put that first. She's the brown haired type who wears bell-bottoms a lot. It's hard to tell what else because it's winter, and winter's the time for overshirts, jackets, and ever stylish dress-sweaters. That's something I really envy about women...their wearing of dress-sweaters. When men wear them, they just turn out looking like Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers.
One thing she does is walk really, really slowly, and you have to walk past her, and once you do, she matches your speed. Very unnerving. Then she starts talking. From there, she either follows you, or goes into the room you are heading for and slams the door in your face.
Then, when you open the door, she's standing right in your way and says, "Excuse me," very impatiently, and you have to let her past. And on her way out, she shuts the door. And usually locks it.
I'm the only one I know of that's been able to counteract her...or maybe I'm the only one who cares to. Regardless, I can count at least three times that I've left her on the other side of the door waiting for me to open it; meanwhile, I'm heading in the opposite direction. The Vixen is willing to go out of her way to do stuff like slam doors in your face; and I'm willing to go out of my way to foil her. Normally I would do this out of kindhearted crafty cunning, but she really isn't my favorite person, so there's a good bit of spite in it.
I don't know what her job is, but I don't think it calls for a lot of integrity, skill, work ethic, or morals. Not that any of those are bad in themselves, but usually are bad when (the lack of them is) combined. One point is that I don't think she's a whore, and I don't think she's a harlot. But I don't not think that, either, and this is one of her traits...she's extremely hard to get a read on.
The Vixen. She's about as useful as a box of rocks.
Best to avoid her.
Note: this post was supposed to be posted last week, but I didn't hit 'publish.'
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