I've been inundated with junk email in addition to the junk email that is my work email. Somehow my company is unable to siphon through the hot stock tips on penis enlargement and give me the genuine work emails that I detest. And we're not just talking about a few, it's as if the National Association of Spammers emerged fully energized from a Tony Robbins seminar. A blitzkrieg of impressively misspelled emails with subject lines such as "Lower Home Payment bye 30 purcent", "HiRollerKasino", "Fawlen low on dough?" and of course, "That report was due yesterday, come see me in my office".
All these emails give me an Arsenio Hall "hmmm" moment, does Spam actually work? Internet service providers hate it, it costs businesses time, and rips grown men away from their porn. Despite these negative impacts it keeps coming like another season of Friends. The fact is it's a numbers game. The hit rate might be 1% but if you email 100,000 people that's like, you know...alot of people.
What is the collective IQ of people responding to Spam? These people must be in the same demographics as those dialing up at 2am to talk to a psychic, sex phone line, or to buy something on QVC. Maybe not the sex phone line people, I'm told they're misunderstood and really nice people if you don't judge and give them a chance.
As for the latest stock Spam, Cantex EnergyCorp (CTXE), it had a volatile day today. Opened at .45 and closed at .44, cue "Rollercoaster" by the Ohio Players. That's shortsighted of me, let's look at its 52 week range. Oh wait, it doesn't have one. According to their website, "natural gas show well within the 2D swath imaging area to image, drill and discover trillion cubic foot (TCF)-potential natural gas". Talk about a slam dunk explanation to buy buy buy. You're going to argue with that?
I'm actually glad the six-figure salary system geeks in our company don't have time to filter Spam from my email. I'm going make my company pay dearly for their mistake by buying an obscene amount of CTXE shares, watching the stock price skyrocket, then dumping my shares at just the right time when it peaks. And dumping my current job with it. That's right, who's going to take the time to change the copier toner now? Don't f*ck with me, fools.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
CONFERENCE CALL!
Using the phone seems pretty easy. An enduser picks it up if it is ringing, says hello and converses with person(s) on the other end of the line, then hangs up. Or pulls up their pants and then hangs up, whichever they prefer. Unfortunately, there is a minority of workers in my office building (who tend to be at a higher pay grade) that use speakerphone for all circumstances. These are the same individuals idiotic enough to associate it with a sense of power.
I understand there is a certain time and place for a speakerphone (e.g., multi-tasking while listening, being an actual presenter on the call, posting a resume on Monster.com). However, there are more common and less legitimate reasons that I witness when a speakerphone is in use (e.g., kicking feet up onto a desk and clasping both hands behind head, flicking pencils into a cup, masturbating).
I'm not sure I understand the difficulty in putting the phone to your ear and keeping the business conversation private. I certainly don't need to learn someone else's acronyms, deadlines, and priorities. And why do people feel it's necessary to speak at a volume used only in mosh pits. Nothing captures this scenario better than what I actually experienced today. A fellow co-worker with an office decided to leave the door open for the beginning of the conference call. Multiple beeps in quick succession, each beep representing a person joining the conference call.
I understand there is a certain time and place for a speakerphone (e.g., multi-tasking while listening, being an actual presenter on the call, posting a resume on Monster.com). However, there are more common and less legitimate reasons that I witness when a speakerphone is in use (e.g., kicking feet up onto a desk and clasping both hands behind head, flicking pencils into a cup, masturbating).
I'm not sure I understand the difficulty in putting the phone to your ear and keeping the business conversation private. I certainly don't need to learn someone else's acronyms, deadlines, and priorities. And why do people feel it's necessary to speak at a volume used only in mosh pits. Nothing captures this scenario better than what I actually experienced today. A fellow co-worker with an office decided to leave the door open for the beginning of the conference call. Multiple beeps in quick succession, each beep representing a person joining the conference call.
"Is everybody on? (beep) Sounds like someone else joined. (beep) That everyone?(pause) (beep) Anyone else? (pause) (beep, beep). OK, my office door is still open (beep). Sounds like we got one more."
The door shuts but somehow the volume level increases to compensate for the closure.
"OK, LET'S GET STARTED!"Now there's an echo because the person in the office next door has logged into the same conference call and also has decided to use a speakerphone. I can understand the reluctance to sit together on the same call. The office is an excruciating two yards away and there's also that cumbersome HP LaserJet 8100 to walk around, that adds about another yard to the excursion.
"THAT'S A GOOD POINT point point."Oh goodness, now the person's voice is echoing through both doors and reverberating in my cubicle. Acoustically, I feel like Moses listening to God on Mt. Sinai except this God says "robust" alot and uses more acronyms than a Pentagon employee.
"ANY QUESTIONS questions questions?"Mental note to self, find out their conference call number, dial-in, and wreak havoc on their next meeting. Ideas such as:
- Call from an animal shelter.
"RUFF RUFF, meow, RUFF!"
"Can you please mute your phone."
"RUFF meow RUFF!"
"Please, will everyone mute their phones."
"RUFF meow RUFF RUFF HEE-HAWW!"
- Consistently dial in and hang-up so listeners are bombarded with beeping noises
"Did someone just log on?"
"Did someone just log off?"
"Did someone just log on?"
- Have a choking episode
"Who is that?"
"Oh dear God!"
"Could you please mute your phone."
- Implement a laugh track every time the word "robust" is used.
I wouldn't resort to such impish measures if co-workers had the common courtesy to use their receiver the way it was engineered. Now if you'll excuse me, my phone is ringing, and I need to physically pick it up and place it against my ear.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
When I win the lottery
Once Powerball starts flirting with 100+ million, workers in Virginia make a lunchtime exodus to Washington, D.C. to buy their tickets. Because anything less than three digits before the word "million" just isn't worth the effort. When nobody wins and the jackpot increases in astronomical increments then the main topic at the water cooler becomes, "If I won the lottery". The subject matter makes for good conversation because it allows us to dream beyond our balsa wood office walls and also learn how others less deserving than ourselves would spend it. Some would strive to make the world a better place, others would make life easier for their families, and others would pay disgusting amounts of money for really high class whores.
The lottery teaches us very important lessons about winning, excess, and mortgaging your house on Powerball tickets in hopes of living the American Dream. If you think your life wouldn't change because of winning then you are either; filthy rich already, just heard from your doctor that you have 12 hours to live, or believe O.J. Simpson is innocent. Millions of dollars will change you, trust me, I want to know. I overheard a lottery discussion the other day while sleeping at my desk and I thought this would be a fun exercise to really delve into the details. I've always talked about it on the surface but never obsessed about it. I think obsession for this topic is important, especially since I plan on winning the lottery. A man has to have goals in life.
So let's say I won. First things first, how would I quit my job? For the overwhelming majority of Americans who work there's always that sense of worry upon quitting; bridging the financial gap between jobs, getting vacation paid out, or double checking the corporate 401k for a vested status. Imagine no financial burden upon resignation, how would you quit? So many options and so little time. There's the option of making a huge scene during peak work hours. Get everyone's attention with a bullhorn, air your grievances, then politely drop your pants and urinate on your laptop while it's plugged in so everyone can see it short circuit. O.K., that's a little too aggressive and involves an inevitable lawsuit. The last person you want to give your money to is the company you work for. Plus people might be laughing for unintended reasons when you drop your pants.
There is a super stealth mode that yields greater satisfaction. The object is to treat the day you are quitting no different than any other day except for the fact that you now have an offensive amount of money in your bank account. Come into work, turn on the office lights, fire up the laptop, and grab your coffee. Be sure to answer emails and drop a few phone calls to let everyone know you are around. When the clock strikes noon, tell all your co-workers that you have to "run an errand". Promptly throw on your jacket, walk out the door, change your home number, change your cell number, and never talk to another co-worker again for the rest of your life. Leave them all guessing. I take so much pleasure in the thought of doing this. I know, I'm sick. It's hard to type in a straight-jacket using only your nose to hit the keypad.
Shewww...quitting was fun, now I have the rest of my life. Based on projections from life-insurance actuaries I have approximately 45 years left in me. Here's my list in no particular order:
The lottery teaches us very important lessons about winning, excess, and mortgaging your house on Powerball tickets in hopes of living the American Dream. If you think your life wouldn't change because of winning then you are either; filthy rich already, just heard from your doctor that you have 12 hours to live, or believe O.J. Simpson is innocent. Millions of dollars will change you, trust me, I want to know. I overheard a lottery discussion the other day while sleeping at my desk and I thought this would be a fun exercise to really delve into the details. I've always talked about it on the surface but never obsessed about it. I think obsession for this topic is important, especially since I plan on winning the lottery. A man has to have goals in life.
So let's say I won. First things first, how would I quit my job? For the overwhelming majority of Americans who work there's always that sense of worry upon quitting; bridging the financial gap between jobs, getting vacation paid out, or double checking the corporate 401k for a vested status. Imagine no financial burden upon resignation, how would you quit? So many options and so little time. There's the option of making a huge scene during peak work hours. Get everyone's attention with a bullhorn, air your grievances, then politely drop your pants and urinate on your laptop while it's plugged in so everyone can see it short circuit. O.K., that's a little too aggressive and involves an inevitable lawsuit. The last person you want to give your money to is the company you work for. Plus people might be laughing for unintended reasons when you drop your pants.
There is a super stealth mode that yields greater satisfaction. The object is to treat the day you are quitting no different than any other day except for the fact that you now have an offensive amount of money in your bank account. Come into work, turn on the office lights, fire up the laptop, and grab your coffee. Be sure to answer emails and drop a few phone calls to let everyone know you are around. When the clock strikes noon, tell all your co-workers that you have to "run an errand". Promptly throw on your jacket, walk out the door, change your home number, change your cell number, and never talk to another co-worker again for the rest of your life. Leave them all guessing. I take so much pleasure in the thought of doing this. I know, I'm sick. It's hard to type in a straight-jacket using only your nose to hit the keypad.
Shewww...quitting was fun, now I have the rest of my life. Based on projections from life-insurance actuaries I have approximately 45 years left in me. Here's my list in no particular order:
- Learn Italian
- Learn Spanish
- Learn Japanese
- Hit all 50 states in a cross-country trip with my golf clubs
- Join a country club
- Take piano lessons
- Take saxophone lessons
- Take golf lessons
- Take boxing lessons
- Become a black belt in Jeet Kune Do
- Attend the Superbowl every year
- Attend the Final 4 every year
- Attend the Masters every other year
- Go camping in Alaska
- Get into insane shape, run a sub 5 minute mile
- Write a book
- Write a screenplay
- Go to film school
- Make a documentary
- Make a short-film
- Try a stint as a late night D.J.
- Create my own cable access show
- Buy a lake house, give all immediate family members a key
- Buy a beach house, give all immediate family members a key
- Start a foundation to help consumers battle debt
- Give an obscene amount of money to my high school
- Give a little bit of money to my college
- Become a venture capitalist for my friends and family
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
User ID and Password Please
Passwords place quite a demand on our memorization skills, especially if you are a member of Corporate America. The first thing I have to do in the morning when I arrive to my gorgeous government grey non-descript cubicle is log in. First the computer; user id and password. Now it's my phone powered by Cisco Networks; user id and password. Oh wait, I have voicemail, let me check my messages; user id and password. Before I've even had time to sneak in a sip of vodka from my bottom cabinet, I have three user id's and three passwords plugged in. And that's just the beginning.
The number of PINs, passwords, and user id's increase exponentially if you have access to the internet. Yahoo email, Google email, Shutterfly, Clark Photo, Snapfish, online banking, and checking up on the underperforming 401K plan. To add insult to injury, our company has PeopleSoft which has even more "access rights" for end-users; want to forecast vacation...type in your password, want to find out about your W-2's...type in your password, want to use the restroom...type in your password. Not to mention memorizing the non-internet associated ATM PIN and accessing voicemail through home and cell. Hell, I even have a user id and password for creating this blog. Fortunately for me, any hacker would fall asleep at the keyboard while reading my blog before gaining access to it.
I have approximately twenty user id's and passwords on a daily basis. Twenty variations of case-sensitive characters and stand alone numbers just to technologically function throughout the working day. And to make matters worse, the latest craze in keeping websites, cell phones, and computers "hacker safe" is to force the end-user to change passwords after a certain amount of time has transpired from the creation of the previous password. Once the muscle memory in your fingertips becomes accustomed to "Boraxo69GO", it's time to switch it up all over again.
The final kicker is HAL 9000 telling us not to write down passwords. Please memorize them. Domo arigato but no domo arigato Mr. Roboto, I have enough problems trying to remember where I put my keys and wallet, I'm writing my passwords down.
The number of PINs, passwords, and user id's increase exponentially if you have access to the internet. Yahoo email, Google email, Shutterfly, Clark Photo, Snapfish, online banking, and checking up on the underperforming 401K plan. To add insult to injury, our company has PeopleSoft which has even more "access rights" for end-users; want to forecast vacation...type in your password, want to find out about your W-2's...type in your password, want to use the restroom...type in your password. Not to mention memorizing the non-internet associated ATM PIN and accessing voicemail through home and cell. Hell, I even have a user id and password for creating this blog. Fortunately for me, any hacker would fall asleep at the keyboard while reading my blog before gaining access to it.
I have approximately twenty user id's and passwords on a daily basis. Twenty variations of case-sensitive characters and stand alone numbers just to technologically function throughout the working day. And to make matters worse, the latest craze in keeping websites, cell phones, and computers "hacker safe" is to force the end-user to change passwords after a certain amount of time has transpired from the creation of the previous password. Once the muscle memory in your fingertips becomes accustomed to "Boraxo69GO", it's time to switch it up all over again.
The final kicker is HAL 9000 telling us not to write down passwords. Please memorize them. Domo arigato but no domo arigato Mr. Roboto, I have enough problems trying to remember where I put my keys and wallet, I'm writing my passwords down.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Brown Bag Mathematics
There are thousands of ways to save money and a million ways to spend it. I'm faced with the imbalance of this equation every night of the working week. A challenge that I consistently fail when I decide not to pack my lunch before going to bed. Such a simple task could annually save me a significant amount of money. But the other side of the grass is so much greener.
Eating out has a major upside, getting outside for fresh air, a mental break from your work, drinking a yard beer of Guinness. And the food factor: thinly sliced deli meat from Boar's Head, springy lettuce, hot waitresses, and the option of eating a fresh Cobb salad. These are honorable reasons to venture out for lunch. But when I look at it strictly from a money standpoint, it seems like a short-bus move not to brown-bag my office meal.
Let's do the math, shall we? Last time I checked, there were 365 days in a year.
Eating out has a major upside, getting outside for fresh air, a mental break from your work, drinking a yard beer of Guinness. And the food factor: thinly sliced deli meat from Boar's Head, springy lettuce, hot waitresses, and the option of eating a fresh Cobb salad. These are honorable reasons to venture out for lunch. But when I look at it strictly from a money standpoint, it seems like a short-bus move not to brown-bag my office meal.
Let's do the math, shall we? Last time I checked, there were 365 days in a year.
- throw out Saturdays and Sundays, 260 working days
- subtract Federal holidays, 249 working days
- minus vacation for a mid-career hire, 234 working days
- sans sick days, 229 working days
- take away days with beautiful weather to call in sick and play golf, 225 working days.
The number 225 seems so harmless by itself, let's do some multiplication, shall we? The average lunch in the D.C. Metropolitan area is not cheap unless you don't have an appetite due to chronic diarrhea and/or you have to eat through a straw. Otherwise, if you are ready to chow, start memorizing your PIN number for the ATM visit, you'll need it. Let's review from a Deli perspective:
- sandwich - $6, chips - $1, soda - $.75, indigestion...priceless or $7.75.
- 225 working days multiplied by $7.75 per day equals $1,744 per year.
I'm comfortable in saying that a total for eating lunch at a slim $7.75 is a conservative estimate. Let's stop being naive and have a real corporate clone lunch. Let's get a pager in the shape of a coaster that blinks, a waiter, and a bill. Now we're living large. Oh, our table's ready:
- entree, drinks, tip, uncontrollable flatulence.....$16.00.
- 225 working days multiplied by $16.00 per day equals $3,600.
The final step is to morph the conservative and liberal estimate into a hybrid amount. Half of those lunches are spent peeling back the white paper wrapping on the chicken salad sandwich at $7.75. The other half is having a beautiful waitress remind you how old and perverted you are while munching on a salad the size of a campfire at $16.00. Divide 225 days by two and assign the divided amount by each dollar amount then combine them and vee-oh-la, $2,671.88 per year. That's alot of coin....what's available for approximately $2,671 in 2006 dollars:
- 42" widescreen plasma HDTV
- Full set of high end golf clubs (including driver and golf bag)
- Down payment on a Harley Davidson
- American Express gift card for $2,671
Why not just pack a lunch? Now I won't save the full $2,671 because my grub money has to go somewhere but I could guesstimate a savings of $1,500 per year by brown-bagging it. A loaf of bread costs $2.99, a 24 count of sliced cheese is $4.99....oh f*ck it, I'm not doing this math all over again. Just trust me on this one, you'll save money by packing your lunch.
Why is it such a herculean effort? I can find time in my predictable schedule to brown-bag it. It'd be easy to squeeze 5 minutes between my TiVO'd Family Guy and falling asleep on the couch to make a sandwich. It has the appearance of being a breeze but it is such a royal pain in the ass, kinda' like changing banks. Lousy leftovers, deli meat on the cusp of expiration, not to mention my 70's style refrigerator that was engineered by a midget contortionist from Cirque du soleil. I was in traction for a week from grabbing a jar of pickles hidden in the back on the second shelf. Damn midget engineers. Then it hits me, it's not about the act of making my lunch, it's the baggage that goes along with it. Being stuck at my desk for the whole day, breathing in the oxygen backwash from 1,500 co-workers, and toggling between the internet and my excel spreadsheet when someone walks by. There has to be a compromise.
Fact is, I shouldn't eat out every day of the week and coax a possible Lipitor prescription. On the other hand, I shouldn't be inside the office every day of the week suffering from mental health atrophy. The happy medium is to eat out two days a week and pack my lunch three days a week. On the days I do pack my lunch I'll just find a secluded corner in the break room to cozy up to my latest issue of Maxim, great articles...seriously.
Now if you'll excuse me I have to think about packing my lunch. Or maybe I should just go to bed, it's getting kinda' late.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Taxicab Confession
Whether I'm the driver or the passenger, I'm religious about wearing a seat belt. All those Driver's Ed videos from high school (in hi-fi Betamax format) were enough to put the fear of God in me. Images of a body impaled on a telephone pole after being launched from a car, a distorted face blasted through the windshield and frozen in its final breath, a Jedi who had been cut in half by a black knight's light saber.
I am a strong believer in the "Click It or Ticket" mentality. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, alot of people die in car accidents each year. Furthermore, a large percentage of those alot of people could still be living today if they wore their seat belts. Chilling statistics. Despite being a seat belt nazi, I realized what a hypocrite I am. Because today I called for a cab ride.
The driver promptly showed up and I hopped in the cavernous back seat and that's when it hit me, I never buckle up in taxis. And to highlight the height of hypocrisy, there is no more appropriate time to "Click It" then when you find yourself in a yellow and black checkered vehicle. I try to stay away from sweeping generalizations but taxi drivers are extremely aggressive on the road, and they all smell.
We proceeded out of the parking lot into traffic and I grabbed the "oh shit" handle above the back seat window as the cabbie accelerated into rush hour traffic, switched over four lanes, then slammed on the brakes in disgust when the light turned red. All of these evasive maneuvers transpired over a stretch of approximately 50 yards. I felt like an epileptic break dancer in a bumper car. The back seat strangely began to resemble a coffin. Despite all of this, I was stubborn and firmed my grip, I'm always up for a challenge. It's go time.
The driver anticipated the flow of traffic and jammed the accelerator in perfect synchronicity with the green arrow. Why is he taking this way? What's under this guy's hood? Who wet my pants? I haven't pulled this many G's since Kings Dominion. I'm trying to decipher what they are talking about on NPR but based on our hyperspeed all I hear is a blurb about tighter immigration laws coupled with the wind whistling through the crack in my window. Great, immigration laws. At least it's not a contentious matter for a cab driver. We're cool, right? You're a documented worker and I'm a white male. No problems here. The buzzword "immigration" seems to directly correlate to his speed. Would NPR please stop saying that word. Why are we accelerating through the acceleration?
Oh goodness, a tricky U-turn at a busy light. Through the use of complex breathing techniques which can be mistaken for hyperventilation to the untrained eye, I physically and mentally prepare myself. There's his chance, just a half-mile up, where the light turns red for opposite traffic. Firm grip...check, locked door...check, rock-solid 20 year term life insurance policy for my loved ones...check. My seasoned taxi driver sees another gap which I was unaware of. A gap which measures the approximate length of the car we're in. Sure, we can squeeze in while accelerating to upwards of 40mph in a strip of road that's the size of a suburban driveway. Yeah, no problem. I think I saw this on an episode of "Dukes of Hazzard" where someone was selling moonshine and Boss Hog was eating food. Boss Hog, you slay me.
The cab miraculously fits into the moving target that is our pre-designed space on the road. And no horns! I can see my building now and breathe a sigh of sweaty upper-lip relief. At the very point I begin to drink the Kool-Aid and start to enjoy the ride, we reach the building entrance. I get out knock-kneed and hand the cabbie my voucher, with a cottonmouth voice I manage a crackling "Thank You". The most exciting part of my day speeds away in a yellow and black blur. I'm left nostalgically smelling the fumes of burnt rubber and gas while wafting in a sea of smoke. His driving adventures will continue while my waking hours will consist of staring at my laptop on a morphine drip. Godspeed Mr. Achmed Andretti, you are the most fierce cab driver I never knew.
So remember, always buckle up unless you're in a taxi with a driver speaking Pashto on his cellphone. This has been a public safety announcement.
I am a strong believer in the "Click It or Ticket" mentality. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, alot of people die in car accidents each year. Furthermore, a large percentage of those alot of people could still be living today if they wore their seat belts. Chilling statistics. Despite being a seat belt nazi, I realized what a hypocrite I am. Because today I called for a cab ride.
The driver promptly showed up and I hopped in the cavernous back seat and that's when it hit me, I never buckle up in taxis. And to highlight the height of hypocrisy, there is no more appropriate time to "Click It" then when you find yourself in a yellow and black checkered vehicle. I try to stay away from sweeping generalizations but taxi drivers are extremely aggressive on the road, and they all smell.
We proceeded out of the parking lot into traffic and I grabbed the "oh shit" handle above the back seat window as the cabbie accelerated into rush hour traffic, switched over four lanes, then slammed on the brakes in disgust when the light turned red. All of these evasive maneuvers transpired over a stretch of approximately 50 yards. I felt like an epileptic break dancer in a bumper car. The back seat strangely began to resemble a coffin. Despite all of this, I was stubborn and firmed my grip, I'm always up for a challenge. It's go time.
The driver anticipated the flow of traffic and jammed the accelerator in perfect synchronicity with the green arrow. Why is he taking this way? What's under this guy's hood? Who wet my pants? I haven't pulled this many G's since Kings Dominion. I'm trying to decipher what they are talking about on NPR but based on our hyperspeed all I hear is a blurb about tighter immigration laws coupled with the wind whistling through the crack in my window. Great, immigration laws. At least it's not a contentious matter for a cab driver. We're cool, right? You're a documented worker and I'm a white male. No problems here. The buzzword "immigration" seems to directly correlate to his speed. Would NPR please stop saying that word. Why are we accelerating through the acceleration?
Oh goodness, a tricky U-turn at a busy light. Through the use of complex breathing techniques which can be mistaken for hyperventilation to the untrained eye, I physically and mentally prepare myself. There's his chance, just a half-mile up, where the light turns red for opposite traffic. Firm grip...check, locked door...check, rock-solid 20 year term life insurance policy for my loved ones...check. My seasoned taxi driver sees another gap which I was unaware of. A gap which measures the approximate length of the car we're in. Sure, we can squeeze in while accelerating to upwards of 40mph in a strip of road that's the size of a suburban driveway. Yeah, no problem. I think I saw this on an episode of "Dukes of Hazzard" where someone was selling moonshine and Boss Hog was eating food. Boss Hog, you slay me.
The cab miraculously fits into the moving target that is our pre-designed space on the road. And no horns! I can see my building now and breathe a sigh of sweaty upper-lip relief. At the very point I begin to drink the Kool-Aid and start to enjoy the ride, we reach the building entrance. I get out knock-kneed and hand the cabbie my voucher, with a cottonmouth voice I manage a crackling "Thank You". The most exciting part of my day speeds away in a yellow and black blur. I'm left nostalgically smelling the fumes of burnt rubber and gas while wafting in a sea of smoke. His driving adventures will continue while my waking hours will consist of staring at my laptop on a morphine drip. Godspeed Mr. Achmed Andretti, you are the most fierce cab driver I never knew.
So remember, always buckle up unless you're in a taxi with a driver speaking Pashto on his cellphone. This has been a public safety announcement.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
TheraFlu, Taste the Music
At least three times a year I find myself battling the common cold. And hell if I going to waste a sick day at home. My M.O. is usually a preemptive strike against influenza with obscene amounts of orange juice and jewish penicillin. When the light ammunition doesn't serve enough of a defense I have to call in the howitzer, TheraFlu.
Through my high school and college years I was never tempted to do drugs. Even though marijuana, cocaine, and shrooms were all within my social grasp I was always satisfied with a can of beer. Plus the pricing schemes for recreational use were ridiculous. I was not about to waste my beer money on drugs. Little did I know that in a far off land called New Jersey, mad scientists at Novartis were creating my achilles heel of addiction called TheraFlu. I was able to eschew readily available addictions in my pixilated days of college but regrettably find myself looking forward to taking a swig of TheraFlu when my throat becomes sore.
When the flu hits I'm groggy, grumpy, and it always seems to hit right before the work week. A good night's sleep is just what the doctor ordered. In this case I have two doctors; one named Acetaminophen and the other named Dextromethorphan, both in the form of a powder. When you've known them as long as I have, you just call them Ace and Dex. At this point you might be concerned. Trust me, it's just a quick fix to battle the flu, and so much more.
The big payoff is uninterrupted sleep piggybacked by entertaining dreams. My usual routine is to take a full dose at 8pm and wait to become comfortably numb. By 9pm it's flowing through my veins and my head hits the pillow knowing that dreams and a healthier tomorrow await. I eagerly progress into my deep slumber with a smirk on my face.
With TheraFlu, my hallucinogenic zzz's have been officially injected with anabolic steroids. Time to dream. Time to leave it all behind. Time to have sex with my ex-girlfriend while hang-gliding over Tahiti. Time to fly with a great white and swim with a hawk. That's right, bizzaro dreams that seem to make complete sense while they are happening. I'm not even breaking the law, just an OTC prescription to get rid of those nasty body aches and fever. Time for an absinthe nippy-nap before I have to wake up to the sobering reality that is my 9 to 5 life.
Through my high school and college years I was never tempted to do drugs. Even though marijuana, cocaine, and shrooms were all within my social grasp I was always satisfied with a can of beer. Plus the pricing schemes for recreational use were ridiculous. I was not about to waste my beer money on drugs. Little did I know that in a far off land called New Jersey, mad scientists at Novartis were creating my achilles heel of addiction called TheraFlu. I was able to eschew readily available addictions in my pixilated days of college but regrettably find myself looking forward to taking a swig of TheraFlu when my throat becomes sore.
When the flu hits I'm groggy, grumpy, and it always seems to hit right before the work week. A good night's sleep is just what the doctor ordered. In this case I have two doctors; one named Acetaminophen and the other named Dextromethorphan, both in the form of a powder. When you've known them as long as I have, you just call them Ace and Dex. At this point you might be concerned. Trust me, it's just a quick fix to battle the flu, and so much more.
The big payoff is uninterrupted sleep piggybacked by entertaining dreams. My usual routine is to take a full dose at 8pm and wait to become comfortably numb. By 9pm it's flowing through my veins and my head hits the pillow knowing that dreams and a healthier tomorrow await. I eagerly progress into my deep slumber with a smirk on my face.
With TheraFlu, my hallucinogenic zzz's have been officially injected with anabolic steroids. Time to dream. Time to leave it all behind. Time to have sex with my ex-girlfriend while hang-gliding over Tahiti. Time to fly with a great white and swim with a hawk. That's right, bizzaro dreams that seem to make complete sense while they are happening. I'm not even breaking the law, just an OTC prescription to get rid of those nasty body aches and fever. Time for an absinthe nippy-nap before I have to wake up to the sobering reality that is my 9 to 5 life.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
My dog is getting old
Every weekday I reluctantly crawl out of bed to participate in the morning commute. And whether it's 5am or 8am, my dog gets up with me. Ears perked, head bobbing, her paws scraping at my heels, trying to will me to the front door for her morning walk. Although lately things have changed. My dog is getting old and it sucks.
The signs are small but significant. She's been grabbing extra shuteye in the morning while I get dressed. She's added an extensive stretching routine to her morning repertoire that resembles canine Tai Chi. Her usual leap has been reduced to a hop and her brown muzzle is morphing into a distinguished silver. She is 11 years old, so if she was a dog, she'd be 11 years old, which she is.
I would use the same term to describe her that Robin Wright used to describe her husband, Sean Penn, "a loving nightmare". There are differences though. My dog was smart enough to turn down the role of Glendon Wasey in "Shanghai Surprise" and never shook paws with Saddam Hussein. Besides that, "loving nightmare" is a solid fit between the two.
The nightmare: needy, clingy, neurotic, barks in her sleep, freaks out when my shoes squeak on the fake wood floor, and is unpredictable around other dogs.
The loving: never barks when she's awake, hates cats, miraculously survived Parvo, bladder of a dehydrated camel, snarf-o-matic hog-a-tron on our kitchen floor, and is great with our toddler son.
She's not flirting with death just yet but seeing the first signs of age made me miss her before she is even gone. It's a sad observation with a silver lining. She's sitting beside me now, catching some zzz's. I think I'll wake her up and we'll go for a walk.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
I'm scared, hold me.
My first chance to express myself online without having a cumbersome webcam and those uncomfortable assless chaps.
Upon encouragement from my friends and the voices inside my head I was inspired to showcase my lack of talent in the form of a blog. It feels good to join an elite club of millions whose journal entries, opinions, and insight are actually being read by people that are less motivated than I am. Whoever is reading this, I didn't mean you. Trust me, I was just on imdb.com for about an hour catching up on mindless movie trivia. OK, two hours. OK, it was porn. You happy?
I'm hoping to create some amusement for my audience with anectodal information about my happy, average life which will be served with a healthy portion of self-deprecation. More than two people can be considered an "audience", right?
Enjoy.
Upon encouragement from my friends and the voices inside my head I was inspired to showcase my lack of talent in the form of a blog. It feels good to join an elite club of millions whose journal entries, opinions, and insight are actually being read by people that are less motivated than I am. Whoever is reading this, I didn't mean you. Trust me, I was just on imdb.com for about an hour catching up on mindless movie trivia. OK, two hours. OK, it was porn. You happy?
I'm hoping to create some amusement for my audience with anectodal information about my happy, average life which will be served with a healthy portion of self-deprecation. More than two people can be considered an "audience", right?
Enjoy.
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